The Grim Reaper

CHAPTER EIGHT

The three routine hangings passed off without incident, and even the sobs and screams of the close relatives were relatively muted, compared with the hysterical scuffles that often occurred. The small crowd watched impassively, until the moment when the ropes tightened around the helpless necks, when a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahhs’ and a few jeers were mingled with the wailing of the families. The woman, who had stabbed her husband when she could no longer stand his endless drunken assaults on her, was turned off first, as a measure of compassion so that she would not have to see the agonal jerks and spasms of the other felons.

Sometimes, varying with the habits of the hangman, the felons were pushed off a ladder propped against the beam, but today the cart was in use. Three times it was driven under the gallows beam and a rope dropped over the victim’s neck by the executioner, a part-time butcher from the Shambles. The victim was stood on a board placed high across the back end of the side rails and the butcher smacked the ox’s rump. Well used to the procedure, the burly animal plodded forward sufficiently for the cart to move out from under the condemned, who fell into space and began the macabre jerking and twitching which was usually mercifully shortened by a distraught relative running out and dragging desperately on the legs.

John de Wolfe watched all this impassively, then dictated the details of name and domicile to Thomas, who wrote them on his parchment roll, along with a record of the worldly goods, if any, that were forfeit to the Crown.

When the show was over, the crowd set off for home, leaving the bodies to hang for the prescribed time until dusk. The distraught relatives waited beneath to claim them for burial, as none were to be gibbeted, an added disgrace for heinous crimes like treason, where the corpses were locked in an iron cage and hung up for weeks or months for the crows to pick the decaying remnants to pieces.

De Wolfe and Gwyn walked back to the South Gate, Thomas following behind, muttering and crossing himself at frequent intervals. The coroner’s footsteps became slower as they entered the cathedral Close and the inevitable confrontation with Matilda became imminent. Thomas wandered off to his lodging in Canon’s Row and Gwyn, sensing John’s morbid preoccupation, murmured some excuse then peeled off outside St Martin’s Church and vanished up the back lane in search of the nearest ale-house.

With leaden feet, de Wolfe walked on to the nemesis of his front door, not sparing a glance for the cleric who stood in the entrance of the little church opposite.

Though de Wolfe did not notice him, Edwin of Frome took note of the coroner’s comings and goings. His church was rarely busy and he had plenty of time to lurk just inside the door and watch all who went by, speculating on their business.

The parish priest of St Martin’s was unusual in that he was a Saxon. Though the distinction between Norman and Saxon was becoming blurred, many on both sides still took it seriously. The difference in appearance of some pure-bred men and women of either race was still striking and their names proclaimed the persisting schism.

Edwin of Frome had the classic appearance of a Saxon. He was tall, fair-skinned, and his hair was almost yellow, though all that remained of it was a thick rim running around between his shaven crown and shaven neck. He had been born in Somerset thirty-five years ago, a great-grandson of one of the few Saxons to keep their land after the invasion.

At seven, he had been dispatched to the school of Bath Abbey where he had known Adam of Dol. Perhaps that was why they had the same fire-and-brimstone style of preaching, though Edwin was more restrained than the ranting priest of St Mary Steps. Although he had a large chip on his shoulder about his Saxon blood, he had none of the resentment of Julian Fulk or Adam concerning his lack of advancement in the Church. He was content with his modest living in the little chapel of St Martin and was realistic enough to know that, in a solidly Norman enclave like the hierarchy of Exeter Cathedral, he was lucky to have risen as far as he had. Edwin’s discontent led in a different direction: he had an obsessional interest in the scriptures. Although every priest should revere, study and love the Bible, his devotion to it was abnormal by any standard.

He was well lettered, though not over-endowed with high intelligence. Edwin believed that every word, every syllable of the Vulgate was God’s own utterance, and could neither understand nor accept that all his fellow men, even many priests, did not feel the same way. He knew virtually every word of his own tattered copy by heart and several times had been mortified — and almost driven into madness — to discover that other copies were not identical with his. The logical part of his mind accepted that translations might vary from the original Greek and also that the scribes, who had laboriously written each copy, occasionally made mistakes which were then perpetuated and added to, by further scriveners down the line.

