The Tinner's Corpse (35 page)

The buildings were small, all in wood apart from a new stone chapel, which Philip Courteman had ample time to study as he waited outside in the compound, adjacent to the West Range of buildings. The two ladies were escorted inside by a young novice, and half an hour later they emerged, Lucy with a broad grin and Joan with a faint smile of satisfaction on her usually inscrutable features. They were followed by a tall, grim-looking nun, who reminded Philip fleetingly of John de Wolfe. She advanced on him, her black robe swirling in the keen wind, her face framed tightly in a snow-white wimple and flowing head-veil.

‘If you are the lawyer, I understand that I am formally to confirm to you that the lady is indeed with child,’ she said, her long face looking as if it had been carved from a boulder of granite moorstone. Before he could answer her, the flinty face suddenly broke into a charming smile, almost as if a different person lived within. ‘And I can certainly do that, young man! God has granted her the gift of motherhood, and in five or six months, Christ’s family will have increased by one new member – unless she has twins!’ She smiled again, and raised her hand to make the Sign of the Cross in farewell to the three visitors.

Philip Courteman gallantly helped the two ladies up on to their saddles, and a moment later they were heading for the wooded track back to Exeter.

The distant cathedral bell had tolled some time ago for the mid-morning offices of Nones, Sext and Terce. De Wolfe and his clerk had just come from the Shire Hall in the inner ward of Rougemont, where a short session of the County Court had sentenced two thieves to mutilation, their right hands to be cut off in the undercroft by Stigand, the gaoler, and another two to be hanged. The sheriff was as uncommunicative with de Wolfe as he had been since the Lydford episode, and had stalked back to his chambers in the keep as soon as the cursing prisoners and their wailing families had been dragged from the court-house by his men-at-arms.

As usual, John was fretting about the chaotic system of law enforcement that had developed and the inability of the government to keep its promises for reform. ‘It’s damned nonsense to have manor courts, burgess courts, county courts and the King’s courts, all competing for the same business,’ he complained to Thomas, who had heard it all before.

‘There’s good money to be made by all of them,’ the clerk answered mildly.

‘And it’s my job as coroner to drive as much of it as possible into the royal courts,’ retorted his master. ‘That’s why Hubert Walter set them up, to trim the wings of sheriffs and barons. But how can he expect me to prevail against them, when his judges don’t come round the counties when they should?’

Thomas hurried to keep up with his master’s loping stride, his left foot dragging slightly from the old phthisis in his hip. ‘I heard from a visiting canon last week that the Eyre was in Wiltshire and should be here at any time now,’ he said breathlessly.

De Wolfe snorted as he headed back towards his chamber in the gatehouse. ‘How often have we heard that, Thomas? The Assize should come several times a year, but we’ve seen no sign of it since last summer, in spite of the Justiciar’s promise when he visited a few months back.’

His grumbling was cut short as they approached the arch of the gatehouse, under which the stairs to his office climbed steeply up from the guardroom. The sentry on duty at the top of the short drawbridge over the dry ditch was holding up his lance and waving his arm to stop a horseman who was cantering up the hill towards them, his steed frothing at the mouth. He clattered to a halt under the raised portcullis and slid from his saddle, almost into the arms of the sentry. Sergeant Gabriel emerged from the guardroom and joined the coroner and his clerk, who were waiting to see what this urgency was all about.

‘I must see the sheriff – or someone in authority!’ panted the messenger, looking almost as exhausted as his mare, even though it later transpired that they had ridden little more than a mile.

Gabriel, his grizzled features frowning under his iron helmet, strode forward and grabbed the man by his shoulder. ‘What’s all the panic, man? Who are you?’

The young fellow, whose rustic dress and odour suggested that he was a stablehand, was making the most of his moment of importance. ‘I’m a groom from Polsloe, sir. Sent to report a grievous happening, not more than an hour since,’ he wheezed.

The sergeant grabbed the reins of the mare and pushed them at the sentry, then half dragged the priory servant across to a rough bench set against the guardroom wall. ‘Sit there, get your breath and tell us what’s wrong,’ he commanded.

At the mention of Dame Madge’s abode, the coroner and his clerk hurriedly joined Gabriel in standing over the youth to hear what he had to say.

