The Poisoned Chalice, page 8
part #2 of Crowner John Mystery Series
Thomas, even though he lived in the cathedral precinct, had also remained unaware of the assault. However, the efficient grapevine among the castle soldiery had soon brought them up to date and they waited to hear their master’s orders.
‘First, Thomas, take one of your rolls and enter the facts of the case so far as we know them now. I’ll dictate what needs to be said in a moment.’ John settled himself on his stool behind the trestle table and poured himself a jar of cider – Nesta’s breakfast had filled him and he did not want any bread and cheese. ‘Then we have to ride back to Torbay again.’
The little clerk groaned at the effects on his backside of another long ride on his new pony. ‘We only came back last evening, Crowner. Why return so soon?’
Gwyn, leaning against the window-ledge, lifted a large foot and pushed the clerk off his stool, the only other furniture in the small room. ‘When Sir John says, “Ride”, we ride, you miserable toad!’ He looked across at the coroner. ‘Is there a connection between these matters?’
‘Christina Rifford’s husband-to-be is still unaware of her misfortune, as he went with his father and Eric Picot down to Torre to look at those dead seamen. I want to catch them before they return, to tell them of what’s happened, and to get this inquest done with at the same time. Joseph of Topsham must bear witness and make presentment of Englishry.’
Gwyn pulled ineffectually at his tangled hair. He had a large face with a massive jaw, balanced by his slightly bulbous nose that bore the marks of old acne. The rest of his face was almost hidden under his rampant moustache. ‘What about those murdering villagers?’ he demanded.
John took a long swallow of cider. ‘They must be arrested and brought back to the gaol. Go over to Ralph Morin and ask him for a couple of men-at-arms to accompany us – four of us should be more than enough to seize those dogs down there. See if Gabriel can come.’
Gwyn clumped down the stairs of the gate-house, and the coroner prepared to record the rape of the portreeve’s daughter. Thomas scrabbled in the shapeless cloth bag that held his writing equipment and came out with parchment, quill and a stone bottle of ink. The parchment was a palimpsest, a piece of sheepskin used several times. The old writing had been painstakingly scraped off and the surface treated with chalk. New parchment and especially the finer vellum, made from young or stillborn lambs, was expensive. Thomas took a pride in both his writing ability and the tools of his trade and settled down happily to scribe the events of the previous night, as recounted by the coroner.
By the time they had finished, Gwyn was back with the news that the castle constable had given him a couple of men, one of them their friend the sergeant.
‘Did the sheriff have anything to say about it?’ demanded John.
The Cornishman grinned. ‘He wasn’t there, thank Christ – he’s down at the Rifford house.’
John grabbed his sword and buckled it on. ‘To the stables then, before he comes back and interferes!’
They met Joseph and his party just after midday, on the coastal track where it crossed the estuary of the Teign. Fortunately, it was low tide when they reached the north bank of the river mouth, so that their horses could splash across the shallow water between the sandbanks without having to swim. On the left was the sea, still grey and choppy, and on the right, the wide expanse of sand, mud and marsh that went up for a few miles until the river narrowed near King’s Teignton.
As the five riders entered the cold water, Gabriel gave a shout and pointed ahead. ‘Four horsemen at the other bank. Are these our men?’
John waved and yelled and the newcomers stopped, letting the coroner’s party come up to them.
It was Joseph of Topsham and his companions, who were puzzled to see this unscheduled return of Sir John.
‘A sad business, John, losing my men like that,’ said the ship-owner gravely. ‘But your message said we would need to return in a day or two for your inquest. Why this sudden rush?’
The coroner felt uneasy about divulging such a delicate matter while still on horseback on the bank of a river in a cold wind. ‘There are several important matters to speak about, Joseph, and this is not the place for it. I suggest we ride to my mother’s manor, not two miles from here, and talk around a good fire over some food and drink.’