But then his tunnel-vision mentality spawned an agitated concern as to whether his copy was the true Word of God or whether the different version was — and as there were many different versions, which of them were true and which false? Though he spoke good Norman French and Latin, his preferred tongue was his native Middle English — so when he had realised that there were also many vernacular versions of the Scriptures, as well as the Latin Vulgate, the far worse variations of text in these almost drove him insane! The issue came to dominate his life, and robust sermons that he delivered to his meagre congregation, inevitably slid towards the iniquity of men who allowed the Word of God to be perverted by false Gospels.

Soon his small flock began to tire of the theme and he lost more of his congregation to the numerous other churches, of which there were three around the Close alone.

Edwin had sporadic insight into his own condition and knew that he was getting worse. For his own safety, he now rarely strayed off the route between his church and his room in Priest Street: he often felt an almost irresistible urge to confront people in the street and demand to know whether they believed every word of the Holy Book. Some weeks ago, he had encountered a mendicant monk, preaching to a knot of curious loungers in the Serge Market. The unfortunate lecturer happened to quote a passage from the Acts of the Apostles, just as Edwin was passing — but according to Edwin’s version, he misquoted three words. In a flash, the Saxon priest had the monk by the throat and was wrestling him to the ground, screaming that he must be the anti-Christ, for misleading honest folk. The hugely entertained bystanders dragged him off the bemused preacher and shoved him on his way.

A vicar-choral had seen the extraordinary encounter, which duly came to the ears of the Archdeacon, who gave Edwin a stern warning. He expected that more severe censure would come sooner or later and added this to the burden he carried of being a Saxon in a Norman world.

All these thoughts churned in his head as he turned from his door and stared blankly at the interior of his little church.

The midday meal was as unpleasant as John had expected. A stony silence prevailed for the first half and Matilda, dressed in funeral black, ate stolidly without raising her eyes from her bowl and platter. His gruff attempts at conversation were ignored, but he knew from long experience that this was the quiet before the storm. Even Brutus knew that something was amiss, as he lay quietly before the empty hearth, the white showing in the corner of one eye, as it swivelled cautiously towards his master. Mary came in and out almost on tiptoe and her surreptitious wink from behind Matilda’s chair did little to cheer him.

De Wolfe had little appetite, but for the sake of appearances, he sucked at the Friday fish stew and champed on boiled turnip ringed with onions fried in butter. When the maid cleared the debris of the meal and brought in thick slices of bread and a slab of crusted cheese, John knew that the dam was about to burst and tried to forestall it. ‘There’s been another strange murder,’ he said, ‘and again the culprit must be a priest.’

Matilda’s face rose slowly, framed by the white linen coverchief and wimple around her neck. ‘Strange? Yes — strange that it should happen outside the Bush Inn.’ The words were snapped out of a mouth as unforgiving as a rat-trap.

‘It was a whore from London,’ he went on doggedly.

‘So, two whores in that tavern. I’ve no doubt that now your investigations will take you there frequently.’

From there, the dialogue followed a familiar pattern, all downhill. As Matilda became angrier, she became more vociferous and her voice rose steadily in pitch and volume. De Wolfe’s temper rose too, and within minutes they were yelling at each other, intriguing those folk in Martin’s Lane who passed the ill-fitting window shutters.

The quarrel ended in its usual fashion: de Wolfe stood up and threw over his stool with a crash. ‘I’ll not stay here to be endlessly insulted by you, you miserable old harridan!’ he bellowed. ‘I went to the Bush to see a murdered corpse, as is my duty — a duty you encouraged me to undertake. But if you are set on turning it into a scandal, then I may as well fulfil your accusations, for I’ve nothing to gain by denying it!’

With a face like stone, he stalked to the hall door and slammed it behind him, leaving Matilda at the table, red-faced but unrepentant. In the vestibule where the yard passage opened behind the heavy street door, he found Mary waiting with his short cloak already in her hand.

‘I guessed you would be wanting this very soon,’ she whispered, with a knowing glint in her eye.

He slung it over his shoulders and pulled the top corner through the pewter ring on his right shoulder. ‘She’ll not speak to me for days after this,’ he muttered. ‘At least that’s some consolation.’

As he opened the iron-bound door and disappeared into the lane, Mary shook her head in despair. ‘What’s to become of you, Black John?’ she murmured.

