The Poisoned Chalice, page 5
part #2 of Crowner John Mystery Series
When he reached the dead limb, Gwyn bent down and, with a single tug, lifted a whole leg from the sand. He roared with the effort and tried to pull the rest of the body out of the grave, but the depth of sand over its trunk was too great.
John turned and yelled at Aelfric, immobile and aghast beside the first three corpses. ‘Bring that shovel, reeve! And you’ve got some explaining to do.’ He saw one of the other men running away as hard as he could in the direction of the village.
Reluctantly, the reeve and the other two came across the beach. Gwyn seized a spade from one and began to dig furiously. The coroner grabbed Aelfric by the collar of his grubby tunic and shook him. ‘What’s this, damn you? Did you know these were here?’ While the reeve stammered out a string of denials, Gwyn had pulled the first body from the shallow pit and was rapidly exhuming the other two.
John, his tall, crow-like figure towering above the reeve, shook the man again. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I know nothing, sir! These bodies must have drowned as well and been covered by the sand.’
The coroner rattled the man like a dog shaking a rat. ‘A likely story! Did the tide place them side by side in a row, eh? Exactly in line and buried to the same depth?’
Aelfric made no attempt to answer but stood dejectedly when John released his grip.
By now, Gwyn had hauled the second body from the sand and was digging down into the third depression. The coroner went to help him and soon another three corpses lay side by side on the beach. This time, the findings were different. Though again the bodies were those of men in seafaring clothes, their faces were streaked with blood, thin and watery, leaking from clots matted in their hair.
‘They must have been buried before this high tide, so that the dry sand has preserved the blood, as the hermit claimed,’ said Gwyn.
‘And the much higher tide today came up beyond yesterday’s level, washing away the loose sand and exposing that foot,’ John deduced, in a satisfied, though menacing, tone.
He pushed back the hair of the first corpse, who stared up at the clouded sky with softened eyeballs partly covered with sand. On the upper forehead, extending back into the fair hair, was a deep gash, exposing the skull beneath.
‘Is that from a sword?’ demanded Gwyn. John shook his head. ‘Can’t tell. Even a blow from a plank or an axe shaft can split the scalp like that.’ After years on the battlefields of Ireland, France and the Holy Land, he considered himself an authority on wounds. ‘But it’s certainly not from the sea pounding him on the rocks, for look here.’ He parted the bloody, sand-crusted hair on the crown of the head, to display two similar wounds, exactly parallel with the first. ‘What rock strikes a head three times with the same strength and in the same direction, eh? And the surf not wash away the blood!’
He turned to the other bodies. The first one, another young man, had no blood in the hair, but down the side of the neck, from behind the left ear to the Adam’s apple, was a sharply defined double line of bruising. Across the left cheek was a similar pair of parallel bruises, four inches long and over an inch apart. The last victim, a burly, brown-haired man, probably over thirty years of age, had two sharply defined black eyes. When John opened the swollen lids, the whites were heavily bloodshot. On feeling the head, shattered skull-bones crackled under the coroner’s probing fingers and when he parted the sodden hair, he saw a great mass of swollen bruising on the top of the scalp. None of the corpses had any significant wounds on the rest of their bodies, apart from a few scratches.
John turned again to the terrified reeve. ‘Very active rocks, these, eh, Aelfric? They just jumped up and struck these poor men only on their heads, then the sea buried them in nice regular graves, side by side?’
His sarcasm brought nothing but denial from the village headman. ‘I tell you, sir, we know nothing of this!’
John showed his teeth in a snarl reminiscent of his animal namesake. ‘Like you know nothing of the casks and boxes in your barn? And why did your man take to his heels just now?’
Aelfric had no answer, but continued to shake his head in desperate denial: this sounded like a hanging matter.
‘Get these bodies taken up to the barn – my officer will go with you to see that your thefts from the wreck do not go astray,’ ordered the coroner. ‘In a day or so, when the ship-owner comes to identify his seamen, I will hold the inquest – and then decide what is to be done with you and your village.’
With that ominous warning, he strode back along the beach, intent on visiting the lord of the manor, to see if William de Brewere the Younger had any knowledge of this affair, before they rode back to Exeter.