Mystified, Joseph and his companions spoke among themselves for a few minutes. One was Edgar, his son, a tall thin young man with blond hair cut in a deep fringe across his eyes. Eric Picot, the wine merchant, was a dark, handsome man of about thirty-six, thickset and well-dressed. He was French with Breton blood but had lived in Devon for many years, though he still owned vineyards along the Loire. The other man was Leonard, a wizened old fellow who had hardly a word to say. He was the chief clerk to Joseph’s several trading ventures.
‘Is this really important, Crowner?’ asked Picot. ‘We all have business awaiting us.’
De Wolfe nodded gravely. ‘You will find that it is of very grave importance. Going back to Torre later will save another ride from Exeter. We can return home first thing in the morning.’
Sensing the coroner’s inflexibility, Joseph shrugged philosophically and wheeled his horse around. ‘You had better lead the way, John.’
Now on home ground, where he had grown up as a boy and hunted as a youth, John led them inland along the south bank of the estuary. Less than a mile upstream, a narrow side-valley came down to the Teign and they turned into it on a narrow track that wound through the dense woodland that filled the combe. Soon they came to a pleasant dell in the low hills, with crofts and cultivated fields well sheltered from the winds. A stone church sat a little above the village, which boasted a new church hostel, a timber and wattle building providing food and shelter for travellers.
‘Welcome to Stoke-in-Teignhead,’ called John, reining in his big stallion outside the Church House. ‘Eric, Gwyn, Thomas, Leonard and the soldiers can take their ease here for an hour and eat around a good fire, while the rest of us go up to my family’s manor.’ As he and his party rode away, John could not resist waving a hand around him saying, ‘My father, may the Mother of God rest his soul, paid for that church of St Andrew of Bethsaida to be rebuilt in stone, and he endowed the hostel in gratitude for a safe return from the first campaign in Ireland.’
Just outside the centre of the village lay a fortified manor house, a two-storeyed, stone-built building with a steep-pitched stone roof. It was set within a wide bank and ditch, with a wooden stockade along the top. Fertile strip fields lay all around it, and a number of relatively tidy cottages of wattle and thatch, each with a well-kept vegetable garden and a pig, goat or house-cow. Inside the enclosure, there was a barn, several outhouses, stables and kitchens, with a few wooden huts for the servants. The whole place had an air of rural contentment and well-being that was not lost on Joseph of Topsham, who knew a well-run business when he saw one. But his mind was mainly on this unexpected appearance of de Wolfe: he had a bad feeling about what was to come.
John slide from his horse and looked about him with affection and pride. ‘This is where I was born – the house was wooden in those days.’ Though his brother William lived here and ran the manor, John had a part share of it under his father’s will, as did his younger sister Evelyn, who looked after the domestic side with their active mother, who had a life-interest in the manor. But unfortunately, this was not the right day or time for reminiscing about his inheritance. Sad work had to be done.
The manor bailiff bustled up, a cheerful fat Saxon named Alsi, and conducted them to the house, their horses being spirited away for food and water. ‘The ladies have gone with Lord William to market in King’s Teignton, Sir John, but they will be home before long.’
The coroner was glad of a breathing space before his family arrived, so that he could get the bad news over with.
They climbed to the solar on the upper floor, reached by an outside wooden staircase, which could be thrown down in time of attack for the better defence of the upper storey. Thankfully, this had never been needed since Simon de Wolfe, John’s soldier father, had built the new house.
They sat near the smouldering logs in the arched fireplace and Alsi poured wine for the three men. Then he hurried away to organise a meal to be served downstairs in the hall.
Joseph was as perceptive as his wise, patriarchal appearance suggested. He turned immediately to the coroner, whom he had known in the way of business for a number of years. ‘Well, John, out with it! You didn’t bring us miles off the beaten track just to drink wine and show us your home.’
The coroner looked from father to son and back to the father. Edgar had said hardly a word since they met at the river and looked rather bored. Being dragged from his beloved herbs and poultices to ride for half a day to view drowned corpses did not amuse him, especially as it seemed they had now to ride back to Torre. But the next few minutes were to be the worst so far in his twenty-two years of life.
