The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter Ten In which Crowner John defends a silversmith

For once, that Saturday evening was peaceful in Martin’s Lane. John decided that he had better give the Bush a miss and sit at his own fireside with his wife. The fire crackled cheerfully, thanks to a large supply of beech logs that Mary had piled up at one side of the cavernous hearth.

However, the atmosphere was still hardly jolly as John sat, fidgeting and bored beyond measure. Matilda, determined to play the devoted wife for once, worked with her needle – or, at least, at untangling skeins of silk thread that one of her cronies at St Olave’s church had given her for embroidery. De Wolfe hunched in his seat, his body burning on the side facing the fire and shivering on the other, as the inevitable east wind found its way across the stone floor. As well as a chimney, Matilda had insisted on flagstones, considering the usual warmer straw- or rush-strewn floor as low-class.

Outside it was pitch dark, though the sixth bell had not yet sounded from the cathedral, a few hundred yards away. The snow still came down in irregular flurries, sufficient to whiten the roofs but not enough to settle on the muddied ground.

John had disgorged all his news and had fallen silent for lack of anything else to say. Matilda had heard his account of the unproductive visit to Bearded Lucy with a disdainful sniff, conveying her disapproval of his association with such common people.

To pass the time and relieve his boredom, he took to drinking more than usual. After a quart of ale at their evening meal, he opened a stone flask of Eric Picot’s French wine, digging out the wooden stopper with the point of his dagger after peeling off the waxen seal. His wife deigned to take a small cupful, most of which stood untouched alongside her chair, but the coroner attacked the red liquor with morose gusto. Eventually, his tongue loosened a little by the drink, he had the bravado to return to a subject that Matilda had vetoed earlier.

‘Are you quite sure that you have never heard of anyone who will procure a miscarriage in this town?’

She raised her broad face to give him a glare of disapproval. ‘I told you, John, that kind of matter does not concern me. It is a crime, as well as a sin against the holy teachings,’ she proclaimed virtuously.

‘But among the ladies’ gossip, surely there are whispers now and then of such happenings,’ he persisted.

Matilda hesitated. ‘Well, some years ago, one of the wives of a rich woollen merchant, who already had six children, fell desperately ill with a purulent fever after dropping a baby at the fourth month. There were rumours that she had deliberately sought damage to herself to get rid of the child, but nothing was definitely known.’

‘And who might have done the damage?’

She looked at her husband with pitying contempt at his naïvety. ‘How would I know that? She was hardly likely to vouchsafe the details, it was but a rumour. I do know that the leech Nicholas of Bristol treated her almost mortal fever – and did it well, by all accounts, for she survived.’

John stored away this nugget of information and fell to drinking again, as the wind whistled outside and his old hound Brutus crawled surreptitiously nearer to the fire.

Elsewhere in the city, the recent crimes against two of its womenfolk were under earnest discussion, the same person figuring largely in their arguments.

‘Why did de Revelle release them within the hour?’ demanded Edgar of Topsham. ‘Someone in that shop knows about the attack on my Christina yet the sheriff has let it go by default.’ He was sitting again in Eric Picot’s bachelor room above the wine store in Priest Street, with his father and the Breton huddled around the hearth.

‘I discount those two smiths,’ said Picot. ‘Granted, they are unintelligent scum, but all such workmen make eyes and catcalls after pretty girls without having to be ravishers. I still think that their master could tell us a thing or two about what went on that night.’

Edgar muttered incoherently at this, his thin face reddening in the firelight and his hands grasping at his knees, as if in practice for gripping the throat of Christina’s assailant.

‘We have no proof whatsoever that anyone in that silversmith’s place had anything to do with this,’ said Joseph reasonably, but his voice had a reluctant note, as if he wished he could say otherwise. He turned to Eric, his friend and trading partner. ‘Has Mabel told you anything useful since you spoke to her?’ Joseph tactfully avoided any reference as to why or when Picot might have been talking to Fitzosbern’s wife.

‘She would believe anything of that swine of a husband,’ said the wine merchant, with feeling. ‘But hard fact is another thing. She says he has made no mention of anything remotely concerning Christina, but he’s hardly likely to, is he?’

Edgar scowled. He was almost convinced of the master silversmith’s guilt. ‘Did she give any account of his movements on Wednesday evening?’

