The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER FOUR

By noon, the trio that made up the coroner’s team were splashing their way through the ford across the Exe, just outside Exeter’s West Gate. The unfinished stone bridge was on their left and the rickety old wooden footbridge to their right, both straddling the marshy flats of Exe Island, criss-crossed by muddy ditches.

John de Wolfe and Gwyn of Polruan were riding side by side, and as their mounts climbed the sloping bank on the city side of the river, de Wolfe broke a long silence. ‘What’s wrong with Thomas today? He looks as if he’s going to his own hanging, not his dinner.’

Gwyn turned his head to look back at the little clerk, sitting forlornly on his old pony. ‘Walking alongside that fat priest this morning has made him worse,’ grunted the Cornishman, as they jogged up to the city gate.

‘Worse than what?’ asked John, who could hardly claim sensitivity among his virtues.

‘Thomas is missing his vocation more than ever, poor little sod. He’s desperate to become a proper servant of God again — though why anyone should want to waste their life like that is beyond me.’ In all the years that John had spent in his henchman’s company, he had yet to discover why Gwyn had such an antipathy to the Church.

‘The man should be thankful that he’s still alive, after that rape affair in Winchester,’ grated de Wolfe unsympathetically. ‘If the sheriff had got him, instead of the cathedral proctors, he’d have been hanged for sure.’

‘The other day, he told me he wished he had been hanged,’ replied Gwyn. ‘Living in the canon’s house in the cathedral close keeps reminding him of what he’s lost, I suppose.’

‘Well, don’t let him cut his throat, will you? Miserable little drab that he is, he’s too valuable to me as a clerk. And that reminds me,’ he added cryptically.

Gwyn looked at his master enquiringly. ‘Reminds you of what?’

‘A coroner’s clerk. I’ve got to meet that damned fool Theobald Fitz-Ivo at Rougemont this afternoon. The sheriff wants him elected by the Shire Court tomorrow, God help us!’ With that, the coroner became as glumly silent as Thomas. They climbed the slope of Fore Street to the central crossing of the city at Carfoix, and by the time they passed along the high street to where Martin’s Lane turned off on the right, John’s mood had recovered enough for him to remind the departing Gwyn to be back at the castle by the time of the Vespers bell, around the third hour after noon.

Gwyn carried straight on, aiming for his family’s hut in St Sidwell’s, just outside the East Gate, while de Wolfe turned into the lane, followed by his despondent clerk. He dismounted a few yards further on, and Andrew the farrier ran out from his stables to take charge of Odin.

‘See that the inquest is copied on to another roll for the justices,’ de Wolfe ordered Thomas, who was passing by on his pony. The clerk managed a nod in reply — strangely different from his usual eager, almost obsequious acknowledgement of his master’s instructions.

De Wolfe stood in the narrow lane for a moment, looking in puzzlement after the plodding horse, but his distraction was short-lived. An all-too-familiar voice grated in his ear. ‘Have you nothing better to do than stare after that lop-sided pervert, John?’

Matilda had appeared from behind him, enveloped in a dark grey cloak and hood, her white cover-chief and wimple surrounding her face. She looked so much like a nun that he wondered briefly if some special religious fervour was affecting her as well as his clerk. Then he guessed that she had just come from her habitual devotions in the church of St Olave in Fore Street.

‘You passed us on the high street without a word,’ she complained, gesturing to the obnoxious Lucille, who always reminded de Wolfe of a skinny rabbit, with her large ears and protruding teeth.

‘In that press of people, you could hardly expect me to recognise you from the back, wrapped in that great mantle,’ muttered her husband.

Matilda waddled past him to their front door. ‘You’d easily recognise certain other wenches, with or without their clothes,’ she spat out.

To John’s relief, both women disappeared down the side passage to the backyard to take the outside stairs up to Matilda’s solar. He reckoned that he had half an hour to sit in peace by his hearth and drink a quart of ale, while Lucille fussed over his wife’s clothes and primped her hair.

As he fondled Brutus’s smooth head while he waited for Mary to bring him his drink, the thought of ale gave him a sudden stab of guilt over his enforced absences lately from the Bush Inn. He had only seen Nesta once in the past five days, and after his long trips away from Exeter during the past month, he hoped that his mistress was not feeling too neglected. Maybe the installation of Fitz-Ivo might be bearable, he thought, if it gave him more time for dalliance at the Bush. And maybe he would even find time to get down to Stoke-in-Teignhead to see his family. With another twinge of guilt, the thought that Dawlish was on the road to Stoke came into his head — Dawlish, the village where the delectable Hilda lived.

