Crowner's Crusade

EIGHTEEN

De Wolfe was in two minds whether to tell Nesta of Matilda’s unjust accusations about them and eventually decided that for the time being, he would say nothing. After her first outburst, Matilda followed her usual habit of glowering in a sullen mood for a few days, but she made no more open reference to the matter. John had gone through this before, when she had discovered his other infidelities over the years. As he had been absent so often, she stored up her justifiable complaints for when he was home between campaigns, using his sins as fodder for the martyrdom she affected. In truth, her main complaint was the fear that his indiscretions might be used to belittle her in the eyes of her women cronies, though this rarely happened. She suspected that most of them were in the same situation, as it seemed that almost every man in Exeter had similar illicit liaisons — and many were quite open about it. So the pair endured their meaningless marriage as before and now at least, there was the novelty of the new house to divert them from open hostility.

The adventure in Crediton a few days earlier was already half forgotten, though Ralph Morin had made sure that the next messenger to Westminster would take a message confirming Henry de la Pomeroy’s involvement in Roger Smale’s murder — and emphasizing to the Chief Justiciar John de Wolfe’s role in trying to establish some law enforcement in Devonshire.

In the first week of December, John hired some porters and a cart to bring Matilda’s belongings from Fore Street to St Martin’s Lane, consisting mostly of her two trunks of clothing and some smaller articles. Before he had gone to Palestine, they had rented a small house near St Pancras Church, but as that had been furnished, everything for the new place had to be bought new and was already in place.

Lucille staggered behind the cart with an armful of gowns that could not be squeezed into the boxes and Mary carried two wooden pails filled with oddments that Matilda had used in her cousin’s house. As Mary had been Hugh de Relaga’s contribution, Matilda grudgingly accepted her, though she looked upon the woman’s shapely figure and rather bold eye as yet another temptation for her wayward husband.

Though there was no snow, there was a bitter east wind and John was glad that he told the old yardman to get a good fire going in his new hearth.

Matilda immediately retired to her solar above, where the endless nagging and scolding of Lucille began. When the porters had lugged the heavy trunks up the steps, Matilda set to, sorting her beloved gowns, surcoats, cloaks and headgear and harrying her new maid into laying them reverently back into the boxes and on to shelves on one wall. The solar, which was a wife’s territory, was sparsely furnished, with a single high-backed wooden chair, a couple of stools and a single trunk for John’s clothes. The bed was on the floor, a thick mattress slightly raised on a plinth, covered in blankets and a heavy coverlet of sewn sheepskins.

While Matilda was snapping her orders at the already tearful Lucille, John went out to the kitchen shed to see how Mary was settling in. She had already spent a few nights there and had made her quarters as comfortable as she could, claiming that she was quite happy with her accommodation.

‘This is a lot better than the last place, Sir John,’ she said in her broad local accent. Though she had a fair grasp of Norman-French, they always spoke in English together, except when Matilda was present, who insisted upon using her allegedly native French.

Mary had a palliasse in one corner, a table and a couple of stools near the small central fire-pit where she did her cooking.

Brutus was already comfortably installed on an old sack and John could see that both the dog and himself were more likely to have a homely welcome here than in the gloomy hall inside the house.

He sat on one of the stools and Mary poured him a mug of ale from a pitcher. She then took a couple of flat cakes from the bake-stone that sat on the edge of the fire and slid them on to the scrubbed boards of the table.

‘Here’s butter and some honey — see if you approve of my cooking,’ she said firmly, with the implication that she would brain him with the ladle that hung nearby, if he failed to appreciate them. They were delicious and he rolled his eyes at her, his mouth being full.

‘A word of advice, Sir John,’ she said softly. ‘Beware of what you say before that Lucille, for I’ve heard servant’s gossip that she is too ready to carry tales and tittle-tattle.’

When he left the shed after finishing all the drop cakes, his spirits had been lifted a little, as he had found both a good cook and a friendly ally. Reluctantly, he went back to the Bush to collect his few possessions to take to St Martin’s Lane. A large cloth bag was sufficient to carry his spare undershirts, hose and two grey tunics, together with the wolfskin cloak that he had won from a Bohemian mercenary in a jousting match in Germany.

For a few minutes he sat with Nesta, who was sad to see him leave. He even fancied there were tears glistening her eyes as he left, but he promised that, whenever possible, he would be back there each day.

‘I’ve got to exercise that big dog, haven’t I?’ he said with false jollity. ‘Most times Brutus will probably want to come in this direction — in fact, I can guarantee it!’