Picot gave a Gallic shrug of doubt. ‘He was out from the seventh hour, when his workmen finished their labours. But Mabel says he is out almost every night. He attends many guild meetings and also visits several taverns. She suspects he has at least one other woman somewhere in the town, but certainly he was not at home from the seventh bell until about midnight.’

Joseph stroked his long grey beard. ‘That is poor evidence for his wrongdoing, unless we can discover where he was when this awful thing took place. But I see little chance of discovering that.’

The apothecary’s apprentice was getting more and more agitated as the conversation went on. ‘He is the man – I feel it in my bones! Fitzosbern is well recognised as a philanderer and lecher. The whole town knows it, but most are afraid to say so, because he is a powerful voice in the merchant guilds. Even the sheriff defers to him – look how he let off his two men with hardly a word.’ Edgar jumped up and began pacing the room, which was difficult as it was only about three steps each way.

‘For God’s sake, boy, sit down,’ snapped his father. ‘There’s nothing you can do without further proof.’

‘I’ll beat it out of him, see if I won’t,’ said his son wildly. ‘I’ll challenge him to a trial by battle.’

Eric Picot sighed. ‘You can’t do that. It’s almost impossible, these days. You have to go to five sittings of the county court first, unless the justices of assize declare he has killed one of your kin. And, anyway, Fitzosbern would almost certainly kill you!’

Edgar continued to throw himself about the room for a while, while the two older men talked together. Then he headed for the steps to the ground floor. ‘I’m going to visit Christina, to see what she says. I can’t sit around like this, doing nothing.’ He clattered away, while his father and his friend looked at each other and sighed.

In Goldsmith Street just off the high street near the Guildhall, Guy Ferrars was also with his son, closeted in the room that Hugh rented from de Courcy’s friend. Like the group in Priest Street, they huddled around the fire in a high, draughty room, discussing the tragic events of the day.

‘What’s to be done, Father? Surely you believe me now that I had no part in getting Adele with child.’

The big warrior-like man asserted sadly. ‘I cannot doubt your word, Hugh. But two things must be worked out. Who was the father? And who killed her by clumsy interference?’

Hugh nodded grimly. ‘We must know that – and soon! I made no jest when I said that I would have both their lives.’

Lord Ferrars laid a restraining hand on his son’s broad shoulder. ‘You must be careful, Hugh. We Ferrars have great power in this part of England but we mustn’t assume we can ride roughshod over everyone. If we can find the miscreants, it may be better to let the law deal with them. For every high-handed act we make that needs a favour from the law officers, we increase our indebtedness to them. I wish to stay well in credit when it comes to taking favours in this county.’

Hugh scowled. ‘But the law can never touch a man for making a woman pregnant. We would all be at the gallows or in the stocks if that were so!’

‘That is true,’ his father said, slowly, ‘but there are other ways of taking revenge without putting yourself in peril.’

Hugh jumped up and, like the young apothecary on the other side of the city, paced up and down. He had already had a fair amount to drink that evening, and now stopped at his table to swallow the better part of half a pint of mead. His bristly fair hair and short neck seemed to suit his pugnacious nature. ‘Father, my honour is in tatters! I was to be married at Easter to a handsome woman of an acceptable family. Now I am not only deprived of a bride but will soon be the laughing-stock of half England for being cuckolded before I even reached the altar.’ He slammed his thigh with a sword-hardened hand. ‘Somehow I have to get satisfaction for this double insult. I need to kill someone!’

His father’s reply was interrupted by a knocking at the street door. Hugh’s squire, who lay on a pallet in the vestibule, comforted by a gallon jar of ale, got up to open it and ushered in Reginald de Courcy, swathed in a thick serge cloak peppered with snowflakes.

Their parting that afternoon at St Nicholas’s had been anything but amicable and Guy Ferrars and his son looked coldly at their visitor. However, an unexpected olive branch was waved in their faces. ‘I come to apologise for my behaviour today,’ said de Courcy, in a voice quivering with emotion. ‘I was overcome with shock and grief. I think we all may have uttered unfortunate words in the heat of the moment and I, for my part, regret them.’

Guy Ferrars, Norman chivalry soaked into his very bones, could do nothing but gracefully accept the apology. ‘We are joined by a common tragedy, de Courcy. Our anger should be directed at whatever villains are responsible, not at each other.’

Reginald bowed his head in agreement. ‘That is exactly what my good wife, Eva, told me. She is mortified beyond description by the loss of Adele and I doubt she will ever fully recover. Even the support of our other daughters fails to soften this mortal blow against our family.’