There was no hesitation in de Wolfe’s step this time as he approached the Bush. With long, determined strides, he hurried down Idle Lane and pushed his way into the tap-room, which today was more crowded than usual. He stared around almost aggressively, until his eyes were used to the gloom and the smoke — Edwin had lit a fire in the hearth, as the day was cooler now. The back door opened and Nesta bustled through, bearing a tray with bowls and trenchers from the kitchen-shed. He barged across the big room towards her, pushing aside other drinkers. The landlady had just put the food before some travellers at a table near the potman’s row of kegs when she felt two lean hands gripping her waist. ‘Upstairs — now!’ came a gruff command.

Twisting round, she saw de Wolfe hovering over her, his dark eyes boring into hers. ‘I’m busy, John,’ she protested half-heartedly. ‘Look at them, they’re all thirsty or starving!’

‘I’ve been starving these two months, Nesta,’ he said in Welsh, and pulled her to the broad ladder.

With a few token protests, the landlady allowed herself to be propelled up the steps, the coroner’s hands still on her waist. He was oblivious to the sudden quiet in the room, the turned heads and curious eyes that followed them.

Above, the loft was deserted and seconds later, they were in her cubicle, with the bar dropped into its sockets behind the door. John’s hand slid from her waist to lie around her shoulders and he pulled her to him as if he would crush her body into his, rib against rib. He pulled off her linen helmet and buried his face in the loosened cascade of auburn hair that escaped, until her face turned up to find his lips. With a groan of pleasure, he lifted Nesta off her feet and fell with her on to the wide French bed. For long minutes, he did nothing but press her to him and smother her face with kisses. Then, as if by some silent signal that reached them at the same instant, they began to pull at the fastenings of each other’s clothing.

A few minutes later, in the room below, Griswold the Carter, one of the Bush’s most regular patrons, rapped on a corner table with the base of his quart pot, made an urgent gesture to the rest of the room and hissed for quiet, holding a hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. In the sudden silence, a score of men heard, faintly but distinctly, the rhythmic thumping of a bed-head against one of the thick supporting posts that came down from above through the ceiling.

Grins and chortles erupted among them and ale pots were raised all round. ‘To the crowner, God save him — the lucky bastard!’

John de Alençon had heard of the killing of a whore from the Saracen, but was mortified to hear from his friend that another Biblical reference had been found on the body. ‘You are sure that these marks on the brow did say what you claim — this is not some delusion of that poor nephew of mine?’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘It was not only Thomas — the secondary who saw them first was of the same opinion.’

The Archdeacon, sitting at his table in Canon Row, sighed resignedly. He fingered the wooden cross hanging around his neck, seeking consolation from it. ‘At least this ogre has an apt quotation for each situation,’ he murmured wryly. ‘That dreaded part of the Book of Revelation is St John at his most pessimistic and threatening. I’ve read it a hundred times and still don’t understand it.’

‘The quotation may be apt for the situation — but this devil also makes the scene apt for the quotation,’ countered de Wolfe.

‘In what way?’

‘With Aaron, he overturned the table in the room, to fit the Gospel story. It wasn’t part of the assault. And with the woman last night, he left a cup near her hand, to fit the written version, for I’m sure she wouldn’t have been drinking wine in the dark backyard of the Bush.’

De Alençon considered this for a moment, his lean face frowning with concern. ‘So our man seems fond of play-acting, too? But it doesn’t help us in discovering who he is.’

The coroner sipped the wine his friend had provided, an excellent ruby imported from Rouen. ‘We urgently need the names of any priests whose nature is strange.’

‘It may not be a priest in the strict sense, John. There are many in minor orders in the city — and unordained monks, many of whom are well lettered.’

‘Not many of those — a few at St Nicholas and at the hospitals of St John and St Alexis. But I’m lumping all men of God together, those who can write and who know their Scriptures.’

‘It has to be someone within the city, you say?’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘Both killings were in the middle of the night, long after curfew. Unless he came into the city during the day and stayed overnight, the gates would have kept him out.’

