Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

As he went down the slope, the houses improved somewhat as the lane became Priest Street, fn1where most of the parish priests and many of the vicars and secondaries lodged. As he passed the narrow dwellings, John wondered if somewhere within them lurked a cleric of a murderous nature.

A short distance into the ecclesiastical ghetto, he turned right into Idle Lane, a short track leading across to the junction of Stepcote Hill and Smythen Street, where the smiths and metal-workers had their shops and forges. The lane’s name came from the bare plot left by a fire some years ago, which had not yet been rebuilt. Only the Bush Inn had survived: its stone walls had resisted the fire that had engulfed its timber-built neighbours.

As he neared the tavern, de Wolfe’s loping stride slowed and Brutus was now well ahead. De Wolfe, a tiger of the Crusades and a warrior afraid of no man, was fearful at the prospect of facing his former mistress, the landlady of the Bush. After falling out with her more than a month ago, he had avoided the tavern until now, but the thought of Nesta’s sweet face — and an admitted ache in his loins — had helped him screw up enough courage to visit what had been almost his home-from-home. Yet as his dragging feet took him ever more slowly along the few yards of Idle Lane, he felt the unfamiliar signs of panic as he imagined a sharp confrontation with the comely Welsh woman. He stopped fifty paces from the inn and looked anxiously at it, as if he might be able to see through the walls and gauge what sort of reception he might have. The Bush was square, with a high steep thatch that came down almost to head height. At the front there was a pair of windows, one to each side of the door, and along the wall nearest to him was a hitching rail for patrons’ horses, which ran back to a gate into the yard behind. Here the kitchen shed, the brew-house and the wash-hut shared a dusty patch with the privy.

For a moment, he considered sneaking in through the back door to spy out the situation, but then his pride got the upper hand. With a muttered oath at his own foolishness, he strode to the heavy oak front door, over which hung a large bundle of twigs to indicate the tavern’s name to its illiterate patrons.

With his dog at his heels, he ducked under the lintel and went inside. Immediately, nostalgia overtook him as he savoured the eye-smarting atmosphere of woodsmoke, spilt ale, stale sweat and cooking. When his eyes adjusted to the haze and the dim light from the shuttered windows, he saw that there were only a dozen or so people in the single big room: it was mid-afternoon and still quiet.

The murmur of conversation dropped as he walked to his favourite bench near the empty hearth. Heads turned, then drooped away to whisper to each other. The coroner’s liaison with the inn-keeper was common knowledge, as was their recent rift, and his sudden reappearance was good fodder for gossip, but the other customers were careful not to whisper too loudly. They knew that the short-tempered knight was quite capable of cuffing the head of anyone he suspected of making personal remarks about him.

He dropped down on to the bench with Brutus against his knees under the rough table. Almost immediately, a clay pot containing a quart of ale was banged down on the scrubbed boards. ‘Good to see you again, Cap’n,’ wheezed the old potman, his one good eye swivelling independently of the horrible whiteness of the other, which had been speared, years before, at the battle of Wexford. De Wolfe had been in the same Irish campaign and old Edwin had great respect for him. De Wolfe grunted at him, though he was fond of the aged rascal, who was often a useful source of news.

‘You’re the only serving man here, these days, I hope?’ he rasped.

Edwin grinned back, tapping the side of his pockmarked nose. ‘She’s not taken on any more young men from Dorset, that’s for sure. Learnt her lesson, I reckon.’ He looked furtively towards the back of the smoky room as he hissed the words.

‘Where is she, then?’ De Wolfe asked, gruffly to hide his unease.

‘Upstairs, Cap’n. She spends a mortal lot of time in bed these days — on her own, though!’ he added, with a leer, then limped away, his twisted leg another legacy of his days as a man-at-arms in Strongbow’s army. John sat supping the ale, which was widely acknowledged to be the best in Exeter, thanks to Nesta’s prowess in brewing. He turned on his bench to survey the room, half relieved that the auburn-haired landlady was not yet in sight. Most of the other drinkers, the majority of whom he knew well, were studiously avoiding his gaze, though one or two caught his eye and gave a nod.

As usual, there were a few strangers too, mostly merchants and craftsmen passing through the city. In a far corner, a few clustered around a table in the company of a couple of whores, who used the inns to pick up their clients. In a community of only a few thousand people, de Wolfe knew most of the harlots by sight, but one was new to him. She was a handsome, if somewhat raddled, girl of about twenty, noticeable because of her bright red wig, her low-cut scarlet kirtle, and the boldly striped hood of her green cloak, the trademark of a Southwark whore. He wondered why she was plying her trade so far from London. Still, he had had no need of strumpets since he had returned from the wars three years ago and his interest in her was merely passing curiosity.

His eyes moved to the back of the low chamber, where Edwin was drawing off ale and cider from a row of casks wedged up along the rear wall. Near him was a wide ladder that led to the upper floor beneath the roof. The sight of it triggered his nostalgia again. How many times had he climbed it, following Nesta to her tiny room, partitioned off from the open sleeping floor where the overnight guests rented a penny mattress? He had spent so many pleasant afternoons up there — and a few nights when he could arrange an alibi. He had even bought his mistress a fine French bed, a luxury indeed in a time when most folk slept on a palliasse on the floor.

The time went on, and de Wolfe was on his third jug of ale. There was still no sign of Nesta and soon his bladder complained of the quantity he had drunk. Rising, he went out through the back door and relieved himself against the rickety fence beyond the wash-house. On his return, he stopped alongside Edwin, who was pouring ale slops from a leather bucket back into one of the casks. ‘No sign of the mistress, then? Does she often stay abed this long?’

‘No telling what she’ll do these days, Crowner. She’s lost some of her spirit, I reckon, since that young bastard ran off with her money. She leaves much of the running of the tavern to the two wenches and myself.’

John rumbled in his throat, a sound that might have meant almost anything. ‘I’ll just finish my jar, then be off.’ He decided he would stay until he heard the distant cathedral bell ring out for Vespers.

‘Shall I tell her you were seeking her?’

De Wolfe shook his head, his face grim. ‘If she’s not down in a few minutes, forget I was here,’ he said. When he slumped back on to his bench, even Brutus seemed to gaze up at him forlornly.

A few feet above his head, the landlady of the Bush was oblivious of his presence below her. She lay on the French bed in her shift, having pulled off her working gown and linen coif so that her mane of dark red hair flowed over the folded sheepskin that did service as a pillow.

As she stared up at the woven hazel branches that supported the thatch, her mind wandered for the thousandth time over the events of the past few weeks. Life seemed so flat and empty, a dull routine of brewing, cooking and chivvying the tavern servants. The brief excitement of Alan of Lyme had soon turned into shameful betrayal when he had run off with a week’s takings and one of her maids. Her dalliance with him had been born partly of flattery from a smooth-tongued younger man but also as an act of defiance against John, whose devotion to his duties had come before his devotion to her.