The aspiring new coroner for the north of the county was already in the sheriff’s chamber when de Wolfe arrived. The obese knight was squeezed into a leather-backed folding chair, which looked in imminent danger of collapse as he leaned back dangerously when John entered.

Theobald Fitz-Ivo was obviously slightly drunk after washing down his dinner with too much wine. His circular face, which bore a rim of blond beard that matched his close-cropped hair, was flushed a bright pink and he greeted de Wolfe with unctuous familiarity. ‘Ah, John! I’ve come to your rescue. Richard here has been telling me how hard pressed you’ve been lately.’

Even the sheriff, who had championed Fitz-Ivo, winced at the man’s slurred heartiness.

‘You understand what’s involved, do you?’ growled de Wolfe, propping himself against the stone fireplace where a few logs glowed feebly. ‘This job is no sinecure. You have to get out and about, investigating a whole host of matters.’

Fitz-Ivo waved a hand with unsteady airiness. ‘I’ll soon get into the swing of it, John. My bailiff William is good at reading and writing — never had time for it, myself.’

The coroner sighed. ‘He had better be good, for everything must be recorded on the rolls for presentation to the King’s justices at the Eyre of Assize — and the General Eyre, if it ever arrives in Exeter in our lifetime.’

The podgy knight from Frithelstock looked at him blankly. John hoped that the complexity of a coroner’s functions was dawning on Fitz-Ivo, but he had his doubts. ‘You do understand what your duties will be, I trust?’

‘Oh, it’s mostly looking at corpses and taking presentments, eh?’

De Wolfe groaned inwardly. It would be easier to carry on doing all the work himself than to instruct this dolt — and, no doubt, clear up the mess he was inevitably going to make. He walked across to the sheriff’s heavy table and perched on one corner to stare down at the rubicund Theobald. He decided that the fool should be told a few basic truths. ‘I’d better start at the beginning! The essential duty is the keeping of the pleas of the Crown.’

He was rewarded with a glassy stare from the pale blue eyes that looked back from the red face, which carried an even redder, bulbous nose laced by fine purple veins.

‘What exactly does that mean, eh?’

The scowl on de Wolfe’s dark face deepened. ‘It’s what gives the office its name, for God’s sake!’ he snarled, in exasperation. ‘Why d’you think we’re called coroners? From custos placitorum coronas, keeper of the pleas of the Crown! But we keep them, not hold them. We’re not judges.’

Theobald made an effort to comprehend. ‘So what does keeping entail, John?’

‘It means directing the trial of all serious crimes and legal suits to the royal courts, rather than letting them be dealt with by the burgess court, the sheriff’s Shire Court or the manorial courts.’

‘Damn nonsense!’ cut in the sheriff, who could restrain himself no longer. ‘Our courts have managed well enough for centuries.’

Richard de Revelle was in a difficult position: on the one hand he wanted to put John down by appointing Fitz-Ivo, so limiting his power over the whole county, yet on the other he disagreed fundamentally with the new post of coroner, which curtailed his own freedom to practise autocracy and corruption.

De Wolfe turned slowly to his brother-in-law. ‘Perhaps you would like to express that opinion to the Justiciar when you take the Devon farm to Winchester next week. Hubert Walter will be happy to relay your condemnation to the King when he next visits Normandy — especially as part of the reason for the new system was to increase the royal revenues to pay for the King’s ransom and his campaigns against the French.’

De Revelle ground his teeth in frustration, but he was in no position to defy John too openly, given the cloud of royal disapproval under which he laboured.

De Wolfe turned back to Theobald, who sat uneasily now, wondering if he really wanted the appointment. He was dressed gaudily in an elaborately embroidered tunic of green wool and a surcoat of scarlet brocade, which, although originally of excellent quality, were now slightly threadbare and definitely grubby. A wide leather belt sagged below the bulge of his corpulent belly and red breeches ended in pale tan leather boots with very pointed toes. A greater contrast with the lean, ascetic de Wolfe, clad all in grey and black, was hard to imagine.

