Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

By mid-afternoon, after another jug of ale, John decided to walk back to the castle to practise his lessons, much neglected of late. He had been attending a vicar-choral in the cathedral precinct for tuition in reading and writing, and Thomas de Peyne had also been coaching him. Starting education so late in life, John found it hard to retain such learning and his progress had been slow, but he resolved once more to make a greater effort to become literate.

Outside the tavern, the drizzle had ceased and he made his way up the high street, ploughing through the crowds like a ship parting the waves. As a flock of sheep on their way to slaughter flowed around his legs, he caught sight of a familiar figure coming behind them. Surprised, he stopped and let Thomas come up to him, clinging for support to a solicitous young secondary. ‘Thomas, what are you doing out and about? When I saw you this morning, you were flat on your back in St John’s.’

Haggard, but grimly determined, the little clerk clung tightly to his companion’s elbow. ‘I am bruised but unbowed, Crowner. Brother Saulf said I could go home if I spent the rest of the day on my pallet there. I can get back to my duties tomorrow, I’m sure.’

De Wolfe grinned, for the small man had raised his own spirits too with his dogged determination. ‘You’re like Lazarus rising from the tomb — or sick-bed, in your case. But take your time in returning, Thomas — though I’ll admit I’ve already sorely missed your skills.’

Thomas’s peaky face lit up with pleasure at even this mild praise from his master, to whom he was devoted. ‘The hand that holds the quill is undamaged, Crowner. As my uncle the Archdeacon has shown me, I have experienced a small miracle — a sign from God that my cause is not hopeless.’ He winced as his free arm made the Sign of the Cross.

As he limped away towards the cathedral Close, leaning heavily on his friend, de Wolfe set off back to Rougemont with a spring in his step, cheered by the marked improvement in his clerk’s mood. In the chamber above the portcullis, he settled down for an hour or two’s study of the parchment leaves that bore his Latin lessons. Slowly and silently, his lips formed the sounds of the grammar and vocabulary that the vicar and Thomas had written for him. Then he laboriously practised writing simple phrases, using one of his clerk’s spare pens and jet black ink.

Eventually the effects of half a gallon of ale and the boredom of learning overcame him and he sprawled across his table, leaning his black head on his arms, and was soon sound asleep.

He was awakened by a timid rapping on the boards in front of his nose and blearily opened his eyes to see a young man-at-arms from the guard-room below, standing before him. Another older man was waiting just inside the sacking that screened the doorway.

‘This man says he must see you urgently, Crowner,’ stuttered the soldier, and stepped back to let the bailiff come forward, for John had recognised him as Justin Green from Chagford. Suddenly fully awake, with a premonition of trouble, de Wolfe motioned the man to the empty stool opposite. ‘What is it? Where’s my man Gwyn?’ he demanded.

The bailiff, his upper half damp with rain and his legs muddied from hard riding, looked anxiously at the coroner, in the manner of all harbingers of bad tidings. Haltingly, he told his tale, watching de Wolfe as his consternation grew.

The substance of his news was that there had been a near riot at the coinage in Chagford that morning when the Saxon Aethelfrith had been captured red-handed damaging some tin-works on the edge of the moor. A mob of tinners had dragged him to the town square, also accusing him of killing Henry of Tunnaford and Walter Knapman. He had boasted proudly of his vandalism and the enraged crowd had beaten him up. Gwyn had tried to intervene and had been knocked senseless for his trouble.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ interrupted de Wolfe, lurching to his feet.

The bailiff shook his head. ‘He was knocked out, but soon recovered, though with many scrapes and bruises. But the man he struck was still senseless when I left and I fear he may die. The tinners have bound your man and have taken him prisoner.’

Justin Green explained that Gwyn had been slightly wounded by a dagger and then went on to say that the crowd had hanged the old Saxon forthwith, stringing him up from a rafter of the coinage shelter, amid yells and jeers from the inflamed tinners.

‘And where was the sheriff when this outrage was taking place?’ roared the coroner.

‘The tinners demanded that he should convict and condemn Aethelfrith, as their Warden of the Stannaries — but he would not. Neither did he try to stop the execution, having but half a dozen soldiers with him against that ugly mob.’

‘The rest of the men returned with the constable a few hours ago,’ volunteered the young man-at-arms from behind.

De Wolfe kicked over his bench in rage and stormed into the middle of the chamber. ‘Damn the sheriff, the God-forsaken coward! He should have tried to stop them. The Stannaries have no jurisdiction over violent crime.’

‘That’s what your Cornishman yelled at them — and got stabbed for his pains.’

‘Where is he now, the rash fool?’

‘On his way to Lydford, lashed to the rail of a horse cart, with the man he felled lying at his feet. The sheriff and his men, with Sir Geoffrey Fitz-Peters and a score of tinners from around Lydford, are riding with them.’

‘Why in the name of the Holy Virgin are they all going to Lydford?’ demanded de Wolfe, becoming progressively more agitated as the story unfolded.

‘The tinners insisted on taking him to the new prison at Lydford and the sheriff made no protest. They say that if the other man dies they will hang Gwyn for murder.’

John groaned — it was already early evening and Lydford was well over thirty miles from Exeter, around the northern bulge of Dartmoor.

He could set out this evening, but would not get far before darkness fell. ‘How came you to ride here with the news?’ He thought that surely the sheriff would not have wanted to advertise his sorry part in this affair.

‘Sergeant Gabriel managed to speak to me secretly in the confusion when they were hanging the Saxon. He wanted me to urge on you the gravity of the matter, especially where your officer is concerned.’

‘I need no convincing of that — but many thanks for your speedy summons. When are these hot-heads likely to get to Lydford with their cart?’

‘They left soon after noon and it’s about eighteen miles from Chagford. That wagon is less cumbersome than an ox-cart, but they’ll still take at least until dark to get there.’

De Wolfe stared blankly through one of the window slits as he worked out the best plan of action. ‘I’ll ride tonight and get as far as I can, then continue at dawn,’ he growled. ‘You get a bed in a tavern here, then go home, with my thanks.’ He was already collecting his cape and broadsword from pegs on the wall. ‘I’ll get a palfrey or post-horse from the garrison stables. It will be swifter than my heavier destrier.’

De Wolfe strode to the doorway, slipping the baldric over his shoulder and buckling up his sword-belt. ‘And God help them if they’ve harmed my officer.’

In spite of de Wolfe’s urgent need to reach Lydford quickly, fate conspired against him. The palfrey he had hired cast a shoe near Tedburn St Mary, a hamlet no more than a quarter of the way to Lydford. By the time he managed to rouse a farrier in the village it was pitch dark and he could go no further. He spent the night wrapped in his cloak on the floor of the forge next to the banked-down furnace, and continued on his way at the first glimpse of dawn. Riding was slower than he had anticipated, for the track was muddy with rain and the remnants of melted snow, some of which still lay along the verges.