Now that the breach had been healed, each party seemed to vie with the other to be the most magnanimous. De Courcy was divested of his cloak, seated by the fire and pressed to take some wine. They commiserated with each other for a few moments, but the practicalities of what could be done soon surfaced.

‘We have a sheriff and a coroner to keep the peace, yet they seem powerless to do anything useful,’ complained Hugh, but de Courcy was not ready to blame them yet.

‘It has been little more than half a day since they were involved. I doubt we can expect much progress in that time.’

Lord Ferrars was not so charitable. ‘They have done exactly nothing, as far as I can see. Probably each dozing by their firesides at this moment.’

‘We should take the law into our own hands, as our forebears did,’ grated Hugh, his temper rising again. ‘Can we not discover who might have violated Adele for a start? That would be one fellow to slay, at least!’

De Courcy said, cautiously, ‘The prime villain is he – or she – who caused her death. But it may well be that the man who got her with child was the instigator of the abortion and is more guilty than whoever did the act itself, perhaps some poor drab of a wife in a back lane.

Guy Ferrars turned this over in his mind. ‘Surely there are voices in the town who would tell us who indulges in procuring these miscarriages? I would pay a reward of twenty marks for such news, if it led to the name of the killer.’

‘And I would double that, willingly,’ said Reginald enthusiastically. The prospect of doing something useful lifted their spirits a little.

‘Is there no gossip in the city about it?’ demanded Guy Ferrars. ‘With less than five thousand souls within the walls, it is usual for everyone to know his neighbour’s business.’

De Courcy took a sip of wine and said, thoughtfully, ‘The only gossip I hear is about the ravishment of that poor girl of Henry Rifford’s. Tongues are wagging that our master silversmith is a possible candidate for that.’

‘Why should that be?’ enquired Guy Ferrars. ‘I thought he was a staunch burgess, a merchant guild-master.’

‘So he is, but he has a bad reputation as a seducer and it was to his shop that the girl went shortly before she was defiled.’

Hugh Ferrars, who had taken again to his restless prowling with a mug of wine in his hand, stopped suddenly. ‘Silversmith? Which silversmith might that be?’

De Courcy looked up at the younger man. ‘We only have three in Exeter, and one alone produces first-quality work.’

Hugh rushed on impatiently, ‘I’m not a city man, I prefer our country estates. What’s his name?’

‘Godfrey Fitzosbern, in Martin’s Lane.’

There was a bang as Hugh slammed down his mug on the oaken table. ‘Fitzosbern! That’s the name! Adele was dealing with him over several months. She wanted a whole set of trinkets matched in silver filigree for her nuptial costume – headband, earrings, gorget, bracket and rings!’

Adele’s father looked shocked. ‘Of course! I was paying for them, I should have remembered. The whole set was delivered and is locked away in my treasure chest at Shillingford.’

Lord Ferrars stood up, his towering height and wide bulk seeming to fill the small room. ‘What are you saying, Hugh? What has silversmithing to do with this?’

Hugh beat a fist on the table, making his mead cup jangle. ‘The same man, this Fitzosbern! He is suspected of the rape of that girl, who visited his shop the night of her shame. And Adele must have gone to that same shop a dozen times, choosing and fitting those wedding baubles.’

There was a silence as pregnant as the subject of their concern had been. ‘But it was many months ago,’ objected de Courcy.

‘And she was at least four months gone with child, according to the nun from Polsloe,’ retorted Hugh.

‘Don’t let us go too fast. Probably half the rich ladies in Devon have been to silversmiths for their jewellery. Just visiting a merchant doesn’t make him a rapist and a fornicator.’

But Hugh would not be swayed. He had the bit between his teeth and any target for attack was better than none. ‘It is a strange coincidence, that the man whom gossip marks out for a rape is the same whom Adele attended many times.’

The older men were far more cautious, but they were by no means dismissive of the possibility. ‘He should be put to some questions,’ said de Courcy.

‘Questions? He should be put to the Ordeal, if not to the sword!’ shouted Hugh, as hot-heated as ever. His big head swung from side to side on his thick neck, as if he was seeking some target within the dim corners of the room. In his state of chronic anger, he was desperate for something to hit.

Reginald de Courcy made an unconvincing plea for moderation. ‘Come now, we are all romancing, surely? A wild rumour, born of idle gossip about the portreeve’s daughter, born out of a man’s poor reputation with women. Can we jump to an even wilder surmise that he must also be a murderer?’