John continued to rub salt into Fitz-Ivo’s wounds with an catalogue of coroner’s duties. ‘You must attend every sudden or unnatural death, every rape, every serious assault and burglary that is reported to you by the bailiffs or the constables. Go to every fire of house or barn, whether they cause death or not … attend every hanging, mutilation and trial by battle or ordeal, every catch of royal fish, the sturgeon and the whale, every find of treasure trove. You take confessions from sanctuary seekers and organise abjurations of the realm, hear the pleas of approvers who wish to save their skins by giving evidence against fellow conspirators, and appeals from those who wish to start proceedings in the royal courts. And you must have a jury assess the value of all deodands and decide where that value is to be lodged.’

‘What’s a deodand?’ asked the fuddled Theobald.

Restraining his impatience with difficulty, de Wolfe explained, ‘Anything that causes a death — a knife, a cart, even a mill-wheel.’

By now, Fitz-Ivo’s ruddy complexion had paled considerably, but John was not finished. With almost sadistic enjoyment, he continued, ‘You are an officer of the King’s justices and your main function is keep a record of every legal event within your jurisdiction to present to the judges when they arrive. You must amerce any miscreant or those who fail to carry out the legal procedures, and though you do not collect the money yourself, your assessment of the fines must be presented to the justices, at penalty of your own pocket.’

At the mention of loss of money, Fitz-Ivo’s moist, flabby lips quivered. ‘What about recompense for my labours, then?’

De Wolfe scowled at him fiercely. ‘Surely you’ve been told that you are forbidden to receive any fee. You must have proved already that you have an income of at least twenty pounds a year, in order to be aloof from any temptation to profit personally from your appointment.’ Here he paused to look pointedly at his brother-in-law, whose reputation for embezzlement was unparalleled west of Bristol.

‘But expenses? Surely there is some refund of costs in all this labour?

De Wolfe nodded. ‘You may pay your clerk a reasonable sum for his work, up to a few pence per day, and you may recover the cost of lodging and horse fodder when you are away from home. This may be raised from the sale of deodands, but strict accounts must be presented to the judges or you will find yourself locked in the cells here below our feet.’

He took such a malicious delight in frightening his would-be colleague that the sheriff felt obliged to reassure Fitz-Ivo. ‘John puts the worst face upon it, Theobald. I fear that sometimes he has a strange sense of humour. You will fill the post admirably, I’m sure. Let us agree to a trial period — say six months — to see how you fare.’

In spite of de Wolfe’s glowering disapproval, it was finally arranged that Fitz-Ivo would deal with all cases in the Hundreds of the northern part of the county above a line that ran roughly east-west from Tiverton to Okehampton. In addition, they would cover each other’s territory if one was absent or indisposed, though de Wolfe vowed to himself that he would never let Fitz-Ivo meddle with his part of the county while he still had breath in his body.

Officially, a coroner could only be appointed by the Shire Court, then ratified by the Justiciar or the Chancellor, so Richard de Revelle promised that Fitz-Ivo would be installed at the fortnightly court, which was due to be held in Rougemont next morning.

As the coroner moved towards the door, the sheriff broached a different matter. ‘The day after tomorrow I have to attend the tinners’ Great Court up on Crockern Tor. I have no option because, as sheriff, I am also Lord Warden of the Stannaries.’

De Wolfe looked at him blankly. ‘What of it, Richard? Are you feared for your own head with this killer on the loose around the moor?’

Though he spoke sarcastically, there may have been an element of truth in what he said, but the sheriff dismissed it impatiently. ‘There will be a hundred or more others there. I need not worry about an assault, especially as I will have Sergeant Gabriel and half a dozen men-at-arms with me. No, I wondered if you thought it wise to attend too. All the current problems of the tinners will be aired and perhaps something useful will arise about this killing.’

De Wolfe considered this. ‘It might be advantageous, I suppose. But why are you concerned with coroner’s business?’

De Revelle put on his pompous voice: ‘As Lord Warden and county sheriff, I have a responsibility to seek out the miscreant. Anything that disturbs the production of tin reduces the revenues from the coinage. When I go to Winchester next week, the Chancellor and the Exchequer will be out of sorts with me if they suspect that less tin is being mined because of these disturbances.’

He stopped and looked craftily at his brother-in-law. ‘Especially as the King is sending it to Normandy by the thousand-weight instead of silver to pay his troops,’ he added, with a sneer.

