The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘You took your time, I sent for you long ago!’ he snapped.

‘I’m the king’s coroner, not the sheriff’s!’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘I’m not at your beck and call. I have other things to do, like arranging the inquest on this fuller.’ The sheriff laid down a quill pen and regarded John with a smug expression, which held a hint of triumph. ‘Indeed, your petty inquest! I fear that very soon, that matter will be presented to a far more important court.’

John glowered suspiciously at his brother-in-law. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Richard stood up, carefully smoothing the creases from his cream linen tunic. ‘I think I shall attend this inquest of yours, John,’ he said smoothly. ‘Where and when is it to be held?’

Guessing what was in de Revelle’s mind, John answered grudgingly. ‘An hour before noon, in the churchyard of St Pancras.’

The sheriff’s neat head nodded curtly. ‘I shall be there. Walter Tyrell was a good friend of mine, it is only right that I should pay my respects to his memory.’ With an insolent wave of dismissal, he walked to the inner door of his chamber and vanished into his living quarters, shutting the door behind him with a bang.

Fuming with frustration and not a little worried at the way things were moving, de Wolfe stamped back to the gatehouse and sat drumming his fingers on his table. Thomas sensed his master’s ill-temper and wisely made himself scarce, claiming that he was off to round up a jury for the inquest.

‘You’d better call in at Milk Lane and tell Gwyn that he should keep away,’ ordered the coroner, as the little clerk reached the doorway. ‘There’s no point in exposing him to the spite of the sheriff, for I’ve a good idea of what de Revelle is trying to do.’

This only succeeded in transferring some of John’s anxieties to his clerk and with a worried frown, Thomas pattered off into the busy city streets. An insignificant figure in his threadbare cassock, he pushed his way through the morning crowds of wives doing their shopping, stallholders and hawkers yelling the merits of their goods, porters pushing barrows and others humping great bales of wool. Calling in at the constable’s hut, he confirmed that Osric and his colleague were collecting all those who had been present at the scene in Waterbeer Street and making sure they would be at the inquest. From previous experience, the constables were well aware of the coroner’s wrath if the arrangements failed to run smoothly and Thomas was confident that the jury would be assembled on time.

Then he set off again to reach Carfoix, the central crossing of the main roads from each of the four gates, the street plan not having altered since Roman times. Crossing to South Gate Street, he averted his head from the daily scene in the Shambles, where cattle and sheep were being slaughtered in the street, blood and offal clogging the central gutter. He hurried on and turned through several lanes to reach Milk Street, to find Gwyn in the large plot behind his sister-in-law’s cottage. He was milking a large red cow, who was munching away unconcernedly from a bag of hay hung from her tethering post. A small calf stood nearby, looking indignantly at this large red-headed man who was pouring half her dinner into a wooden bucket.

Thomas delivered his message about the inquest and Gwyn nodded resignedly. ‘I thought this would happen, the bloody sheriff won’t miss a chance like this.’ He pulled his head away from the cow’s flank and called across to Helen, who was sitting on a stool near the back door, plucking a chicken, several more dead fowls lay at her feet.

‘I’ll finish milking the other two beasts, then I’ll kill that goose for you,’ he shouted, before putting his hands back to the udder.

‘How is your wife?’ asked Thomas solicitously.

‘Agnes is just the same, thank you,’ said Gwyn. ‘She’s not lost the babe so far, though she is still bleeding a little. The good-wife who attends her says that she must lie still for some days, if she is to keep it.’

‘And the boys?’

‘They’re no worse, but are listless and can’t stand daylight in their eyes. Neither have any appetite, which proves they are unwell, as they are usually as hungry as dogs!’

Thomas, a kindly man who always sympathized with the misfortunes of others, did his best to cheer his friend from his obvious gloom. ‘I can do little for you but pray, Gwyn, but if there is anything else…’

‘Thank you, Thomas! I seem to be cursed with ill luck these past few days. If what I fear will happen, I’ll need all the prayers you can muster, so keep in practise!’

‘Oyez, oyez, all those who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance.’

Opening the inquest, Thomas’s reedy voice contrasted markedly with the stentorian bellow that Gwyn used when he officiated, but it was sufficient to quieten the score of men who were shuffling into a half-circle before the small shed that acted as the mortuary. Behind them, a small crowd of onlookers, some of them women, craned their necks to follow the proceedings. They were all in the dusty yard behind St Pancras’s Church in the middle of the city, but most of the jury wished they were elsewhere, as they had other business to attend to.

The door on which Walter Tyrell’s body had been carried was now resting on two small barrels outside the shed and the corpse itself was decorously covered with a grubby blanket. Alongside it stood Sir John de Wolfe, a ferocious scowl on his face, his usual expression for such legal events. He wore a grey tunic down to his calves, clinched by a thick leather belt, which carried a dagger, but no sword. The spring morning was chill, so he had a mottled wolfskin cloak slung over his shoulders.

After piping his opening chant, Thomas went to sit on a smaller barrel, a board across his knees carrying a parchment roll and pen and ink, on which to record the proceedings. The coroner stepped forward, his fists on his hips, to glare around the assembled jury and the spectators crowded behind them.

‘This is to enquire as to where, when and by what means this man came to his death.’ He waved a hand at the still shape under the sheet.

‘He was identified to me earlier this morning by his brother and his widow as Walter Tyrell, a fuller of East Gate Street. Now the First Finder will step forward!’

At this command, the older constable Theobald moved to stand before the coroner and doffed his woollen cap, revealing his bald patch. He related how late last night he and Osric had come across the cadaver at the entrance to the alley. ‘We heard footsteps running away and I gave chase, but was too late to catch anyone,’ he said virtuously.

He went on to say how they had raised the hue and cry, rousing all the householders from the nearby dwellings. Failure to have done this would have resulted in a stiff fine, but the town constables knew their business in this respect. Several other witnesses from Waterbeer Street were called, but all they could add was confirmation of what Theobald and Osric had already described. No one had seen the person running away down the alley nor had they seen Tyrell in the street that night.

De Wolfe then called the widow, who was helped forward by her brother-in-law, a partner in Walter Tyrell’s fulling-mill business. Christina, a handsome blonde much younger than her late husband, wore a grey kirtle as a sign of mourning, but was quite composed and seemed in no need of her escort’s support.

The coroner softened his manner slightly in deference to her bereaved state. ‘What was your husband doing in the streets that late at night?’

The woman shrugged. ‘He often went out, either to do business or to meet some friends in a tavern. The New Inn and the Plough were his favourite places. I think he was going to pay some merchant for a consignment of fleeces, but I’m not sure.’