Lord Ferrars was silent, at least not disagreeing with the speaker, but reluctant to abandon their only possibility. However tenuous it might be, it was better than nothing in their present state of frustration.

But the younger Hugh was in no mood for moderation. ‘I can’t stay stifled up in here, forever talking in circles.’ He threw more mead into his cup from a jug, splashing half of it on the table, then drained it at a gulp.

At the door, he prodded his squatting squire with a long-toed shoe. ‘Come on, we’ll walk the town and ease our minds in a tavern or two.’

They pushed out into the lane and made for the high street, finding their way by the dim glow of chestnut roasters, horn lanterns of hawkers’ stalls and the glimmer through linen shades over unglazed windows.

John de Wolfe slumped in his chair, almost dozing from the effects of red wine and the warmth of the fire on his front. Though it was only the middle of the evening, he was contemplating taking to his bed out of sheer boredom. Matilda had already succumbed and was snoring gently, her head back against her beehive chair, mouth wide open and the embroidery silks forgotten in her lap.

Through eyelids lowered to almost closing, the coroner stared at the fiery patterns made by the glowing logs, trying to decide whether to refill his wine cup or climb the outside stairs to the solar and his bed.

Suddenly, Brutus lifted his head and his ears went back. The big hound had been lying at John’s feet, head between his paws, but now he was alert. Sleepily his master caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. ‘What is it, old dog?’ he murmured.

The mastiff turned his head slightly to one side, listening intently. John sat up and strained his own ears, knowing that despite his age, Brutus still had keen hearing.

There was something outside, some commotion in the lane. Though the house walls were wooden, they were made of a double layer of thick oak and the inside was hung with tapestries, which helped muffle sounds but still some hubbub filtered through. He could hear shouts and raised voices, as Brutus jumped up and loped to the door to sniff at the bottom crack.

John got to his feet and followed the dog. Matilda had not stirred and was still making soft whistling sounds in her throat. Throwing his cloak loosely over his shoulders, the coroner stepped out into the street, looking to his left from where the noise came. The lane was better lit than much of Exeter, as two pitch flares were stuck in rings on the walls of the farrier’s diagonally opposite, towards St Martin’s church. That light now fell on two struggling figures outside his next-door neighbour’s house, the frontage of which was set back a few feet from John’s dwelling.

Immediately, he saw that it was a one-sided struggle, as the heavy figure of Godfrey Fitzosbern appeared to be beating the life out of a much slighter man, accompanied by oaths and yelling from them both.

John dodged back into his vestibule to pull his sword from its sheath, then ran back into the street. By the time he returned, a third figure was involved, dragging at Fitzosbern’s tunic. Even the dim light was sufficient to show that it was that of a woman.

‘What in hell is going on?’ roared John, as he ran towards the struggling trio, holding his sword aloft.

When she saw her neighbour approaching, Mabel, for of course it was Godfrey’s wife, screamed, ‘He’ll kill the boy, get him off, for God’s sake!’ She continued to tug at her husband, but he gave her a swinging back-handed blow that knocked her flying against the doorpost of his shop. He then set to kicking the body on the ground, who huddled up with his arms protectively over his head.

‘Stop that, Fitzosbern!’ yelled the coroner, grabbing him by the shoulder. His sword was useless – he could hardly run his neighbour through, although he contemplated whacking him with the flat of the blade.

The guild-master was in such a rage that he was oblivious of de Wolfe’s presence, almost blue in the face and yelling abuse at the cringing figure lying in the cold mud. John tried to get an arm-lock around his neck to drag him off, but the frenzied assailant twisted away.

Then, abruptly, the battle took another turn as two other figures materialised from the gloom and grabbed Fitzosbern, pulling him away from the man on the ground. But Godfrey pulled an arm free and delivered a ringing punch to the face of one of the new arrivals, sending him staggering. Then there was a metallic scrape as the other fellow pulled out his sword and, an instant later, Fitzosbern was pinioned against his own front wall, with a sharp blade pressed across his neck.

De Wolfe bent down to hoist up the first victim from the snowy mud, just as the man Fitzosbern had punched climbed to his feet and delivered a shin-cracking kick to the merchant’s left leg. Fitzosbern roared with pain and the coroner dropped his man back into the mud to leap forward and swing the flat of his sword against the shoulders of the kicker.