De Wolfe ignored the jibe against his monarch and left the sheriff to repair the damage done to Fitz-Ivo’s confidence with more wine and reassurance about the simplicity of his duties. As he strode out, he wondered grimly how long the fat knight would last — although he knew that Theobald would be well under de Revelle’s thumb: the sheriff would want to ensure that he was of no hindrance to his underhand dealings.

De Wolfe left the keep and strode across the inner ward of the castle, avoiding ox-wagons, ducks and geese, old men and small urchins, to reach the gatehouse, where he clattered up the stone stairs to his office. He was due for a session with Gwyn and the sad little clerk, to make sure that the rolls were up to date.

After an hour, they heard the cathedral bell tolling in the distance. John rose from his bench and took his mantle from the peg on the bare stone wall. ‘Time for Vespers,’ he grunted, with a rare wink at Gwyn, who grinned back, well aware that his master’s devotions were likely to be social rather than sacred.

De Wolfe strode through the back lanes of Exeter to reach the Bush Inn, avoiding High Street in case his wife was on one of her ceaseless perambulations to the church of St Olave. He skirted the noisome outer ward of Rougemont, where most of the castle garrison lived with their families and animals, then crossed Curre Street and Goldsmith Street to reach the inner side of the North Gate.

From here, he dived into the even meaner passages of Bretayne, the poorest area of the city, named after the original Britons who had been squeezed into this district when, centuries earlier, the Saxons had displaced the Celts. Pushing past cripples, beggars, urchins, pigs and goats in the filthy lanes that lay between tumbledown huts of wattle and thatch, he turned into Friernhay. At its end, he crossed Fore Street to a passage leading into Stepcote, the steep hill dropping down to the city wall.

Directly opposite was Idle Lane, named for the plot of wasteground on which the Bush Inn sat. Its stone walls were barely the height of a man, but a steeply pitched thatched roof gave it a spacious loft under the rafters, where Nesta had a small room to herself, letting the rest of the space as lodgings.

A few horses were tethered to a rail at the side as he walked past to reach the central front door. Stooping to pass under the low lintel, he went into the single drinking-room that occupied all the ground floor. The kitchen shed and brewhouse were in the yard behind the main building. It was dim and the smoke from the large hearth-pit against the left-hand wall stung his eyes. Even in mid-afternoon, several patrons were indulging in drink and business, before they went off for the early-evening meal. The buzz of conversation was broken by bursts of raucous laughter, mainly from a trio of harlots who were entertaining some out-of-town wool traders in one corner.

John’s favourite resting place was vacant, a rough table near the fire. Its bench was backed up against a wattle hurdle, which gave some protection from the draughts that blew in through the open eaves and the four small window openings. He scuffed across to the table through the straw on the earthen floor and pulled off his wolfskin mantle. As he dropped it on to the bench, a bent old man limped up and pulled his forelock. ‘How do, Cap’n? Ale or cider today?’ His toothless mouth leered a welcome at de Wolfe. The aged potman had lost part of a foot and one eye in the Irish wars and the white scar of his collapsed blind eyeball roved horribly as the other glinted cunningly at the coroner. ‘The missus is out the back, sir. With the new man.’

John looked at him sharply. He had come to recognise every nuance of the old man’s voice and knew that Edwin was hinting at something. ‘New man? What new man?’

The potman’s leer grew wider. ‘Why, Alan of Lyme, Cap’n. Didn’t you know about the young fellow?’ he asked, with false innocence.

De Wolfe made a gargling noise in his throat, his habitual defence against having to answer. ‘Get me a quart of ale, old man,’ he demanded brusquely.

Edwin stumped off and returned with a stone jar of ale filled from a barrel at the back of the room.

‘What’s this Alan doing here?’ grunted the coroner, his worried curiosity getting the better of him.

‘Why, the missus has employed him, of course. Finding the work a bit much for her, now that trade is getting so brisk.’

De Wolfe gargled again and waved Edwin away. But the decrepit potman hovered as de Wolfe put the mug to his lips. He looked furtively over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps not for me to say, Crowner,’ he hissed, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but if I was you, I’d tread careful with the missus. She’s been in a funny mood these past days. I think she may have it in for you a bit.’ His blind eye rolled repulsively as he tapped the side of his nose with a dirty forefinger then moved away, leaving de Wolfe more uneasy than ever.