Back at St Martin’s Lane that evening, he felt a sense of depressing anticlimax. It was very cold and the wind was whistling through the roof shingles and penetrating the shutters. There was oiled silk stretched over the inside of the window, attempting to keep out some of the draughts, but the lofty hall was still chilly, the tapestries shifting slightly in the breeze.

Most of the light came from the fire, where a pile of chopped logs lay at the side of the chimney to replenish the blaze. He sat in a cowled seat at one side of the hearth, Matilda in the opposite one. She was wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, her feet wrapped in a shawl, resting on a low stool.

After some desultory words about the house, they fell silent, she dozing and he scowling into the fire. In the flickering flames from the oak logs, he imagined he saw pictures, including some of the bleak roads through the Alps that he had travelled a year ago and others conjuring up images of King Richard still in captivity. He thought of Prince John, waiting to displace his king from the throne, aided by scoundrels like the bishops and greedy men such as Henry de la Pomeroy and Richard de Revelle. He looked across at his wife, her jaw drooping as she breathed noisily during her slumber. Was this how the rest of his life would be, slumped in boredom night and day?

John almost envied the peasant and the artisan, who at least had honest toil to occupy them between the cradle and grave. But he was a knight, brought up since a child as page and squire, to have no skills except with lance and sword. He had no other talents except fighting and no need to seek more money, as he had sufficient for all his needs.

What was he to do with his life, stuck in a loveless marriage and without even the solace of religious belief to offer Heaven at the end? Though it was obligatory to believe in God, he never gave it any thought, it was just part of the fabric of life, drummed into everyone since infancy. He had no interest in the ostentatious panoply of the Church and though he was sometimes dragged to Mass by Matilda on special occasions, he felt it was just a meaningless ritual.

After a while, he shook off his dismal thoughts and bent to put a couple more logs on the fire, resting them across the curled iron supports of the firedogs. This was the first time he had seen it lit and he was glad to see that there was sufficient draught up his new chimney to take the smoke and sparks up and away from the interior of the hall. As he settled back, he fondled the soft ears of Brutus who lay at his feet, swooning with the new luxury of lying near a fire.

‘We’ll go for a walk as soon as the mistress takes herself to bed,’ he murmured to the old hound. He knew that Matilda loved her sleep, almost as much as eating, drinking, new raiment and grovelling on her knees before a priest. She went to her bed early and got up late, so he should have plenty of opportunity to take a stroll down to Idle Lane.

An hour later, he walked down to the Bush and enjoyed Nesta’s company, though the inn was busy and she was bobbing up and down from his table to help her serving girls and make amiable conversation with her regular patrons. He watched her admiringly, as she laughed with some, scolded others and fended off wandering hands without giving offence. A very popular landlady, many of the customers appreciated her good looks and her shapely figure, but she had the gift of being friendly without encouraging their lechery. Even the drunks, who often caused a nuisance, were usually placated or evaded without provoking a fight. When they became too obstreperous, some of her loyal customers would always help Edwin to push them out into the street.

Nesta wanted to ply John with more food, but Mary had served them an excellent spit-roasted duck at the noon dinner and then cold meats, bread and cheese for an early evening supper, so he settled only for a mutton pasty in the Bush.

Gwyn came in later, as he had brought his wife and boys down to spend the night with Agnes’s sister. His only news was that the two nuns who had been involved in the attack had now been sent off to Glastonbury, with a much larger escort of men hired by the cathedral chapter. ‘I hear that all the canons are buzzing with anger at the death of their brother from Tavistock,’ he said.

‘Though they seem grateful to you for saving the Huns and for dealing with both Arnulf and Walter Hamelin, they are calling for some official action to combat the rising lawlessness.’

De Wolfe grunted. ‘Some hope, with no proper sheriff! I presume that the royal judges still come on their circuit to the Eyres of Assize?’

Gwyn turned up his huge hands in doubt. ‘I suppose so, someone has to try the cases and send men to the gallows. Though the Eyres were always so irregular that half the prisoners either died of goal fever or escaped before they could stand before a court.’

Eventually, with Nesta being so busy, John decided to make his way home again, leaving Gwyn continuing to drink the vast quantities of ale that he was able to swallow without any obvious effects.

Whistling to Brutus to leave the bone that Nesta had given him, they went out into the cold night air. The sky was clear and the stars bright as he walked across to Priest Street, named after the large number of lodgings used by vicars choral, secondaries and lay brothers from the cathedral. A half moon was rising in the east and he could see his hound zigzagging ahead of him, as he explored the ever-changing smells of the sewage in the central drain and the piles of rubbish in the side alleys.

Priest Street rose to become Sun Lane before meeting Southgate Street and it was here that he saw Brutus stop dead and point with his outstretched head towards a house on the right, in a row of moderate-sized burgages belonging to local merchants. As John came up to the dog, he was aware of a disturbance inside the house, a crash followed by a yell of pain, then a woman’s scream.