‘What in Christ’s name is going on here?’ he bellowed. The other man still had his long blade at Fitzosbern’s neck, a thin trickle of blood now running down from a shallow cut across his Adam’s apple. Without hesitation, John lifted his huge sword and again brought the flat of it down on the forearm of the assailant, who gave a howl of pain as his weapon clattered down the wall. Fitzosbern slid to the ground and the coroner grabbed the cloaked swordsman. He swung him round to reveal the face of Hugh Ferrars, flushed and obviously drunk.

‘You could have cut the man’s throat, sir!’ he snapped ‘Do you to want to hang for it?’

‘The bastard deserves it, by all account,’ snarled the young man. ‘Anyway, I was saving this other fellow’s life. Fitzosbern was killing him – who is he, by the way?’

They turned to the groaning figure that John had unceremoniously dropped back into the mire, ignoring both Fitzosbern and Hugh’s squire, who was sitting on the ground rubbing his shoulder where the coroner’s broadsword had struck him.

‘It’s Edgar of Topsham, by damnation!’ barked Ferrars. They dragged him to his feet and supported him while the apothecary’s apprentice gingerly felt his face, ribs and kidneys to see what was damaged.

Now the silversmith himself climbed groggily to his feet and staggered over to him, his temper not improved by the blood running down his neck. ‘Arrest them, murderers!’ he croaked, clutching John’s arm. ‘He tried to kill me, the swine – look at this blood!’

The squire had recovered enough to make another lung at Fitzosbern, but John pushed him away. ‘Control this fellow, Ferrars, or I’ll have you both in the castle gaol.’

Hugh muttered something at the other man, who seemed even more drunk than his master and the squire backed off a few paces.

The guild-master was still shaking the coroner’s arm and demanding that he arrest all three of his antagonists. ‘This evil young pup, be began it all!’ Godfrey gave the shivering Edgar a hearty push in the chest, but John grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back.

‘Let’s have no more violence from any of you!’ he yelled. Suddenly he was aware again of the other person among them, Mabel Fitzosbern, who had come across from her front doorstep, where she had sheltered since her husband had struck her. The light from the farrier’s showed that she had a livid bruise down the side of her cheek and her left eye was rapidly closing with purple swelling of the lids. Her linen head-rail had been torn off and her ash-blonde hair was hanging in a tangle across her shoulder. ‘He would have killed the boy, if you hadn’t appeared,’ she hissed, with a venom that surprised de Wolfe, coming from such a pretty and elegant woman. ‘It’s that damned husband of mine you should arrest, not these men!’

‘Hold your tongue, woman! What do you know about it?’ yelled Fitzosbern. ‘This evil young bastard accused me of raping his girl!’

Mabel put her bruised features close to his and spat in his face. ‘And I’d not be surprised if he was right, you swine! I can tell the world a thing or two about you and your habits!’

Godfrey raised a hand to strike her again, but de Wolfe grabbed it in a steel-like grip. ‘You can’t testify to anything about me, you bitch,’ yelled Fitzosbern, struggling against the coroner’s restraint. ‘You are my wife and I command you to get inside that house. I’ll deal with you later.’

Now Edgar found his voice for the first time, speaking thickly through bruised lips. ‘Coroner, you must arrest this man – or call the sheriffs men if you don’t have the power. Look how he used me! He assaulted me and would have killed me if you hadn’t come along. And I believe he is a ravisher. My Christina was last in his company.’

Fitzosbern roared again and struggled to get free from John’s grasp. Hugh Ferrars, who had managed to keep quiet during these exchanges, launched himself forward to seize the silversmith, but John fended him off with the point of his sword.

‘Leave it!’ he yelled. ‘All calm down, or I’ll put the lot of you under the castle keep!’

He became aware of a growing knot of curious onlookers drifting into a semi-circle, attracted from the high street by the shouting and clatter of sword blades.

Hugh Ferrars, rocking slightly on his heels, prodded Fitzosbern in the chest with a thick finger. ‘Rapist or not, I want to know what your dealings were with my intended wife. She came to your shop many a time. What was she to you, eh? Come on, damn you, admit how well you knew her!’

His squire had picked up Hugh’s fallen sword and handed it to him, and now the baron’s son began waving it at Fitzosbern, taking the point perilously near the think bloody line on his neck.

‘Put that away, damn you!’ thundered the coroner, clashing his own blade down on Ferrars’s weapon. Trying to control four unruly men, two of them tipsy, was proving too much and he wished that he had Gwyn here to bang their heads together.