He sat holding his pot and staring into the leaping flames of the log fire, his ears jarred by more shrieks of laughter from one of the whores in the corner. One of the tipsy woolmen had slid a hand down her bodice.

Though he had seen little of Nesta these past few weeks, he had been in here last Sunday for a short while. However, Matilda’s insistence that he go with her for one of his infrequent visits to church had prevented him having a session with the landlady up in the loft. She had said nothing about employing anyone then, though he recollected now that she had been less talkative than usual.

Edwin’s claim that business had become more onerous was doubtful: the Bush was certainly the most popular inn in the city, but it had been for many months, so he failed to see why Nesta should find the need suddenly for another helper, in addition to the potman, cook and two serving maids. Until a couple of years ago, her husband had run the tavern. He had been a good friend of John’s, a Welsh archer who had shared several campaigns with him. When his fighting days had ended, he had taken on the Bush, but within a year he was dead of a fever and John had helped Nesta finance the inn to keep it going.

Before long their business interests had ripened into mutual attraction, then passion, and though de Wolfe could not resist female temptation elsewhere, Nesta was his favourite, almost to the exclusion of all others. She was certainly in love with him and, flinty-natured though he was, he had grudgingly to admit that he was extraordinarily fond of her in return.

So what was this about a younger man on the premises? He looked covertly over his shoulder to the back of the room where Edwin had his barrels wedged up along a plank over leather drip buckets. Alongside them was the door to the backyard, over which the wide ladder ascended to the loft. As he peered through the smoke haze, he saw Nesta bustle in to be stopped by the crippled potman, who whispered in her ear and waved towards the hearth. The landlady’s head came up and her eyes met John’s across the room. He fancied he saw a slight tightening of her lips instead of her usual welcoming smile, and a tingle of apprehension caught at his throat. When facing a Saracen horde or a lance pointing at him on the tourney-field, John de Wolfe would hardly turn a hair, but the prospect of an angry or vindictive woman made him quail.

Nesta threaded her way across the room between stools and tables, her face devoid of expression. She dropped down on to the bench beside him, but instead of the usual pressure of her shoulder and thigh, a small but significant space remained between them. ‘You’ve come to see me at last, then?’

Unbidden, the cautionary words of some past comrade sprang into his head: ‘When your mistress begins to sound like your wife, it’s time to leave.’

‘God’s bones, woman, I’ve been so overwhelmed by duties these past few weeks, I’ve hardly had time to spit.’ He put an arm affectionately around her shoulders, and softened his tone. ‘Things will be easier now, though. A new coroner has been appointed for the north. He’s a fool, but it should lighten my load.’

Nesta still sat rigidly, but her face mellowed a little, into a doubtful pout. ‘I thought you had forsaken me, damn you! Twice I have seen you in three weeks — and neither occasion saw us abed together.’

‘You know how long I was up in Barnstaple and Lynmouth and Christ knows where else, Nesta. And now I have a killing on Dartmoor that kept me away all last night — and Crediton the night before that.’

She nodded, rather absently. ‘Do you want some food? And you need that pot filled again.’ Rising from the bench, Nesta looked down at him. ‘There’s some good boiled pork. I’ll get some for you and send more ale across while you’re waiting.’

She walked away with the suggestion of a flounce, leaving de Wolfe uneasy and worried. He had never seen her like this before, and though he blamed himself for neglecting her during the past weeks, he felt that her behaviour was unreasonable, given that he had had no choice in being away from Exeter so much during that time.

His morose reverie was broken when a new jar of ale was banged on the table before him, some of the contents slopping over on to the boards. He looked up to snap at old Edwin for his lack of courtesy, but was surprised to see a different face. A shock of blond hair, with a natural curl, sat above a long, handsome face that carried a pair of bright blue eyes. The young fellow had a wispy moustache of the same colour as his pale locks, and seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and exuded a confident aura of fitness and robust health. ‘Nesta said you needed more ale. The food is on its way.’

The words were innocent and spoken civilly enough, but the casual familiarity from a total stranger made de Wolfe long to throw the contents of the ale-jar in his face. He restrained himself and instead gave one of his strangled grunts, as he glowered up at the man.

‘You’ll be this crowner fellow, I expect,’ continued the newcomer, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was making an implacable enemy.

‘Sir John de Wolfe, the King’s coroner, yes! And who the hell might you be? The new potman?’ grated John.