‘What’s going on in there, Brutus?’ he asked, assuming that it was some domestic dispute that was none of his concern. Then the screams became louder before they subsided into a sobbing that could still be heard through the slatted shutters on an upper room. He heard a noise behind him and turning, saw a man in the doorway of the house opposite, with a woman peering fearfully over his shoulder.

‘Is it murder?’ quavered the neighbour. ‘Shall we send for the constables?’

As he spoke, another door opened in the house next to that from which the moans were coming and another man appeared, grasping a stout stick. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.

‘Who lives in there?’ demanded John.

‘Richard de Beltona and his wife,’ called the first neighbour. ‘He is a cloth merchant and a most respectable man!’

Suddenly the screams began again and de Wolfe hesitated no longer, but launched himself at the front door, beating on it with his fist. ‘Open the door! Are you in trouble?’ There was no response and he went to the lower shutters to try to pull them open.

‘Try around the back,’ advised the next-door neighbour, coming into the road. He recognized John as someone with authority and was content to see him take the initiative.

John wore no sword whilst in the city, but pulled his dagger from his belt as he loped around the corner of the house. With Brutus at his heels, he went down the narrow gap between it and the next building. By now, half a dozen locals were gathering in the pale moonlight, one shouting that he had sent his son for the city watch. At the rear, John found himself in a yard with the usual outbuildings in a patch of rutted mud enclosed by a high fence. As he approached the back door, it was suddenly wrenched open and he was confronted by the figure of a man, swathed in a hooded cloak that shadowed his face. Before he could react, the man struck him a heavy blow on the forehead with a short cudgel, which sent de Wolfe staggering, blood pouring down into one eye. He tripped over a boot scraper set alongside the door and fell back full length on to the ground.

Dazed, but conscious, he crawled to his hands and knees in time to see the man racing across the yard to a lane behind, with Brutus snarling after him. As the fugitive reached the gate in the fence, the dog sank his teeth into his leg and with a howl of pain and rage, aimed a kick at his tormentor. Brutus dodged away with a howl, having ripped a piece from the man’s breeches, but swearing viciously, the intruder slipped through the gate and slammed it behind him.

By now, John had staggered to his feet, holding on to the wall of the house until his head cleared, though he could only see through one eye because of the blood. However it was enough to see his dog dancing around excitedly by the gate, barking furiously. It was too high for him to jump and by the time John reached him, the man had vanished into Rack Lane, which ran parallel to Sun Lane.

He thought of letting the enthusiastic hound pursue the fellow, but then decided that it was not worth the risk of having his beloved Brutus clubbed to death for the sake of some family fight. As he patted the dog’s head, he took a piece of cloth from his jaws and stowed in a pocket in his cloak.

By now, several of the timorous neighbours had congregated in the yard and John stalked back to them. ‘Is there still a commotion in the house?’ he demanded.

‘Just some sobbing, Sir John,’ said one, who recognized him. ‘Had we better see what’s wrong?’

De Wolfe, telling the dog to stay where he was, pushed past the nervous burghers and, still feeling hazy from the blow he had taken, went through a kitchen to a storeroom filled with bales of cloth. In the corner was a flight of open steps, dimly lit by a rush light on a shelf. Following the feeble moans from above, he climbed up and went into a room which occupied half of the upper floor. There was a large bed raised just off the floor, covered with tumbled pelts and blankets. Amongst these on one side of the mattress was the inert shape of a man — and on the other, the huddled shape of a woman, from whom came the heartbreaking sobs.

He went a little nearer, until in the semi-darkness he could see what was amiss. Going back to the head of the steps, he called down to the upturned faces below.

‘Two of you, fetch your wives here at once! And get lights and some stretchers on which to carry these poor folk.’

Half an hour later, the house in Sun Lane was buzzing with activity like a wasp’s nest that had been stirred with a stick. Two goodwives from across the road were attending to Clarice, wife of Richard de Beltona, whose husband still lay comatose on the bed, a spreading blue bruise covering one side of his head.

Clarice, a small woman of about thirty-five, was slumped on the floor with her back against the bed, alternately sobbing and groaning. The two neighbourly women were kneeling each side of her, making soothing noises as one wiped her forehead with a perfumed kerchief and the other gave her sips of brandy wine from a cup. Her night shift had been decorously pulled across her legs and a blanket draped around her, but John knew from his first sight of her, that the nether garments had been ripped and that an ominous leakage of blood stained them over the thighs.

‘She needs Dame Madge, as soon as possible!’ declared another wife, the one from next door.