De Wolfe took a deep breath. ‘This is not to do with the loss of your ship nor the death of your men, Joseph,’ he began. Slowly and dispassionately, he recounted the events of last night in Exeter, knowing of no easier way to tell them.
Their reactions passed through stunned silence into incredulity, then horror and, finally, unbridled anger. Even John was surprised to see how the languid apothecary’s apprentice became almost demented with rage. Though he wore no sword, Edgar whipped his dagger from its sheath and waved it about wildly as he paced the room with jerky, directionless steps. ‘I’ll kill him, damn him! Whoever it is, I’ll kill him! I’ll not rest until he’s slain!’ His rage gradually became mixed with tears. John was not sure whether they were all for Christina or whether some stemmed from self-pity.
His father, red-faced with anger above his grey beard, was less distressed but equally vindictive. After a few futile minutes of rage, Joseph pulled his son to him and threw an arm around his shoulders to console him. He looked past Edgar’s head to the coroner. ‘What is to be done, John?’ he asked, his son’s jerking body against his breast. ‘How can we return to Torre now? We are needed in Exeter.’
John explained that Dame Madge, Matilda and the other beldames were unanimous in advising that Christina be left in peace without the company of men for a time. ‘We have to settle this matter of the boat and its crew, come what may. If we go to Torre now, then that is an end of it as far as you are concerned. Otherwise, the journey will be hanging over you in the days ahead, when you will be most needed in Exeter.’
Joseph nodded, his rage subsiding. ‘Edgar and I will walk quietly together outside in the bailey and talk about this. Tell us when you are ready to leave.’
Refusing all offers of food, they went down to the ward around the house and, from an embrasure, John saw them walking slowly and sadly together, talking in low voices.
They were still there some time later, when the de Wolfe family returned from market. In a covered ox-cart, fitted with seats, sat his mother and sister, while alongside them rode his brother William and several manor servants. Though he saw them fairly often, there was always a warm welcome for him at Stoke-in-Teignhead. His mother Enyd was a lady of sixty-three, with red still mixed in her greying hair. She was small, sprightly and pure Celt, her mother being Cornish and her father a small landowner from Gwynllwg1 in Wales, the same area as Nesta’s home. Her daughter Evelyn was ten years younger than John, a spinster who had wanted to be a nun. Her mother had discouraged her as she wanted a companion at home, with her husband and second son always away at the wars. Enyd’s main support was William, the elder son, a couple of years older than John. Though tall and dark like his brother – they both took after their father – William was a much milder character, preferring the farm and the manors to campaigning.
After embracing his mother and sister, and grasping William’s arm, John brought them up to date on events in Torre and Exeter. The pair from Topsham were still brooding outside and John advised leaving them alone with their sorrow and anger for the time being. Now Alsi had the other servants running around with food and drink, all smiling and bobbing their knees at John – many of them had known him since he was a child.
While they were eating, Enyd de Wolfe clucked her dismay over the ravishment and her sympathy for those involved. Her eyebrows lifted a little when John told her of Matilda’s Good Samaritan efforts the previous night. She had never shared her late husband’s enthusiasm for joining John to the de Revelle family, and her relations with Matilda were as distant as the twenty miles that lay between them.
As usual, William was characteristically intent on practicalities. ‘So what happens now, brother? About the ship and the poor young lady?’
John, now warm, well fed and at ease among his own folk, stretched his legs before the fire. ‘The dead seamen are the easiest matter – we have a couple of the sheriff’s men-at-arms down in the Church House, to help us arrest these thieving murderers. If I can prevent de Revelle from hanging them, they will stand trial when the King’s justices next come for the Assize of Gaol Delivery.’
‘And the rape?’ asked Evelyn, whose long nose marred an otherwise good-looking face.
The coroner shrugged. ‘Where can we start? There are many hundreds of men in the city of Exeter. Christina was acknowledged to be one of the most desirable young women in Devon, so many a lecherous eye must have turned upon the poor girl every day. Unless we have some unexpected good luck, I fail to see how we can find the culprit.’
His mother bobbed her head towards the window opening. ‘How is the girl’s betrothed taking it?’ she asked.