‘I’m no potman, Crowner!’ said the man indignantly. ‘Alan of Lyme, that’s me — I run the inn with Nesta now. She needs a man in a place like this. It’s too much for a widow.’

He marched away before de Wolfe could unravel his tongue in the face of such blatant effrontery. He was starting to get to his feet to follow the fellow and shake him by his flaxen hair, when Nesta came out of the kitchen door and across the room, bearing a board on which a steaming trencher was covered with pork and onions. He dropped back on to his bench and glared up at her. ‘Sit down, you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he growled, as she slid the trencher in front of him.

Calmly, she leaned on the table and bent towards him. ‘I see you’ve met Alan, then.’

‘Cheeky young bastard! Talked to me as if I was your father,’ he snapped. ‘What’s he doing here? You’ve managed quite well with just the four servants until now. And why choose him? He looks as if he would be better employed running a brothel down in Bretayne,’ he added unfairly.

Nesta shrugged her shapely shoulders. ‘Edwin is getting past it, both in mind and body. I needed someone younger and more active.’

‘Well, make sure this damned fellow doesn’t get too active or I’ll have to kill him!’ muttered de Wolfe.

Relenting a little, Nesta slid on to the bench. ‘Just eat your dinner and stop talking nonsense. When you’ve finished, you can tell me what news there might be.’

With false reluctance, for he was hungry and the food smelt good, de Wolfe began to eat. The Welsh woman watched him with an enigmatic smile, almost like a mother regarding a sulky child. Between mouthfuls, he shot tentative glances at her, trying to gauge whether she was really softening or whether her strange mood was persisting.

He saw a comely woman of twenty-eight, with a high smooth forehead, a snub nose and an oval face. Strands of rich red hair peeped from under her linen coif, whose colour matched the pale green gown girdled tightly to emphasise her small waist below the deliciously full bosom. His affection for her welled up again, and he hated the thought that she had taken some flashy young man into the inn where he could be with her all day — and possibly all night. That generated another jealous question. ‘This Alan, does he live in here? With four other servants, you have no room in the huts in the yard.’

She shook her head carelessly. ‘I’ve given him a corner upstairs — a straw pallet at the end of the stalls.’

The large room under the thatch was divided off into a number of open-fronted cubicles, each with either a mattress or a pile of clean hay for penny and halfpenny guests.

De Wolfe grunted, failing to hide his displeasure. ‘As far as possible from your chamber, I trust.’

‘Are you afraid that he’ll break down my door at night, then?’

‘I’m thinking of him being an audience for us, when we’re together in there,’ he grated. ‘That’s if I am still welcome.’

Again that enigmatic smile. ‘You are welcome this very night, John.’

He flushed with chagrin. ‘Would that I could, but I must go with Matilda this evening to visit her damned cousin. I had long promised her, to save her endless nagging.’

‘Tomorrow, then, John,’ said Nesta, with a long-suffering sigh.

He groaned. ‘It’s the Shire Court in the morning, and then I must go to Ashburton to take confessions from two robbers who have locked themselves in the church there.’

‘What about the evening, when you return?’ she asked tartly, beginning to lose patience with him.

John almost writhed on his bench. ‘I cannot, Nesta! From Ashburton, I must ride at dawn the next day to the high moor, to attend the Great Court of the tinners.’

Nesta’s generous lips tightened. ‘It seems difficult to get an audience with you these days, John.’ She rose again and walked away towards the kitchen door, calling imperiously for Alan as she went.

That evening, while de Wolfe was fidgeting with resentful impatience in the two-roomed dwelling of Maud, his wife’s impoverished cousin, his clerk was sitting on a stool in a hut at the back of a canon’s house in the cathedral Close, talking in low tones to a friend.

Thomas de Peyne had free lodgings in the house — or, at least, a straw-filled palliasse laid out near the hearth of the cook-shed in the backyard. It was warm and it was free — and had the added virtue of being within the ecclesiastical pale of Exeter, which was a city within a city. In the cathedral Close, the writ of the sheriff and burgesses did not run, except on the main pathways. The bishop was the ultimate authority here, and Thomas felt more at home in a coven of priests than in the bustling city itself.