De Alençon toyed with his wine-cup and sighed. ‘We need the advice of those who have been much longer in Exeter than I. Some of the older canons have been here almost a lifetime and know every cleric within the walls. We must take this to Chapter.’ He promised to consult some of his fellow canons, especially the Precentor and Treasurer and invited the coroner to attend the Chapter House after the regular meeting next day. ‘Probably they will insist on the sheriff being present as well,’ said de Alençon, wryly. Both he and de Wolfe were politically on the opposite side from de Revelle, the Precentor and even the Bishop himself, when it came to partiality between King Richard and Prince John. Hopefully, prayed the Archdeacon, this antipathy would not stretch to a murder investigation.

As he was leaving the priest’s Spartan room, de Wolfe returned to something that both the sheriff and the Archdeacon had raised. ‘Richard de Revelle keeps goading me with the thought that my own clerk might be involved. Surely you cannot believe that your nephew might be the culprit?’

De Alençon put a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I trust to God that such a thing cannot seriously be entertained. Yet he certainly has the learning and writing skills — and he has been acting and speaking in an increasingly strange manner lately. But no doubt you can exclude him on other grounds. Where was he at the material times? And is that feeble waif capable of killing two healthy persons?’

John gave one of his ambiguous grunts. ‘Both were struck on the head, probably an unexpected blow. Any girl or even a strong child could have done that. And, no, I have no idea where Thomas was at the times of both killings — though that applies to almost all the citizens of Exeter, yourself included.’

The couple of hours before Vespers were free for most parish priests to do as they wished. The more earnest often visited the sick or read their Vulgate, others drank and slept or did their washing. Today Ralph de Capra used the time to leave his church in Bretayne and trudge dispiritedly along inside the city wall to St Mary Steps to call upon his nearest priestly neighbour, Adam of Dol.

De Capra had been wont to do this frequently, though of late his attendances at confession had become irregular: his problem was growing increasingly acute. Every priest took another as his confessor, though Adam did not disclose his own transgressions to de Capra.

When he entered the cool nave, he found Adam up a ladder, busily working on one of his lurid wall paintings. He appeared to be adding another small head to the confused tangle of faces suffering the agonies of the Inferno. Adam was not at pains to hide his irritation at the interruption, but eventually came down grudgingly to give his colleague a brusque greeting. As they stood face to face, the contrast between the two was marked: Adam was large, pugnacious and dominant, his colleague thin, diffident and dismal.

‘I wish to make confession, Father,’ murmured Ralph.

The other priest glared at him. ‘Again? It was but a fortnight since you were here last. Is it the same trouble, hey?’

Abashed by his reception, de Capra dropped his eyes to stare at his feet. Adam’s response was hardly encouraging to a penitent seeking absolution.

‘I need to speak to someone about it. I’ll not take up much of your time.’

Impatiently Adam banged down his tray of paints on the stone bench at the side of the nave and rubbed his hands on the grubby cassock he kept for his artistic labours. ‘Very well, but I must finish that head before Vespers.’

He marched away to the tiny sacristy that opened off the chancel and came out with his second-best stole, a faded length of brocade that he draped around his neck, where it clashed incongruously with the paint-stained robe. Standing on the step between the nave and the small chancel, he rapidly made the Sign of the Cross in the air, with a vigour more appropriate to slashing with a sword. ‘Right, let’s get on with it,’ he commanded testily.

De Capra knelt on the hard flagstones before him. He bowed his head and clasped his hands over his waist. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he said, then began a low, incoherent mumbling that soon ended in sobs.

‘Speak up, man! And lift your head, I can’t hear a word you say.’

De Capra’s head rose slowly, to reveal two tears trickling down his distraught face. ‘My soul tells me I must make confession, yet my mind denies that there is any God to whom I can confess!’ he blurted out.

Adam of Dol glowered down at him, his face darkening with his ever-ready anger. ‘Then you should listen to that soul, wretch, before you lose it altogether,’ he snapped. ‘Take a grip on yourself, man! You’re an ordained priest, you’ve been brought up in the faith, you’ve been trained in the ways of the Church! How can you not believe in all that you have been professing these past years?’

Ralph stared upwards beseechingly, seeking some understanding in the furious red face glaring down at him.

‘I spend my life trying to believe. I win the fight for an hour, then the doubts creep back in. Where is God? Why does He not give us signs? Why does He allow cruelty, pain, misery, poverty, warfare? All we know of Him is relayed by the mouths of men or their writings in the Vulgate. Where is God Himself?’

