Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

‘I’m sure your time can be better spent healing the sick, than in talking to an old soldier like me,’ he said with a grin. ‘I have a score to settle with whoever did these evil deeds.’ He pointed a finger at his coif, still bulging over Nesta’s bandage.

‘I wondered if the lady had said anything about who might have assaulted her so grievously?’

Dame Madge shook her head, her veil swaying over the white linen wimple around her craggy face. ‘It is a difficult and sensitive business, asking questions so soon after a woman has been ravished,’ she said gravely. ‘All I have learned from her is that the man was large and strong, which I’m sure applies to most of the men in Devon!’

De Wolfe thanked her and told her of the husband’s condition in St John’s before taking his leave, but just as he was putting his foot in Bran’s stirrup, she called after him.

‘Sir John, I’ve just recalled that the lady did murmur that he smelt of tar, but again that is probably not of much use to you.’

But it gave him something to ponder over on his short ride back to the city.

Mary had served up an excellent dinner in the house in St Martin’s Lane, which even the grumbling Matilda could not fault. At noon, they sated themselves on fried eels with onions, followed by roast pork, cabbage and carrots, then crystallized ginger, bread and cheese. Later that afternoon, John was digesting this with the aid of ale and cider, sitting in the hall of Rougemont with his usual companions. Gwyn, Gabriel and Ralph Morin were discussing the events of the previous night and John’s news about the bishop’s bid for a sheriff.

‘We need a sensible man to enforce law and order in the county, but not that crafty bastard de Revelle,’ said Gwyn.

‘I don’t see how he can be made sheriff,’ growled Ralph. ‘The post is nominated by the king, then the county court has to formerly elect him. John Lackland can’t do that?’

De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘The problem is that the prince’s old nickname no longer applies, as he certainly lacks no land these days. But I agree, as a sheriff is the king’s man in each county, only the king or his representative like the Chief Justiciar, can put one in place.’

‘And who’s going to tell Prince John that?’ asked Morin.

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘When Hubert Walter finds out, he’ll tell the king, wherever he is. We’ll see some action then, I’ll warrant!’

Gwyn took a gargantuan swallow of his ale, then rubbed a hand over his damped moustaches. ‘I wish the king would get back home and sort out his kingdom,’ he said mournfully. ‘We hear these rumours of the ransom being paid and of him being released, but nothing ever happens.’

It was true that there had been several false reports of the Lionheart’s return, just as there had been claims that Philip of France had succeeded in buying the king from Emperor Henry.

‘The latest I heard from the last herald that came through from Winchester was that there was still a way to go to collect the full one hundred and fifty thousand marks,’ reported Morin, who was in the best position to get the latest news, albeit usually several weeks old. ‘The old queen is poised to go over to the Rhine herself to fetch her son, when the moment comes,’ he added.

The talk then turned to the brutal assault in Sun Lane the previous night. After John had told them about the state of the two victims — no one seemed to be bothered about his own injury — the problem of catching the villain was discussed.

‘He’s probably miles away by now, as there was nothing to stop him walking out through one of the city gates today,’ said Gabriel. ‘No one knows what he looks like.’

‘All we know is that he’s big and strong and that he smelled of tar!’ said John. This reminded him of the piece of cloth and he fished in his scrip to bring out the piece of breeches-leg that Brutus has ripped off the man in the backyard. It was an unremarkable scrap of coarse cloth about the size of his hand, brownish in colour, with a bluish thread in the weft of the weave.

‘Looks foreign to me’, said Gabriel. ‘But then, so much cloth is brought in from the Low Countries, much of it in your ships, Sir John.’

‘Your partner, Hugh de Relaga, must know a lot about foreign fabrics, John,’ suggested Ralph. ‘Why not show it to him? He might recognize where it came from.’

John nodded, but was not excited about the possible clue. ‘I’ll do that, but of course where it was made has little to do with who now owns it. My cloak is from Bavaria and my belt from Spain!’ Another thought occurred to him and he held the rag to his long nose and sniffed. ‘That poor woman was right, it does smell of tar.’

He handed it round and they all agreed that there was a faint stink of the black residue that came from burning coals, though Gwyn, with his nautical pretensions, said he thought it more like pitch or bitumen.

‘Does it tell us anything about this swine?’ growled Morin.

‘They sometimes use it on shingle roofs to stop them leaking,’ ventured Gabriel. ‘Perhaps he’s a builder?’

‘Or a seaman,’ contradicted Gwyn. ‘Stuff like that is used for caulking the seams in ship’s planks.’

John tossed the piece of cloth on to the table and they all stared at it for a long moment, as if waiting for it to speak to them.

‘What about that old hound of yours, John?’ asked Ralph. ‘He tore that cloth off and you say he bit him in the leg.’

‘Yes, but it can’t have been a deep injury, for the fellow ran away like the wind.’

The castellan shook his head. ‘No, I meant he must have got a good scent of the fellow — and you’ve still got that bit of cloth to show the dog. Maybe he can track a scent, just as the lymers do in hunting.’

Lymers were hounds who tracked by smell, as opposed to those like the greyhound who chased by sight.

‘I could try him, I suppose,’ said John, dubiously.

‘Best do it before the trail gets any colder,’ suggested Gwyn. ‘I’ll come with you now, before it gets dark.’

They went back to St Martin’s Lane and collected an enthusiastic Brutus and took him down to the back of the now-silent house in Sun Lane. In the yard at the back, John held the piece of torn fabric to the dog’s nose, then opened the gate at the back through which the assailant had escaped.

‘Go on, boy, find him!’ encouraged Gwyn and sure enough, Brutus went off with his nose to the ground, zigzagging back and forth, then moving off rapidly into the alley and then into a wider lane that angled up towards Southgate Street. They followed the dog down the street towards the gate, ignoring the curious stares of stallholders and their customers as they jogged behind. Brutus turned off again to the right and went down Rock Lane towards the Watergate that stood at the lowest point of the city walls. This had been built in recent years to allow direct access to the wharf along the river, as Exeter became much more active in trading. Though the larger seagoing vessels had to moor down at Topsham, smaller ones could berth at the quayside, which dried out at low tide.

‘He’s going out on to the wharf!’ shouted Gwyn triumphantly, as they approached the gate. ‘I said that pitch was used to caulk ship’s planking!’

They went through the arch of the Watergate and out on to the flat expanse of dockside. There was a length of stone wharf along the river bank, beyond which it lapsed into bushes and grass.

Brutus ran on to the wharf and began circling around. For the first time, he seemed uncertain of himself, as the trail was confused by various odours from the coils of tarry rope and bales of merchandise awaiting shipment.

Two small cogs were moored at the quayside, riding high and upright, as it was the peak of the flood tide. In fact, one was just preparing to leave, its single sail hoisted and the bow hawser about to be cast off by a man standing at a bollard on the edge of the wharf.