Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

De Wolfe had heard of the volume — it had created a sensation when it was written half a century earlier — but his illiteracy prevented him from enjoying it. For some months, he had been covertly taking instruction in reading and writing, and could sign his name and stumble slowly through some of the coroner’s rolls that Thomas prepared, but in recent weeks he had been too busy to persevere and already what he had learned was slipping away.

The archdeacon signalled to his servant, who hovered at the door, and ordered some wine. His asceticism did not extend to eschewing the juice of the grape, as long as it was a good vintage. His family came from Alençon in Normandy, and there drinking fine wine was as natural as breathing.

‘Is this a welcome social visit, John? Or have you some special purpose?’

Over two cups of wine, John de Wolfe explained the problem concerning Thomas de Peyne. ‘The man’s becoming more morose with every new day,’ he explained. ‘He was born to be a priest, and he says life outside your cosy community of God is not worth living.’

The archdeacon was well used to his friend’s marginally sacrilegious way of speech and smiled gently at him. ‘I can well understand his anguish, poor lad. If I were to be cast out, I doubt if I would have the will to continue living.’

‘He claims he was innocent of the crime alleged,’ commented de Wolfe, ‘which makes it so much worse. I tend to believe him — he is too devout to be a good liar.’

They discussed the problem for a time, but de Alençon was doubtful of any prospect of successful reinstatement. ‘Any appeal to a Consistory Court would have to be in Winchester, where he was ejected, not here in Exeter. Robust testimonials would have to be produced from senior ecclesiastical figures concerning his behaviour and character during the time since he was unfrocked, and I would certainly provide a good character for him. But there are political factors to be taken into account, John.’

The coroner looked questioningly at the Archdeacon over the rim of his wine cup. ‘Political factors?’

‘It is well known in this precinct — and in the city outside — that you and I are good friends and of like mind, especially in our avowed loyalty to the King. Any glowing testimonial from me about your clerk, especially as he is related to me, would be seen as favouritism, especially by those who have been opposed to us — and, indeed, humiliated by us in the recent past.’

De Wolfe looked glumly at his friend. ‘You mean those inclined to Prince John — men like Thomas de Boterellis?’ He named the precentor, the canon responsible for organising the services and the chanting, who had supported the abortive rebellion a few months back.

The priest nodded. ‘And perhaps, even more importantly, Henry Marshal himself.’

It was well known that the Bishop was also a Prince’s man and had openly declared himself when he was bishop-elect the previous year.

However, after more discussion, de Alençon agreed to sound out some other canons discreetly to see if there was any realistic prospect of launching a petition to Winchester on Thomas’s behalf, but again he sounded pessimistic. With that de Wolfe had to be content, realising that the fate of some obscure clerk would never arouse much interest amongst the ecclesiastical community.

When he left his friend, de Wolfe went slowly across the Close, his feet taking him along the familiar route to the inn in Idle Lane. The morning’s storm had passed, but a leaden sky made the approaching dusk all the gloomier, to suit his own mood. He walked almost reluctantly, although he knew that he must make the journey. Since he had surprised Nesta with the new man in the brew-house, his mood had swung between sad resignation and cold anger. At one moment, he would decide to draw a line under his affair with the delectable Welsh woman and let her go her own way, if that was what she wanted, but at the next, he was all for storming down to the Bush and throwing Alan out into the road, before carrying Nesta up to her room and making violent love to her.

As his feet carried him across Southgate Street, he dithered between the two extremes, but by the time he reached the tavern his determination had settled into a middle path. He would act normally, talk to her rationally and see what she wanted to do about this twist in their relationship.

However, this sober, sensible plan was doomed as soon as he stepped inside the smoky cavern of the ale-house. Nesta was seated at his usual table, tucking into a trencher laden with a knuckle of pork surrounded by boiled turnips. There was quite a crowd of customers and Alan of Lyme was going from table to table and bench to bench, cracking jokes and slapping favoured men on the back, as if he was the jovial landlord.

De Wolfe scowled, but the younger man waved at him airily, then turned away to gossip to another group of regulars. Almost everyone in the inn knew of the coroner’s long-standing affair with Nesta, and some looked slightly embarrassed at his presence, given that they were also aware of the landlady’s partiality to her new barman.

John loped across the rush-strewn floor to the table near the hearth and stood looking down at the pretty woman. Usually, her rich red hair was coiled under a close-fitting linen cap, but today it cascaded over her shoulders, being worn like a young girl’s. Sourly, he wondered if this was for the new man’s benefit.

Sensing his presence, she looked up slowly, a strip of pork poised in her fingers, and spoke to him in the Welsh tongue they normally used. ‘Oh, it’s you — visiting twice in as many days. It must be the attraction of my good ale.’

The unexpected sarcasm stung him into an unwise response. ‘Has it improved since you hired a new brewer? Perhaps the time you spend in the brew-house makes it even better.’

She coloured with anger and dropped the meat back on to the trencher. ‘What I do in my own tavern is my business.’

Even in his anger, he had the wit not to point out that without the money he had lent her she would have no tavern. Instead, he sat down unbidden on the bench beside her and tried not to notice that she pointedly moved away a token inch or two. A few heads were turned towards them, and he had no doubt that some ears were flapping amongst the nearest customers. He decided that the best tactic was to be calm and apologetic and coax her out of the combative mood that seemed to grip her — but she forestalled him as he was opening his mouth. ‘Has she tired you out today that you need to come here to recover?’

He shut his mouth and stared at her in mystification. ‘What d’you mean? She’s either at her damned church or snoring in the solar.’

Nesta, a knucklebone half-way to her lips, gave him a sideways look that as good as called him a liar. ‘I’m not speaking of Matilda. I saw Hilda of Dawlish in North Street this morning — at a distance, for I’d no wish to speak to her.’

De Wolfe gaped at her. ‘Hilda? Here in Exeter?’

The landlady nibbled delicately at the warm flesh, then gave him a look not far removed from contempt. ‘Don’t come the innocent with me, John. If you want to bed your blonde beauty, that’s your concern. At least it explains why you’ve been too busy to visit me lately.’

He protested that he had had no idea that Hilda was in the city, and in his vehemence, he laid a hand on her arm. She shrugged it off impatiently. ‘It’s none of my business, just as my affairs are none of yours. But don’t try playing both at home and abroad, John.’

Again he tried to convince her that he had not seen Hilda recently and that the pressure of his work had kept him away from the Bush these past weeks, but Nesta seemed immune to his pleadings, kept low to avoid the eavesdroppers all around.