‘Two ladies and a lawyer fellow came to visit our sisters this morning – I don’t know their names or business. They left after a short while to return to the city, but not more than fifteen minutes or so later, the elder lady comes flying back on her pony, all dishevelled and screaming blue murder.’

The groom was determined to squeeze the last drop of drama out of his account, but de Wolfe was impatient. ‘Get on with it, lad!’

‘Several sisters came running out at the noise, then Dame Madge spoke to the lady and sent a couple of us from the stableyard helter-skelter back along the Exeter road, the women following on foot.’

He stopped for breath, then went on with his saga. ‘The forest, what’s left of it there, starts not two hundred paces along the track from the priory. Around the bend, within the wood, we came across two loose palfreys and a younger lady lying groaning at the side of the road. A few paces away, the lawyer fellow I saw earlier was stretched out across a bush, out of his senses and with blood coming from his head.’

He stopped and Gabriel shook his arm impatiently. ‘Then what?’ he shouted.

The stablelad shrugged, having almost run out of information. ‘We went to succour the pair, but a moment later, Dame Madge came running up – she’s a mortal strong woman,’ he added ruefully. ‘She told me straight away to ride fast to the castle here and tell either the sheriff or the crowner that there had been attempted murder and to send a posse right away. It seems the elder lady had told her that some footpad had burst out of the trees and attacked them. That’s all I know,’ he finished, rather lamely.

De Wolfe looked at the sergeant. ‘Get a couple of mounted men, Gabriel. This is no common highway robbery, so near the city. And I know the people involved. Something odd is going on.’ He swung round to Thomas. ‘Get up the stairs and rouse Gwyn from his second breakfast. Tell him to come over to the stables with us to get horses.’

Half an hour later, the posse from Rougemont had reached the scene of the outrage. At a bend in the track, almost within sight of the priory, the trees crowded close to the verge. A small area of flattened grass and scrub was being guarded by two servants from Polsloe. They pointed out blood splashes on the vegetation and where a line of beaten grass and weeds led off into the trees. De Wolfe suggested to Gabriel that he take his men to follow this trail, while he himself carried on to the priory. With Gwyn and the young stable-boy – for the feeble Thomas had stayed in Exeter – John rode the last quarter-mile at a full gallop.

In the three-roomed infirmary of the priory, he found Dame Madge and another Sister of Mercy attending to Philip Courteman, who was slumped on a bench against the whitewashed wall, having a long, but shallow cut on his scalp bathed and bandaged.

‘He has suffered no great harm, thanks be to God,’ announced the brawny Dame Madge, the sleeves of her black gown rolled up and a bloodstained apron wrapped around her waist.

Philip groaned at her ministrations, but he was fully alert, though very sorry for himself.

‘What of the lady?’ asked the coroner anxiously.

‘She, too, is quite well – she has bruises on her throat, but is recovering on a bed next door with her mother beside her,’ said the nun. ‘No harm has befallen the child she carries, as far as I can tell. The good Lord has certainly looked after his own today, though the older lady Lucy gave him stout assistance,’ she added, with one of her rare smiles.

While the other sister wound a long strip of linen around his head, Philip haltingly told de Wolfe his part of the story.

‘We were hardly out of sight of this place, trotting around a bend, when what I took to be a monk in a habit and cowl, carrying a staff, waved us down at the side of the track. I was in front of the ladies and I stopped. I assumed he was in some distress.’ He looked rather sheepish as he added, ‘The distress was to be mine, for that’s the last I recall, until I found myself being carried back here across the back of a groom’s nag. He must have struck me senseless with that staff.’

Frustrated by Philip’s loss of memory, de Wolfe turned away, to be faced by Joan’s mother, who had come from the next room at the sound of voices. Her wrinkled face was relieved by her bright blue eyes and even the hardened Dame Madge seemed impressed by her. ‘The lad was knocked out of his senses,’ she declared, ‘but I can tell you what took place. This fellow, disguised as a Benedictine in his black robe, struck the young fellow here a swinging blow with his staff that felled him from his horse. Then he rushed at my poor daughter, her being with child, and dragged her from her pony.’ Lucy clenched her fists at the memory. ‘Thankfully, she fell into a bush which broke her fall, but then the bastard – begging your pardon, Sister – bent over her and started to throttle her. And I couldn’t be putting up with that, could I?’ she added, in an almost matter-of-fact tone.