CHAPTER THREE
In which Crowner John hears of a ravishment
Meanwhile, back in Exeter, the daughter of one of the town’s Portreeves was becoming impatient with her old Aunt Bernice. Christina Rifford was a very beautiful young woman; at seventeen years old, she was as near perfection as any man could desire – and even the women of Exeter, many ridden with jealousy, found it hard to fault her looks or her innocent charm. Her face, framed by glossy black hair peeping from under her white linen coverchief, had a madonna-like calm, though her full lips and the occasional sidelong glance from her violet eyes caused the dames of the town to murmur that ‘still waters run deep’.
So attractive was she, that many in Exeter marvelled at the fact that she was betrothed to Edgar, only son of Joseph of Topsham. Even his best friends could hardly claim that Edgar was the ideal match for Christina, who could have chosen almost any man in the West Country. A thin, gangling young man with a somewhat vague and moody manner, Edgar was learning the apothecary’s trade under Nicholas of Bristol, who had his house and shop in Fore Street, the steep continuation of High Street down to the West Gate.
This Wednesday evening, Mistress Rifford was to collect a present for Christ Mass promised by her fiancé. Funded by an over-indulgent father, Edgar had offered her a bracelet and she had decided on one fashioned in heavy silver, custom-made for her slim wrist. The obvious place to seek it was from the Master of the Guild of Silversmiths, Godfrey Fitzosbern, who was the coroner’s next-door neighbour in Martin’s Lane.
Two weeks ago, Christina had spent a delightful hour in his workshop with her cousin Mary, deciding on the exact design that she preferred. Last week, they had returned to approve it but although Christina was delighted with the ornament, it proved a little too loose, falling down on to her small hand. Fitzosbern, eager to please the only daughter of Henry Rifford, offered to alter it and promised to have it ready by this evening.
In the late afternoon, however, Mary had sent a message by her serving-maid to say that she had a sudden fever and was unable to accompany her cousin to the silversmith. Disappointed, Christina moped about the house for a couple of hours, to the irritation of her Aunt Bernice, who had kept house for her brother since his wife died five years before. Though Christina was very fond of her aunt, who was a kindly old soul, her constant fussing and over-protectiveness became more irksome as the girl grew older and more independent.
‘It will have to wait until tomorrow, girl,’ declared Bernice. ‘Maybe Mary will be well enough then – and it not, I’ll come with you myself. The bauble’s not going to crumble away just because you’re a day late in collecting it.’
But the headstrong beauty had other ideas and after their early evening meal, when her father had gone off to the Guildhall to chair a meeting of the Guild of Leather Merchants, Christina made her own plans. Aunt Bernice was dozing in the upstairs solar, sleepy from the effects of a large mutton chop and cabbage, as well as some ‘medicinal’ mead that she kept in a small stone bottle alongside her chair.
The well-to-do Riffords had a large town house near the East Gate, next door to the church of Saint Lawrence. Pulling on her heavy winter cloak, Christina slipped out of the side door into the lane and walked down it into the High Street. There were still plenty of people about, but most were head down against the keen east wind, hurrying home to reach their own hearths. A few hardy peddlers were still selling roast chestnuts, hot pies and new bread at the sides of the narrow streets, as she happily stepped out to fetch her new bracelet.
Crossing the High Street, she lifted the hem of her cloak and kirtle as she daintily tried to avoid the worst of the mire, then dived down Martin’s Lane towards the cathedral Close. Her destination was the second narrow house on the right, the workshop and dwelling of Godfrey Fitzosbern. It was a tall timber building with a slate roof, almost identical to the one next along, which she knew was where Sir John de Wolfe lived.