Momentarily, Adam softened at the agonised and impassioned words of de Capra. He reached out a hand and laid it on the other’s head, until he noticed the skin ailment and rapidly withdrew his fingers. ‘Ralph, we all have had our doubts at some stage. Thankfully, mine came when I was but a young secondary in Wells and lasted half a day, no more. For proof of God’s presence, you must accept the learning and assurances of the thousands of greater men than us over hundreds of years. And look about you, where did the world come from? Did it make itself? You can see God in the trees and hills and bodies of your fellow men.’

To Ralph, this began to sound like a catechism learned by rote, rather than Adam’s inner conviction. ‘I have tried all that, a dozen times a day! But the doubts creep back. How can I minister to my flock, give them the sacraments and preach to them of heaven and God’s forgiveness, when deep down I don’t believe any of it?’

At this, the priest of St Mary Steps lost his temper again. ‘Forget heaven and forgiveness! You want to beware of hell and everlasting damnation! Satan has invaded your soul and is working your destruction. That is what you should be preaching to your congregation, not milk-and-water promises about the afterlife. Neither they nor you will have anything after death, except eternal damnation and torture unless you root out Lucifer without delay!’ Red in the face, he advanced down the steps and de Capra stumbled to his feet to retreat before him. Prodding the man’s chest with a fleshy finger, Adam drove him back down the nave, ranting the same advice as he went. ‘Pray every hour of every day, de Capra. Keep the fires of hell in the forefront of your mind! Strengthen your own resolve by telling your flock of the mortal dangers of their sinning.’

De Capra backed away rapidly, nodding his agreement as a sop to the other man’s fiery temper, which seemed in danger of giving him apoplexy. ‘I will try, Father, I will try, believe me,’ he stammered, as he sought his escape. Turning to seek the door, he twisted into a halfbowing, half-running shamble to get away from the priest who was now more accuser than confessor.

‘It were better that you died soon, even by fire or water, if you can achieve a state of grace, than linger on in sin and spend eternity in Satan’s hellfire.’ Adam shouted after him.

The words echoed in de Capra’s ears as he hurried, sobbing, along the road, in a far worse state of mind than when he had gone to find help and absolution.

De Wolfe spent the rest of the afternoon going over many of the coroner’s rolls that were to be presented to the Justices in Eyre the following week. Thomas had been working indefatigably to complete extra copies and was reading out lists of names and verdicts to his master in the upper room of the gatehouse. Gwyn, bored by the proceedings, had gone to the guardroom below for a gossip and a jar of cider with Gabriel. He came back with the news that a welcoming cavalcade was being organised for Monday to meet the judicial procession as it came along the road from Honiton. ‘You are expected to be on it, of course,’ he concluded, ‘not us lesser fish, but Ralph Morin, the Portreeves and the archdeacons. Some of the other burgesses, the guild masters and a few canons will be there too. Gabriel has to organise a score of men-at-arms as escort, he says.’

As coroner, John had expected to be among those who formed a reception party for the Justices in Eyre, but this seemed too much. ‘Damned mummery, I call it,’ he growled. ‘We only went as far as the West Gate to receive the Chief Justiciar when he came last year, not go flouncing halfway to Dorchester to meet a handful of working judges. It’s that bloody sheriff, trying to impress them so that they don’t notice his embezzlements — a wonder he doesn’t have a troupe of musicians and tumblers prancing in front of us!’

Gwyn grinned and Thomas went back to his pen and parchment. De Wolfe pulled out the scrap of parchment they had found on Aaron’s body and scowled at it for a long moment, as if he could read some secret message among the marks. Thomas had carefully spelled out each word, so that with the rudimentary knowledge he had acquired about the alphabet, John could now follow the sense of the biblical text. His lips slowly and silently re-formed the words, but he was still no wiser as to the author. Impatiently, he dropped it on to the table.

‘Thomas, look at that writing again, will you?’

The clerk put down his quill obediently and leaned across the trestle to pick up the text.

‘I know I’ve asked you this before but d’you think there’s any prospect of matching it with the writer’s hand?’