‘He is fit to burst every blood vessel in his body. Though he’s no fighter, he wants to challenge to the death every possible suspect between here and Winchester, poor fellow.’ He rose to his feet. ‘We must get on to Torre. There is an inquest to arrange for the morning and the day’s passing quickly.’ He bent to kiss his mother’s brow. ‘If I spend much more time on a horse, I swear my backside will fuse to the saddle!’
Soon after it was light the next morning, John and the others were assembled on an open space within sight of the sea near the hamlet of Torre. They had spent the night at one of the manors of William de Brewere, the influential lord of these parts. Though he was absent in London, his seneschal readily prepared food and sleeping space for the King’s coroner and his party.
The six bodies dug from the sand had had to be kept for viewing at the inquest and the most seemly place for that purpose was the rough buildings that the White Canons had set up on a flat area at the southerly end of the neck of the Tor peninsula, not far from where the wreck and the looting had taken place.
As far as Gwyn was concerned, the holy men were monks, but in fact they were priests, come from the parent Norbetine abbey at Welbeck. They had offered to keep the corpses at the back of their small timber church, next to the wattle and thatch building in which the three of them lived. William de Brewere was negotiating with their abbot in Welbeck for the building of a substantial stone abbey at Torre, and though it was fifteen months before Abbot Adam and six canons were to arrive, these three were the advance party.
When the coroner had arrived at dusk the previous evening, he had given orders for every man and boy over fourteen in the village and surrounding Hundred to be present an hour after dawn. It was difficult to carry out the letter of the law and have every male person present to form the jury, as that would have paralysed the work of several villages. However, this was such a serious matter, compared to the usual accident or sudden death, that Gwyn, Sergeant Gabriel and his men-at-arms went through the village and surrounding hamlets, knocking up each household and ordering them to be present at the inquest.
The rough grass in front of the canons’ habitation was soon churned by the feet of several score of reluctant freemen and villeins, backed at a distance by curious wives and girls, who had no legal part to play. Children, dogs and even a goat wandered in and out of the crowd and an enterprising hawker was selling apples.
The reeve Aelfric was there, apprehensive and furtive, as were several others John recognised from the affair on the beach. Even the village priest was present, haggard and yellow-faced.
The salvaged goods from the tithe barn were piled up on two ox-carts at one side, ready to be taken to Exeter. They had been left under the guardianship of William de Brewere’s seneschal, when John returned to Exeter after his first visit two days before. He was unsure if the seneschal was party to the theft of the valuable flotsam, but strongly suspected that the bailiff, who was next in command, well knew what was going on and had been hand in glove with his assistant, Aelfric.
The coroner looked around to check that his clerk was ready with quill, ink and parchment to record the inquest. Then he nodded at Gwyn. The Cornishman beat on a wheel of the cart with the flat of his sword to gain attention, before he roared in a thunderous voice, ‘All persons who have anything to do before King Richard’s coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance!’
There was a shuffling and squelching of feet in the mud, as the men of Torre tried to understand the meaning of this new ritual imposed on them by the distant powers in far-off London and Winchester. Few had any idea what an inquest was, but most accepted resignedly that it was yet another way of screwing more money out of an already impoverished population.
Standing apart from the villagers were the men from Topsham and Exeter, the father and son looking grey and downcast, sad enough at the deaths of the men from their ship but even more so about the ravishment of their poor Christina. They were anxious beyond all measure to get back to Exeter to console her and her father. Yet John sensed, through Edgar’s simmering anger, an apprehensiveness at both how to handle the crisis and his own feelings about the violation of his future wife, virgin no longer.
There was no chair within miles, so John officiated from a three-legged milking stool brought from the village. Hands on knees, his grey and black-clad figure, with the long jet black hair blowing in the wind, gave him the appearance of some satanic angel of doom come among them. He began in a menacing growl, loud enough for all to hear. ‘This inquest is into the circumstances of the death of six men found on Torre beach, and also into the wreck of the vessel of which they were crew,’ he began, in a tone redolent of accusation.
