Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

‘What’s going on in there, Brutus?’ he asked, assuming that it was some domestic dispute that was none of his concern. Then the screams became louder before they subsided into a sobbing that could still be heard through the slatted shutters on an upper room. He heard a noise behind him and turning, saw a man in the doorway of the house opposite, with a woman peering fearfully over his shoulder.

‘Is it murder?’ quavered the neighbour. ‘Shall we send for the constables?’

As he spoke, another door opened in the house next to that from which the moans were coming and another man appeared, grasping a stout stick. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.

‘Who lives in there?’ demanded John.

‘Richard de Beltona and his wife,’ called the first neighbour. ‘He is a cloth merchant and a most respectable man!’

Suddenly the screams began again and de Wolfe hesitated no longer, but launched himself at the front door, beating on it with his fist. ‘Open the door! Are you in trouble?’ There was no response and he went to the lower shutters to try to pull them open.

‘Try around the back,’ advised the next-door neighbour, coming into the road. He recognized John as someone with authority and was content to see him take the initiative.

John wore no sword whilst in the city, but pulled his dagger from his belt as he loped around the corner of the house. With Brutus at his heels, he went down the narrow gap between it and the next building. By now, half a dozen locals were gathering in the pale moonlight, one shouting that he had sent his son for the city watch. At the rear, John found himself in a yard with the usual outbuildings in a patch of rutted mud enclosed by a high fence. As he approached the back door, it was suddenly wrenched open and he was confronted by the figure of a man, swathed in a hooded cloak that shadowed his face. Before he could react, the man struck him a heavy blow on the forehead with a short cudgel, which sent de Wolfe staggering, blood pouring down into one eye. He tripped over a boot scraper set alongside the door and fell back full length on to the ground.

Dazed, but conscious, he crawled to his hands and knees in time to see the man racing across the yard to a lane behind, with Brutus snarling after him. As the fugitive reached the gate in the fence, the dog sank his teeth into his leg and with a howl of pain and rage, aimed a kick at his tormentor. Brutus dodged away with a howl, having ripped a piece from the man’s breeches, but swearing viciously, the intruder slipped through the gate and slammed it behind him.

By now, John had staggered to his feet, holding on to the wall of the house until his head cleared, though he could only see through one eye because of the blood. However it was enough to see his dog dancing around excitedly by the gate, barking furiously. It was too high for him to jump and by the time John reached him, the man had vanished into Rack Lane, which ran parallel to Sun Lane.

He thought of letting the enthusiastic hound pursue the fellow, but then decided that it was not worth the risk of having his beloved Brutus clubbed to death for the sake of some family fight. As he patted the dog’s head, he took a piece of cloth from his jaws and stowed in a pocket in his cloak.

By now, several of the timorous neighbours had congregated in the yard and John stalked back to them. ‘Is there still a commotion in the house?’ he demanded.

‘Just some sobbing, Sir John,’ said one, who recognized him. ‘Had we better see what’s wrong?’

De Wolfe, telling the dog to stay where he was, pushed past the nervous burghers and, still feeling hazy from the blow he had taken, went through a kitchen to a storeroom filled with bales of cloth. In the corner was a flight of open steps, dimly lit by a rush light on a shelf. Following the feeble moans from above, he climbed up and went into a room which occupied half of the upper floor. There was a large bed raised just off the floor, covered with tumbled pelts and blankets. Amongst these on one side of the mattress was the inert shape of a man — and on the other, the huddled shape of a woman, from whom came the heartbreaking sobs.

He went a little nearer, until in the semi-darkness he could see what was amiss. Going back to the head of the steps, he called down to the upturned faces below.

‘Two of you, fetch your wives here at once! And get lights and some stretchers on which to carry these poor folk.’

Half an hour later, the house in Sun Lane was buzzing with activity like a wasp’s nest that had been stirred with a stick. Two goodwives from across the road were attending to Clarice, wife of Richard de Beltona, whose husband still lay comatose on the bed, a spreading blue bruise covering one side of his head.

Clarice, a small woman of about thirty-five, was slumped on the floor with her back against the bed, alternately sobbing and groaning. The two neighbourly women were kneeling each side of her, making soothing noises as one wiped her forehead with a perfumed kerchief and the other gave her sips of brandy wine from a cup. Her night shift had been decorously pulled across her legs and a blanket draped around her, but John knew from his first sight of her, that the nether garments had been ripped and that an ominous leakage of blood stained them over the thighs.

‘She needs Dame Madge, as soon as possible!’ declared another wife, the one from next door.

‘Who’s Dame Madge?’ growled John, totally lost in matters of women’s problems.

‘The old nun from Polsloe Priory,’ answered her husband. ‘She is a miracle worker when it comes to treating ladies.’

‘How would we get this poor woman there?’ demanded the wife. ‘She can’t be taken on a horse! It must be near midnight and the city gates are shut until dawn.’

‘Then this nun must be brought down here,’ said John. decisively. ‘The gate will open for me, I assure you.’

‘You need that head attended to, Sir John, if only for you to see where you are going!’ said a voice from behind him. ‘I’ll send to Polsloe straight away.’

The speaker was Osric, a very tall, thin man with a shock of fair hair. Dressed in a short tunic and breeches, he carried a long brass-topped staff, the insignia of a town constable. A Saxon, he was one of the two men employed by the city council to keep the peace in the city — a hopeless task, but it was the only token of law and order in Exeter.

‘Are men coming to take her husband up to St John’s Infirmary?’ demanded de Wolfe, rubbing at the dried blood on his forehead.

Osric nodded in the improved light of three horn lanterns and a couple of candles. ‘They are fetching the bier that hangs in Holy Trinity near the South Gate.’

Having done all he could at the scene of the crime, John collected Brutus from outside and trudged through the chill night back down to the inn, still feeling dizzy and sick after the bang on the head. It was very late when he arrived and Nesta had taken herself to bed, but Gwyn and couple of men were still gambling downstairs.

Gwyn leaped up in alarm when he saw John’s bloodied head and guided him to a bench and brought him ale, while one of his cronies went out to the wash-shed for a cloth and water to clean up the dried blood and clot, so that they could look at the wound.

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Gwyn judicially, staring at the one-inch cut just inside the hairline. ‘What’s the other fellow look like?’

‘The bastard got away, but not before Brutus sank his teeth into his leg. I hope the swine dies of gangrene!’

As he was telling them the story, Nesta appeared on the steps from the loft, her night shift covered with a blanket. Wide-eyed, she saw Gwyn cleaning up his master with a bloodied cloth and with a squeal of concern she hurried across and took the rag from the Cornishman to finish the job with a woman’s gentler touch. More explanations followed for Nesta’s benefit and she joined in the general condemnation of lawlessness in the city.