She pushed open the heavy oak door, its riveted hinges creaking as she went into the shop. It was warm in there after the chill wind outside and she slipped back her hood and undid the shoulder-brooch that held her otter-skin cloak closed. The room was dimly lit by half a dozen tallow lamps set on shelves around the walls, but she knew the place quite well, after her previous visits. At the back sat Alfred, Fitzosbern’s senior craftsman, working behind a cluttered table with hammer and punch, a horn lantern alongside him to give extra light. Christina smiled at him and he grinned back toothlessly. She blushed as she felt his eyes undressing her and quickly moved hers away, to rest on the other workman, leaning on a bench to the left of the door. He was a large young man, whose name she did not know, and was slowly buffing a silver goblet with a long strip of soft leather. He, too, gaped at her, and deliberately altered the stroke of his polishing, somehow giving it a suggestively erotic rhythm. No doubt the two men thought her a vision of beauty and desire to lighten the dull routine of their long day, but she felt distinctly uncomfortable under their blatantly lustful gaze. On previous visits, Fitzosbern had been present and they had had to keep the eyes down on their work – except when his back was turned.
‘Is your master here? He’s expecting me.’
Alfred, a haggard Saxon in early middle age, tore his eyes from the swell of her bosom peeping through the open cloak. ‘He is indeed, mistress, and will be more than glad to see you, I’ll swear.’ In his thick Devon accent, he managed to imbue the simple words with lascivious meaning.
The younger man, dressed like Alfred in a long leather apron over his dull woollen tunic, ended his stropping to bang loudly on the wall behind him. ‘Master Godfrey!’ he yelled. ‘The young lady is here for you.’ He leered at her as if he had just announced the arrival of a new courtesan for the Caliph.
Christina was becoming accustomed to the ill-concealed lechery she attracted, although this made it none the less unwelcome. She turned to examine a shelf with silver jewellery on display, as a way of avoiding the eyes of the workmen and their murmurings.
A moment later, she heard a heavy tread beyond the curtain that screened the door at the back of the shop and the master silversmith entered. ‘Mistress Rifford, a very good evening to you. I see that you are alone.’
For a few moments, they indulged in polite conversation, then Fitzosbern led her by the hand to a stool set against an empty table on the right of the room. He was a large man, powerful and fleshy but not yet running to fat. In a few years, he would begin to look coarse and dissipated, but now he was still good-looking with a dark, heavy kind of handsomeness. Big features, clean-shaven and with a mass of wavy hair, there was an animal intensity about him that many women had found irresistible – and some still did, even though he was almost forty and twice married. He dressed well, and as he moved behind the table, unrolled a velvet cloth before Christina, she noted that he wore a surcoat of finest yellow linen that came to mid-thigh, showing the bottom of a knee-length green tunic, the hem and neckline decorated with delicate embroidery. His fine woollen hose ended in shoes of the latest style, with long toes padded out with wool to form curled points.
Godfrey unwrapped the velvet and carefully lifted out her bracelet. He took two wax candles, an expensive luxury in place of the usual tallow dips, and lit them at the nearest flame so that a better light could dance on the bright silver of her new bauble. ‘A beautiful thing, mistress, fit for a beautiful woman,’ he said, in his low, strong voice, which caused a little shiver to run down her back. Unchaperoned, she felt both vulnerable and a little excited at the almost palpably sexual atmosphere that the three men generated in the dimly lit room.
She murmured her appreciation of the bracelet, for it was a very pretty thing, the bright new silver glittering in the candlelight.
‘Here, let me try it for size.’ Godfrey picked up her hand and held it in his large fingers for an unnecessarily long time while he slid the bracelet over her white fingers and set it in position on her wrist. Still he held on to her and, indeed, placed his other hand on her forearm, pushing back the floppy sleeve of her kirtle to support her arm just below the elbow, the better to admire the set of the ornament.
She trembled slightly at his touch, as no man – not even Edgar – had touched any part of her without some other woman being within sight.
‘Perfect! Now that we’ve shortened it a trifle, it sits where it should, yet you can get your hand through without trouble.’
Christina’s cheeks had coloured and she was glad of the gloom to hide her embarrassment. She was not sure how she felt about Godfrey Fitzosbern – he had a certain reputation among the gossips of the town, but there was no doubt that he was good-looking, even if he was almost old enough to be her father. His own wife, Mabel, was only a few years older than herself, though the whispers said that they disliked each other as much as John de Wolfe and his wife Matilda.