Dame Madge put an arm affectionately around Lucy’s shoulders. ‘A real heroine, this woman,’ she said proudly. ‘She attacked the villain herself and drove him off.’

The mother, though still tremulous, beamed. ‘I’m a tanner’s wife, and I’ve seen plenty of rough men and fights in my time. I drove my horse at him and reared her up so that her front hoofs struck him. I was afraid for my daughter, but she was underneath and it was that or let her be strangled.’

John had to admire Lucy’s enterprise and courage – though the thought passed through his mind that she would probably be worse to live with than Matilda and that perhaps the tanner from Ashburton was happier in his grave. ‘So he made a run for it, this man?’ he asked.

‘I think I hurt him grievously,’ said Lucy. ‘I felt a hoof crunch into the side of his chest, for he let out a terrible scream. He dropped Joan and staggered away, then limped off into the forest. I was too concerned with my daughter to bother with him, as long as he fled.’

‘Have you any notion as to who he was?’ asked Gwyn, silent until now.

‘No, he kept this monk’s habit girded tightly around himself and I think he must have tied the cowl under his chin somehow, for his face stayed well hidden.’

‘Was he a big man or small?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Not small, certainly,’ said the old woman, ‘but not a great lump like this ginger man of yours here.’

‘Was your daughter able to recognise him?’

‘She has said nothing, her throat is so sore she can hardly speak.’

Dame Madge interrupted, ‘She is not yet well enough to be questioned, if that is in your mind, Crowner.’

De Wolfe motioned to his officer. ‘We must get back there and see if Gabriel has found anything.’

Minutes later, they returned to the edge of the forest and were met by one of the soldiers who had been left by Gabriel to guard the scene. The man held out something. ‘The sergeant told me to show you this, Crowner. He picked it up where the bushes were flattened.’

John took a shiny grey object into the palm of his hand. It was a charm or amulet hanging on a leather thong, which had snapped. Gwyn looked over his shoulder, curious to see what it was. ‘Made of pure tin, that is,’ he said. ‘Three rabbits with their heads in a circle, sharing only three ears.’

‘The symbol of the tinners,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘Must have been pulled off the attacker when that harridan Lucy stamped him with her pony.’

‘These bloody tinners get everywhere,’ muttered Gwyn, but a shout from the trees diverted him.

Another soldier appeared, pushing his way through the long damp grass to the edge of the road. ‘We’ve got him, Crowner, though he’ll not last long. The sergeant says for you to come quickly.’

They hurried back into the wood, where the lush undergrowth faded beneath the trees into wild garlic and early bluebells. Footprints in the wet earth and an occasional splash of blood marked the trail for several hundred paces to a small clearing where some fallen trees had allowed the bushes and weeds to flourish again. Here Gabriel, two of his men and the pair of servants from the priory were gathered in a circle. At their feet lay a figure almost hidden under a voluminous habit of coarse black wool. The cowl had been pulled back.

De Wolfe bent over a face that was almost blue. Its owner was gasping for breath, his lips were really black and spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. At first the coroner did not recognise the man, but then he realised he had seen him somewhere before.

‘He seems mortally wounded in the chest,’ murmured Gabriel, pulling aside the robe to show a large tear in the rough blue smock, which suggested a labourer of some kind.

Under the rip, a shiny patch of new blood-clot shimmered in the light coming through the trees and de Wolfe noticed the pink-white end of a broken rib sticking through the underlying skin. ‘What’s your name, fellow?’ he rasped.

Gasping was the only reply and, although the man was conscious, the coroner knew from experience that he had little time left to live. ‘You are dying, fellow, so make your peace with God by confessing your sins,’ said John loudly.

‘His chest is punctured – he has little air left in his lungs,’ diagnosed Gwyn who, like his master, considered himself an expert on injuries after two decades of warfare.

A dying declaration, attested by witnesses, was valid evidence in law, so de Wolfe needed to get what he could before the man expired. He had not forgotten that another death had been caused by a blow from a staff that had unhorsed the victim, and wanted to discover if the same hands had inflicted both strokes. ‘If you can’t speak, nod or shake your head! Did you also attack a man a week ago near Dunsford, a man named Walter Knapman?’