Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

De Wolfe was not disposed to fight him for the sake of a few more hours in a cell and, gathering up his precious bag and parchment, left the sheriff to fume over yet another humiliation at the hands of his brother-in-law.

Feeling decidedly shaky now that the rush of excitement and exultation was fading, de Wolfe headed for home, Osric shepherding him as far as his front door. As he headed for the steps up to the solar, Mary came out of the kitchen-hut and almost fainted when she saw his bandaged head in the moonlight, for the silver orb had risen since the events of a few hours ago.

He turned down her offer to make him something to eat and drink, but told her of Thomas’s deliverance, at which she was as overjoyed as Nesta had been, for the little clerk was an object of sympathy and affection to all the women — except Matilda. The thought of his wife sent his eyes up to the solar door.

‘She’s been in bed these many hours,’ Mary reassured him. ‘So get yourself there as well. You’ll have no trouble until the morning.’

Next morning Matilda was surprisingly concerned about his head, though she cooled a little when she discovered that he had suffered the injury only a few yards from the Bush Inn. Even so, she made him promise to attend her favourite apothecary’s shop in the high street that day to have the dressing changed. When he told her of Thomas’s reprieve, she showed none of the scorn he expected — in fact, he sensed that she was grudgingly pleased that his obvious distress over his little clerk had been lifted.

After breaking his fast early, he hurried up to Rougemont, his legs, if not his head, back to normal. Gabriel had already told Gwyn of the night’s dramatic happening and the big Cornishman was half drunk with delight and celebratory ale. He had wanted to rush over to the undercroft and drag Thomas out there and then, until the sergeant had cooled him down. ‘Best wait until the crowner has sorted things out with the sheriff and the Justices,’ he warned. ‘We don’t want to mess things up by being too hasty.’

De Wolfe was about to do this now, and all his witnesses had been gathered in the Shire Hall well before the time when the court session was due to start. They were waiting for the Justices and the sheriff to come across from the keep.

Richard de Revelle had reluctantly told them the story, and they sat down at one of the clerks’ tables on the platform with solemn faces, a suspicion of a scowl on those of Sir Peter Peverel and Walter de Ralegh.

De Wolfe stood over them, told them the facts again and produced the leather bag and the parchment note. His own injury was obvious, especially as some blood had seeped through the linen, which made it look all the more impressive. A few of the witnesses from Smythen Street were called to confirm the attack, and Osric nervously added the names of others who could support the story. The judges listened in stony silence, though the Archdeacon from Gloucester looked relieved that one of his brethren looked certain to be declared innocent.

By this time the cathedral archivist, Canon Jordan de Brent, had appeared, summoned from the dusty Exchequer above the Chapter House. He sat at the table and looked at the most recent message from the Gospel killer, together with the others and the disc of hard candle-wax from the steps of St Mary Arches. He looked intently at them and then shook his head. ‘The writing is deliberately disguised,’ he pronounced. ‘All the notes are different in style and slope and are irregular, so it was not a normal freehand.’ He peered more closely at two of the notes for a moment. ‘Yet I would suggest that these two notes were by the same hand,’ He held up the first, found at the scene of Aaron’s death, and the one from last night. ‘Each of these has a strange hook on the letter T. The writer, though he has successfully varied all his other letters, must have forgotten this one quirk, perhaps in haste or panic. I think it confirms that last night’s message was written by whoever killed the Jew.’

When he was shown the letter that had been delivered to the sheriff, accusing Thomas of being at the scene of the cordwainer’s death, the old canon declared that the handwriting was unlike that in any other of the notes.

Though the sheriff and two of the judges argued for several minutes against Thomas’s lack of guilt, they knew they were making bricks without straw and grudgingly, they had to admit that there was no reason to hold him in custody any longer. This was all de Wolfe needed and he bobbed his head in grudging deference to the Justices, gave the sheriff a look of cold disdain and hurried away, leaving them to begin a shortened session, as they had to witness half a dozen hangings at noon — thankfully without Thomas as one of the participants.

The castle constable came across with the coroner and his officer to deliver Thomas from his cell. Stigand would probably not have accepted de Wolfe’s word alone that his clerk was to be released, even at the risk of Gwyn’s threat to tear off his head. When they entered the cell to tell him the news, the clerk was sitting on the edge of his bed, his book open in his hands. Though the foetid chamber was tiny, he still appeared small within it, looking up at them pathetically. His lank hair hung down like a curtain from his shaven crown and his long, sharp nose seemed to dominate his receding chin even more than usual. When de Wolfe gave him the news of his acquittal and release, he seemed less exultant than they had expected and the coroner wondered fleetingly if Thomas had seen hanging as God’s offering of an alternative to the mortal sin of suicide.

Yet Gwyn had more than enough enthusiasm for them all. The ginger giant grabbed the puny man in his arms and danced out through the iron gate, yelling in triumph. With his free arm, he shoved the odious gaoler in the chest, sending him sprawling into the stinking straw, then ran out with the clerk into the sunlight of the inner ward.

A few moments later, they gathered in Gabriel’s guardroom in the gatehouse for a celebratory drink, where even the abstemious Thomas was cajoled into taking a cup of cider. He still had his precious Vulgate clutched in his hand and John suspected that if he had been hanged, it would have been tucked under his arm as he fell from the gibbet.

The coroner explained in detail what had happened the previous night and the clerk nodded at intervals, seemingly dazed by the speed of events. ‘We’ll get you back to the Bush now. Nesta can feed you and give you a bucket of warm water in the yard to wash off the filth and the lice from that damned cell,’ promised his master.

‘Can I start work again today?’ asked Thomas. ‘And go back to the canon’s house to live?’

Gwyn roared with laughter, but the little clerk was serious.

‘Tomorrow, certainly,’ answered de Wolfe gravely. ‘The court session finishes early today.’ There was silence as they realised why this was so and how close Thomas had come to being part of the reason for it.

Soon Gwyn left to take Thomas to the Bush for the promised food and wash, leaving Ralph Morin and Gabriel sitting with the coroner to finish their ale.

‘I’m damned if I’ll attend the hangings today,’ growled John. ‘Let one of the court clerks take the details — we can copy them on to the rolls later.’

Later, as they walked across the inner ward, they were joined by Brother Rufus coming from the keep. He was intrigued by de Wolfe’s Moorish headgear. When he heard the whole story, he congratulated John on Thomas’s salvation, then listened as Ralph again broached the subject of the killer: ‘He’s still out there, John. Why do you think he attacked you last night? He must have been following you, to know that you would be leaving the tavern after dark.’