Mabel came back into the fray, pointing dramatically at her damaged face. ‘Look what you did, swine of a husband! You devil, it’s not the first time, either. I’ve had to stay inside my house for days on end until your handiwork healed up and I could go out and pretend to be the loving wife of a respectable burgess!’

Godfrey seemed on the point of apoplexy, so great was his rage, but the coroner had his arm twisted up his back to hold him off the others. However, his mouth was still in working order. ‘I told you to get inside that house, wife! You’ll be sorry for this behaviour,’ he screamed, almost beside himself with hatred.

‘Not nearly so sorry as you will be, when I’ve spread your reputation about the town. I’ve held my peace until now, but enough is enough. I’m leaving you.’

‘Good riddance! Go to hell, woman! And take that raddled wine pedlar with you. D’you think I didn’t know about your own petty affairs, you fool?’

Mabel ignored this, secretly relieved that it was out in the open at last. But she had not finished with her husband yet. ‘What’s this Hugh was saying about you and his wife-to-be, eh? Another rape, was it, you poxy swine?’

Hugh’s eyes swivelled to her. ‘Do you know anything of his affairs, madam? Do you know if he had been tumbling my intended wife?’

She looked from one to other. ‘I can’t say who he tumbled, they came and went so fast. It was too difficult to keep track of his philandering.’

The gathering crowd murmured with delight. This was an unexpected entertainment for a Saturday night and even the cold wind and occasional snowflake did not discourage them from waiting for the next act.

But John had had enough of this public brawl, especially as he spied Matilda coming out of his front door. The noise must have woken her at last, and he knew she would be incensed at such a vulgar fracas taking place outside her house.

‘Clear off, all of you. This is no place to hold a private dispute. Ferrars, take this drunken squire and get home to your lodging. Your father would be ashamed of your behaviour in a public place.’

Next he turned to Edgar. ‘And you had better mind your tongue, unless you have proof. You cannot go accusing prominent citizens of felony without a shred of evidence. Get back to your lodgings and be glad that I don’t have you dragged off to Rougemont for the night.’ He looked at the battered face and hunched body. ‘And get Nicholas, that leech-master of yours, to put some poultices on your wounds.’

The centre-stage players began to draw apart, but they all had parting shots to cast.

‘I’ll not enter that house again, he’ll kill me next time,’ grated Mabel. ‘I’ll go to my sister’s in North Street and beg lodging there.’ She glared virulently at her husband. ‘Just as well for you that I’m leaving,’ she spat. ‘You’d likely get my cooking knife between your ribs before very long – or poison in your broth!’ She marched off tight-lipped, pushing through the straggling ring of sightseers, cloakless but heedless of the cold in the heat of her fury.

‘And if she doesn’t slay, you swine, I will!’ slurred Hugh Ferrars, giving his sword a last wave in the air before unsteadily finding the lip of his scabbard to slide it home with a jangling scrape. He thrust his face close to Fitzosbern’s to utter a final threat. ‘I’ll be back to ask those questions, Master Silversmith. And if I’m not satisfied, I’ll kill you.’

He swaggered off, stumbling and pushing the spectators roughly aside, his squire close behind. Edgar limped after them, heading for the shop in Fore Street and some healing potions. Fitzosbern pulled himself away from John’s slackening hand and attempted to brush himself down. ‘You should have run those louts through – or arrested them! I’ll be visiting Richard de Revelle first thing in the morning to demand writs against them all for assault and attempted murder. Just look at my throat!’ He lifted his chin to show the line of drying blood across the front of his neck.

John ran a none-too-gentle finger across the mark. ‘It’s nothing but a scratch. You’ll come to no harm.’

Godfrey thrust away his hand impatiently. ‘Where’s that bloody wife of mine?’ he snarled.

‘She’s gone. I saw her going around the corner into the high street.’

John felt Matilda at his elbow. He knew of her partiality for Godfrey Fitzosbern and her disapproval of Mabel, whom she considered a gold-digging second wife, but the antagonism towards him of the son of Lord Ferrars had made her cautious of offering the silversmith much support.

The small crowd, sensing that the show was over, melted away and the coroner took his wife’s arm and steered her towards their own house.

‘I should go inside and bar your door, Fitzosbern,’ he advised. ‘Let’s hope everyone will have a cooler head in the morning.’