Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

Edwin’s claim that business had become more onerous was doubtful: the Bush was certainly the most popular inn in the city, but it had been for many months, so he failed to see why Nesta should find the need suddenly for another helper, in addition to the potman, cook and two serving maids. Until a couple of years ago, her husband had run the tavern. He had been a good friend of John’s, a Welsh archer who had shared several campaigns with him. When his fighting days had ended, he had taken on the Bush, but within a year he was dead of a fever and John had helped Nesta finance the inn to keep it going.

Before long their business interests had ripened into mutual attraction, then passion, and though de Wolfe could not resist female temptation elsewhere, Nesta was his favourite, almost to the exclusion of all others. She was certainly in love with him and, flinty-natured though he was, he had grudgingly to admit that he was extraordinarily fond of her in return.

So what was this about a younger man on the premises? He looked covertly over his shoulder to the back of the room where Edwin had his barrels wedged up along a plank over leather drip buckets. Alongside them was the door to the backyard, over which the wide ladder ascended to the loft. As he peered through the smoke haze, he saw Nesta bustle in to be stopped by the crippled potman, who whispered in her ear and waved towards the hearth. The landlady’s head came up and her eyes met John’s across the room. He fancied he saw a slight tightening of her lips instead of her usual welcoming smile, and a tingle of apprehension caught at his throat. When facing a Saracen horde or a lance pointing at him on the tourney-field, John de Wolfe would hardly turn a hair, but the prospect of an angry or vindictive woman made him quail.

Nesta threaded her way across the room between stools and tables, her face devoid of expression. She dropped down on to the bench beside him, but instead of the usual pressure of her shoulder and thigh, a small but significant space remained between them. ‘You’ve come to see me at last, then?’

Unbidden, the cautionary words of some past comrade sprang into his head: ‘When your mistress begins to sound like your wife, it’s time to leave.’

‘God’s bones, woman, I’ve been so overwhelmed by duties these past few weeks, I’ve hardly had time to spit.’ He put an arm affectionately around her shoulders, and softened his tone. ‘Things will be easier now, though. A new coroner has been appointed for the north. He’s a fool, but it should lighten my load.’

Nesta still sat rigidly, but her face mellowed a little, into a doubtful pout. ‘I thought you had forsaken me, damn you! Twice I have seen you in three weeks — and neither occasion saw us abed together.’

‘You know how long I was up in Barnstaple and Lynmouth and Christ knows where else, Nesta. And now I have a killing on Dartmoor that kept me away all last night — and Crediton the night before that.’

She nodded, rather absently. ‘Do you want some food? And you need that pot filled again.’ Rising from the bench, Nesta looked down at him. ‘There’s some good boiled pork. I’ll get some for you and send more ale across while you’re waiting.’

She walked away with the suggestion of a flounce, leaving de Wolfe uneasy and worried. He had never seen her like this before, and though he blamed himself for neglecting her during the past weeks, he felt that her behaviour was unreasonable, given that he had had no choice in being away from Exeter so much during that time.

His morose reverie was broken when a new jar of ale was banged on the table before him, some of the contents slopping over on to the boards. He looked up to snap at old Edwin for his lack of courtesy, but was surprised to see a different face. A shock of blond hair, with a natural curl, sat above a long, handsome face that carried a pair of bright blue eyes. The young fellow had a wispy moustache of the same colour as his pale locks, and seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and exuded a confident aura of fitness and robust health. ‘Nesta said you needed more ale. The food is on its way.’

The words were innocent and spoken civilly enough, but the casual familiarity from a total stranger made de Wolfe long to throw the contents of the ale-jar in his face. He restrained himself and instead gave one of his strangled grunts, as he glowered up at the man.

‘You’ll be this crowner fellow, I expect,’ continued the newcomer, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was making an implacable enemy.

‘Sir John de Wolfe, the King’s coroner, yes! And who the hell might you be? The new potman?’ grated John.

‘I’m no potman, Crowner!’ said the man indignantly. ‘Alan of Lyme, that’s me — I run the inn with Nesta now. She needs a man in a place like this. It’s too much for a widow.’

He marched away before de Wolfe could unravel his tongue in the face of such blatant effrontery. He was starting to get to his feet to follow the fellow and shake him by his flaxen hair, when Nesta came out of the kitchen door and across the room, bearing a board on which a steaming trencher was covered with pork and onions. He dropped back on to his bench and glared up at her. ‘Sit down, you’ve got some explaining to do,’ he growled, as she slid the trencher in front of him.

Calmly, she leaned on the table and bent towards him. ‘I see you’ve met Alan, then.’

‘Cheeky young bastard! Talked to me as if I was your father,’ he snapped. ‘What’s he doing here? You’ve managed quite well with just the four servants until now. And why choose him? He looks as if he would be better employed running a brothel down in Bretayne,’ he added unfairly.

Nesta shrugged her shapely shoulders. ‘Edwin is getting past it, both in mind and body. I needed someone younger and more active.’

‘Well, make sure this damned fellow doesn’t get too active or I’ll have to kill him!’ muttered de Wolfe.

Relenting a little, Nesta slid on to the bench. ‘Just eat your dinner and stop talking nonsense. When you’ve finished, you can tell me what news there might be.’

With false reluctance, for he was hungry and the food smelt good, de Wolfe began to eat. The Welsh woman watched him with an enigmatic smile, almost like a mother regarding a sulky child. Between mouthfuls, he shot tentative glances at her, trying to gauge whether she was really softening or whether her strange mood was persisting.

He saw a comely woman of twenty-eight, with a high smooth forehead, a snub nose and an oval face. Strands of rich red hair peeped from under her linen coif, whose colour matched the pale green gown girdled tightly to emphasise her small waist below the deliciously full bosom. His affection for her welled up again, and he hated the thought that she had taken some flashy young man into the inn where he could be with her all day — and possibly all night. That generated another jealous question. ‘This Alan, does he live in here? With four other servants, you have no room in the huts in the yard.’

She shook her head carelessly. ‘I’ve given him a corner upstairs — a straw pallet at the end of the stalls.’

The large room under the thatch was divided off into a number of open-fronted cubicles, each with either a mattress or a pile of clean hay for penny and halfpenny guests.

De Wolfe grunted, failing to hide his displeasure. ‘As far as possible from your chamber, I trust.’

‘Are you afraid that he’ll break down my door at night, then?’

‘I’m thinking of him being an audience for us, when we’re together in there,’ he grated. ‘That’s if I am still welcome.’

Again that enigmatic smile. ‘You are welcome this very night, John.’