When he had prevailed upon his uncle, John of Alençon, Archdeacon of Exeter, to have mercy on his destitution following his ejection from Holy Orders in Winchester, the good man had persuaded a fellow canon, Gilbert de Basset, to allow the penurious Thomas to sleep in his servants’ quarters. At first Thomas had begged scraps from the cook and raised a few pence by writing letters for illiterate merchants, but when his uncle had persuaded John de Wolfe to take him on as coroner’s clerk, the twopence a day stipend had allowed him to buy food, which he cooked on the kitchen fire — though de Basset’s cook often took pity on him and fed him some of the servants’ rations. Now, although his bodily needs were satisfied, he suffered an increasing hunger of the soul.

This evening he sat in the kitchen, leaning on a rough table, with one of the secondaries opposite, a young man called Arthur. The priest was drinking slowly from a pot of small ale, but Thomas had a cup of cider. He disliked ale — a serious handicap in a world where it was almost the universal drink. Wine was for the affluent, and water was foul-tasting and dangerous, useful only for boiling, cooking and the occasional wash.

‘Have you yet tried to be restored to the priesthood?’ Arthur asked, as they eyed each other across the table.

Thomas shook his head miserably. ‘No. What chance would I have? The Archdeacon in Winchester who defrocked me said I was lucky not to have been hanged or mutilated and that I was a disgrace to the cloth.’

‘But that was approaching three years ago and a hundred miles away. I know that the Archdeacon has since died, God rest him. People will have forgotten about your problem by now.’

‘But where would I start?’ Thomas said sadly. ‘Soon enough, someone would bring up the past to defeat me.’

The other topped up the ale in his pot from a jug. ‘Your uncle is the obvious place. John of Alençon is well respected for being an honest, compassionate man. He has already done much for you — and you have proved your worth with the crowner. Both would surely support you if you tried for ordination again.’

The clerk looked doubtful, but a spark of hope glowed in his eyes. ‘Do you really think I should try?’

His companion was a young man, still enthusiastic about his calling and optimistic that the world was filled with honest men. A secondary was the lowest grade of applicant for the priesthood, under the age of twenty-four and usually a choir-boy who wanted to make the Church his career. They stood in for the vicars-choral, older men who had attained the priesthood and who were themselves stand-ins for the canons in the interminable daily services of the cathedrals. Each canon had a hierarchy of assistants, depending upon his affluence and activities; a vicar and a secondary were the minimum and they often lodged in the canons’ houses, which were spread around the cathedral Close. Canons’ Row, along the north-east side of the Close, was the largest concentration of such dwellings, but others were dotted around the precinct. There was insufficient room for all the junior grades, many of whom lodged in Priest Street,¹ near the Watergate, not far from the Bush Inn.

Arthur lived in Canon de Basset’s house, in one of the communal cubicles along the passageway that led from the canon’s rooms to the backyard. He had befriended Thomas and felt sorry for the obvious misery that losing his priestly status had caused — especially when he learned that Thomas had been at the centre of ecclesiastical life in Winchester, working in the chancery and teaching in the cathedral school.

They talked on for a time, until Arthur had finished the jug of ale and Thomas had sipped the last of his cider. Then the secondary crept off for a few hours’ sleep on his pallet, before he had to rise at midnight for Matins, the first service of the day. Thomas went to many of the services, lurking in the background of the quire: the cathedral devotions were meant for the continuous glorification of God by the cathedral staff, not the laity, who worshipped at the seventeen parish churches inside the walls of Exeter. Tonight, after the ride from Chagford earlier that day — and the prospect of riding back to Dartmoor tomorrow — Thomas felt like staying quietly on his bag of straw.

When Arthur had gone, he remained at the table, gazing absently at the flickering kitchen fire, which like all fires in the cathedral precinct was exempt from the nightly curfew. The bell tolling from the castle at the eighth hour signalled the couvre-feu, when all fires elsewhere in the city must be covered with turf or extinguished, for fear of conflagration.

Thomas looked for shapes in the glowing logs, as if he might find a sign there as to his future. Should he take Arthur’s advice and seek his uncle’s help to be reinstated in the clergy? Could he stand a rebuff? His state of mind had spiralled downwards lately to a point at which he had ceased to care whether he lived or not without the embrace of the Church that had been his life since his schooldays in Winchester at the age of seven.

He heaved a final mighty sigh, then got up and went to his thin mattress and threadbare blanket in the corner. As he lay down, he resolved to broach the subject with his master on the morrow.