Christina drew her hand from his, slowly, so as not to give offence. ‘It is very lovely, I like it very much,’ she said softly.
Fitzosbern leaned forward to pat her cheek. ‘You should thank Alfred and Garth there, as well. Though I made the design, theirs were the hands that fashioned it.’
Reluctantly, she turned and nodded to the two men, who had been watching her like hawks all the while.
Alfred touched a finger to his forelock. ‘Always a pleasure to do you a service, mistress,’ he said, in a voice redolent with double-meaning. ‘And I’m sure Garth here feels the same.’
Fitzosbern, catching their tone, scowled at the men, who hurriedly dropped their eyes to the benches, tapping and buffing at the white metal that was their life. ‘It’s a cold night, mistress. Can I offer you a cup of hot wine before you go?’ He motioned with his head towards the curtained door.
A flush ran up the girl’s neck again. She was still unused to handling unwelcome invitations from masterful men. ‘Thank you, sir, but I must go now.’
‘Nonsense, Mistress Rifford! The evening is bitter outside, you need something to warm you. I’ll not take no for an answer.’ Fitzosbern came around the table and took her hand again. Almost pulling her, he steered Christina towards the inner doorway.
‘I really should be leaving! I have to meet someone – at the cathedral.’ She used the first location that came into her mind.
‘I’ll wrap this bracelet in a piece of silk and put it in a small casket for you, while you sip some wine. Come through.’ This time, Fitzosbern’s arm slipped around her slim waist as he almost lifted her up the step into the room beyond. As she reluctantly passed through the doorway, she saw the gap-toothed leer of Alfred and the loose-lipped stare of Garth watching every move that their master made, jealous longing stamped on their faces.
The inner room was another workshop, now in darkness apart from the glow of a damped-down metal furnace. Wooden stairs at the back led up to the silversmith’s living accommodation on the floor above. Reluctantly, but now committed too far to refuse, Christina allowed him to escort her upstairs. Here, a good fire burned in a hearth and more dips and candles gave a mellow light. At a long table, a glass flask of wine sat with some pottery cups. Godfrey released her waist with obvious reluctance and poured two generous measures of wine, then went to the fireplace and brought a kettle that was simmering on the hob. He added some hot water and held out a cup to her, touching his own to hers. ‘Here’s to a happy Yuletide to you, Christina – and may you enjoy your excellent present!’ He gave her a broad wink and held up the bracelet.
The young woman sipped the wine reluctantly, not wishing to appear ungrateful for his hospitality but uneasy at the intimate overtones.
‘Is your wife not at home this evening?’ she asked, rather pointedly. ‘I spoke to Mistress Mabel at service in St Lawrence only last Sunday.’
Fitzosbern’s heavy features drew together slightly in a frown. ‘She’s out visiting some poor sick woman or some such thing,’ he replied shortly, then changed the subject. ‘Your man Edgar – that lucky fellow – told me to give you the bracelet when it was complete, but said that you should keep it unopened until he visits you with his father on the forenoon of Christ Mass.’ Going to a shelf, he took a small wooden box and placed the bangle inside, wrapping it in the square of red silk that was already lining the casket. He gave it to her, and pressed Christina to have more wine, sit near the fire, before going out into the winter night.
This was too much for her and she shook her head decisively. ‘I heard the cathedral bell just now, I must be there very soon.’ Pushing the little box into a pocket inside her cloak, she improvised quickly on her excuses. ‘I wish to pray at the shrine of St Mary for the success of my marriage. I am meeting my cousin Mary there,’ she lied. Closing her cloak around her, she thanked Godfrey Fitzosbern for his kindness and for the excellent workmanship on the bracelet, then turned, walked resolutely downstairs and through the door into the workshop.
The silversmith followed her so closely that she could feel his heavy breath on her neck through her thin veil. He grasped her elbow, as if to help her down the step and kept it tight until she reached the street door. Once again, she was acutely aware of the intensity of the inspection that the two silver-workers focused on her, but her inborn good manners made her stumble out some parting words. Alfred chattered out a response she could not catch, while Garth merely made some sucking and blowing noises through his teeth.