‘Who’s Dame Madge?’ growled John, totally lost in matters of women’s problems.

‘The old nun from Polsloe Priory,’ answered her husband. ‘She is a miracle worker when it comes to treating ladies.’

‘How would we get this poor woman there?’ demanded the wife. ‘She can’t be taken on a horse! It must be near midnight and the city gates are shut until dawn.’

‘Then this nun must be brought down here,’ said John. decisively. ‘The gate will open for me, I assure you.’

‘You need that head attended to, Sir John, if only for you to see where you are going!’ said a voice from behind him. ‘I’ll send to Polsloe straight away.’

The speaker was Osric, a very tall, thin man with a shock of fair hair. Dressed in a short tunic and breeches, he carried a long brass-topped staff, the insignia of a town constable. A Saxon, he was one of the two men employed by the city council to keep the peace in the city — a hopeless task, but it was the only token of law and order in Exeter.

‘Are men coming to take her husband up to St John’s Infirmary?’ demanded de Wolfe, rubbing at the dried blood on his forehead.

Osric nodded in the improved light of three horn lanterns and a couple of candles. ‘They are fetching the bier that hangs in Holy Trinity near the South Gate.’

Having done all he could at the scene of the crime, John collected Brutus from outside and trudged through the chill night back down to the inn, still feeling dizzy and sick after the bang on the head. It was very late when he arrived and Nesta had taken herself to bed, but Gwyn and couple of men were still gambling downstairs.

Gwyn leaped up in alarm when he saw John’s bloodied head and guided him to a bench and brought him ale, while one of his cronies went out to the wash-shed for a cloth and water to clean up the dried blood and clot, so that they could look at the wound.

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Gwyn judicially, staring at the one-inch cut just inside the hairline. ‘What’s the other fellow look like?’

‘The bastard got away, but not before Brutus sank his teeth into his leg. I hope the swine dies of gangrene!’

As he was telling them the story, Nesta appeared on the steps from the loft, her night shift covered with a blanket. Wide-eyed, she saw Gwyn cleaning up his master with a bloodied cloth and with a squeal of concern she hurried across and took the rag from the Cornishman to finish the job with a woman’s gentler touch. More explanations followed for Nesta’s benefit and she joined in the general condemnation of lawlessness in the city.

‘That poor woman, to see her husband struck down before her very eyes, then be ravished by that monster!’ she exclaimed, then bustled away to get clean linen to bind around his injured scalp. She held this in place with a close-fitting coif laced under the chin, then sat close to him and chafed his icy hands with her own.

It was cold in the taproom, as the fire had died down to glowing embers. Gwyn was concerned about John’s condition after such a violent knock on the head, as he began shivering as he sat on the bench, leaning on the table.

‘He should be lying down, cariad, and kept warmer for few hours,’ he murmured to her. ‘I don’t see how we can get him all the way back to St Martin’s Lane like this.’

‘Get him to his bed upstairs, then,’ she said in a worried voice, afraid that he might have sustained some serious injury inside his skull.

‘I should be going back up to that house to see how things have gone,’ muttered John.

Nesta scolded him gently. ‘You’re in no fit state for that, it’s not your responsibility, anyway. You’ve already done more than anyone else.’

De Wolfe was too cold and tired to argue and when Gwyn and one of his carpenter friends hoisted him to his feet and carefully eased him up the stairs, he made no protest. No one else was lodging in the loft that night and they took him across to his cubicle and laid him down, Nesta fussing over them like a hen with chicks. She brought a blanket and a large sheepskin from her own room and laid it over him, then told Gwyn to revive the fire and put more logs on it, to try to waft some warmth up to the dormitory.

‘I’ll sit with him for a while until he sleeps,’ she told Gwyn, who had decided to go up to Sun Lane. He wanted to make sure that a ‘hue and cry’ had been started, before going up to the castle to alert Ralph Morin that the violence had spread into the town itself. Though drunken fights and some deaths occurred within the city walls, an outright assault and rape in a dwelling was out of the usual run of crimes.

When he left, the other men went with him and Nesta was left alone in the loft, though Molly and the serving girl were not far away, sleeping in the kitchen shed and the wash house as usual. Sitting on a small milking stool near his bed, she could see that he was still awake, huddled under the covers.

‘This is a fine affair, John,’ she said softly. ‘Your first night in your new house and you spend it elsewhere, alone with a young lady!’

‘I expect that Matilda will have something to say about it,’ he murmured.

‘In fact I’m bloody sure she will!’

A few minutes later, she could tell from his breathing that he was asleep and after a while, she went quietly back to her box-like room and got into bed, pulling extra blankets from a chest to cover her. She lay for a while looking up into the darkness, thinking of what might have been that night.