The pinched, sad face stared at it for a moment. Then the bright, bird-like eyes swivelled to the coroner. ‘I suspect he has thought of that himself, Crowner, and deliberately disguised his penmanship.’ He held up the torn scrap so that it faced his master and pointed out the words with a thin forefinger. ‘See? The letters slope mainly backwards. Some scribes write like that, but they are constant in their leaning. These vary from word to word — some are even upright and, in a couple of places, he has forgotten himself and they angle slightly forward.’

Gwyn, interested in spite of his professed disdain of clerks and literacy, ambled across to look over Thomas’s head at the parchment. ‘The bottom of all those marks are not on the same level, not straight, like the way you do them,’ he observed.

‘That’s another sign that the writer is disguising them. He might have done this with his left hand, instead of the usual right.’

John grunted at these expert opinions. He had previously — and secretly — compared the writing with Thomas’s own hand on the many documents in the office and, to his relief, had found them totally unlike. Yet now his clerk was proving that there were ways of disguising the style of a person’s script — but surely that in itself must be an indication that Thomas could not have written it. Or was it some double bluff?

‘So you think it’s useless trying to match this with anyone we might suspect?’ he asked.

‘I see no chance of success, Crowner. The colour of the ink is ordinary black and the parchment might have been torn from anywhere.’

That reminded de Wolfe of Matilda’s comments: ‘My wife pointed out that the text is copied from a Vulgate. He could have torn out the appropriate page instead to avoid any risk of his handwriting being recognised.’

Thomas shuddered and crossed himself at the thought of such desecration, both religious and literary. ‘Even a murderous priest would baulk at defacing his Bible! And, of course, if the book was later found with the significant pages missing, it would be disaster for him,’ he added shrewdly.

De Wolfe made a few more throat noises as he considered the seemingly hopeless task before him. ‘You’d better come with me to this Chapter meeting in the cathedral tomorrow, in case I need any advice about texts or gospels and the like. Late in the morning, after Terce, right?’

Thomas almost smiled at the prospect of being admitted to the daily meeting of the canons, when cathedral business was discussed. Anything that got him into a religious building and among priests was balm to his injured soul.

While the little clerk was savouring the prospect of infiltrating the cathedral establishment, John de Wolfe had more secular prospects on his mind. He stood up and buckled on his heavy leather belt, with his long dagger at the back. ‘I’ve had enough of this place. I’m going to give my old hound a bit of exercise.’

As he left, Gwyn had a fair notion of where Brutus would be within the next hour.

As if to make up for lost time, John spent another energetic hour in the little cubicle in the loft of the Bush Inn, until Nesta declared that not only her strength but her business would wither away if she stayed any longer. She left him on the big bed while she made herself respectable then climbed down to supervise the cook-maid and the two serving-girls, as the early-evening clientele often wanted food to go with their ale and cider.

After de Wolfe’s two Herculean efforts that day, she decided he needed a substantial meal to replenish his strength and by the time he ambled down the ladder a thick trencher, dripping with gravy, was ready for him at his favourite table near the hearth. A large boiled pig’s knuckle sat in the centre and a platter of cabbage, onions and turnip lay next to it. A small loaf, complete with a pewter pot of butter, rounded off the meal, which de Wolfe washed down with a quart of rough, turbid cider.

Nesta was bustling about, trying to conceal the radiance of a woman well satisfied with the day’s events. Her rounded figure was shown off by her tight-waisted green kirtle, laced down the back; her linen apron emphasised, rather than concealed, her prominent bosom. John looked up frequently from his meal to watch her joke with the regular customers, her heart-shaped face and high forehead perfectly balanced by the small, turned-up nose and smiling lips.

Even the memory of Hilda, beyond his reach in Dawlish, faded when he looked at Nesta, and he scowled at the thought that he might be in love. He cursed himself for a middle-aged fool — how could a hardened, cynical old campaigner, married for too many years to a cold, unloving battleaxe like Matilda, feel like a callow youth? If he wasn’t careful, he would be writing poetry next and bringing her flowers!

He tried to tell himself that it was the prospect of two sessions each day in the French bed that made him so happy, but glance across the room at the sweet-natured woman who had an easy word for everyone and no guile or spite to dispense, told him he wanted to be with her always, bed or no bed.

Feeling at peace with the world, he dropped his stripped knuckle-bone on to the rushes under the table, where Brutus was patiently waiting for it.