The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘He’s got no proof, only a couple of lying bastards from St Sidwell who would testify to anything for a handful of pennies!’ said the coroner, trying to reassure the Cornishman.

Gwyn was not so sanguine about the situation. ‘Tyrell had already got a writ from the sheriff accusing me of assaulting him and demanding compensation for his burned house,’ he grunted. ‘So when Tyrell turns up dead, de Revelle reckons I had a good reason to get rid of him.’

‘But there’s no proof, Gwyn,’ piped up Thomas, anxious for the welfare of his colleague. Though Gwyn teased him unmercifully, they were the best of friends, the big man always being very protective of the puny ex-priest.

‘When did that awful man ever need proof?’ said Nesta bitterly. She had seen examples in the past of the Sheriff’s vindictiveness.

‘What can we do?’ shrilled Thomas, almost beside himself with anxiety. ‘Would it be best if Gwyn left the city for a while-maybe went down to Cornwall to stay with his relatives?’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘That would be looked on as running away and an admission of guilt. We have to fight this malicious attempt with the truth!’

‘Find the swine who really killed Tyrell, that’s the only way,’ growled Gwyn.

‘Exactly! And I’ll start this very day,’ promised the coroner. ‘The problem is that you can’t be involved, Gwyn-at least not openly.’

‘I’ll do what I can, sir,’ offered Thomas, desperate to do something to help his big friend. ‘I have many contacts amongst the lower ranks of the clergy. They are a gossipy lot and know much of what goes on in the city, as well as in the cathedral Close.’

Nesta, not to be outdone, also promised to sound out her patrons. The Bush was a popular tavern and her strong ale was very effective in loosening the tongues of the scores of drinkers who passed through every day.

With no more ideas to discuss, de Wolfe sent Gwyn back to Milk Lane to be with his ailing family and then took himself up to Rougemont to see if any of the idle chatter in the hall might throw any light on Walter Tyrell’s private life.

A little over an hour later, Sergeant Gabriel climbed the steps of the keep, a worried expression on his rugged face. He stood inside the main door for a moment, scanning the busy hall. Clerks bustled about with documents, pushing past groups of townsfolk and country bailiffs awaiting audience with officials. A few off-duty soldiers mingled with merchants and a few priests. Some were eating or drinking at tables, others were in animated conversation or raucous laughter. Gabriel soon spotted John de Wolfe leaning against the bare stone wall near the half-circle of the fire-pit, a quart mug of ale in his hand. He was talking earnestly to a couple of burgesses, hoping to get some information about the dead fuller’s business affairs.

The sergeant went across to him and discreetly touched his arm. ‘Sir John, I think you had better come down to the undercroft straight away,’ he said quietly, with a jerk of his head to emphasize the urgency.

The coroner excused himself from his acquaintances and setting his ale-pot down on a nearby table, followed Gabriel across to the entrance.

‘What’s going on? Why the undercroft?’ This was the damp and gloomy basement of the keep, part of it being used for the castle gaol, the rest for storage.

‘The sheriff has had Gwyn arrested! He sent four of my men-at-arms down for him, without even telling me.’ Gabriel was outraged at this, as well as being anxious for Gwyn, his closest drinking and gaming friend.

John clattered down the stairs, furious but not altogether surprised at the sudden turn of events. ‘The bloody man is determined to get at me over this!’ he snarled. ‘But I didn’t think he’d act so quickly.’

They hurried to the entrance of the undercroft, which was partly below ground level. Ducking under a low arch at the bottom of the few steps, they entered a wide, gloomy vault, the roof supported by pillars. On the left was a stone wall with a rusty metal grille, leading into the prison cells. Outside this was a small group of people, dimly lit by the flickering flames of several pitch torches set in rings on the wall. As well as a few uneasy-looking soldiers standing around Gwyn’s towering figure, John also saw the sheriff and his chief clerk. The others included Ralph Morin, the constable of the castle-and Tyrell’s widow Christina and his brother Serlo. In the background hovered two men who had been neighbours of Gwyn’s in St Sidwell-and there was Stigand, the grossly obese gaoler, looking as if he was hoping for a chance to employ his implements of torture.

De Wolfe strode across to the group and, ignoring the sheriff, spoke to Ralph Morin, a good friend who shared his dislike of Richard de Revelle. ‘What in hell’s going on, Ralph?’ he demanded in a loud voice.

Morin, another very large man with a forked beard that enhanced his resemblance to a Viking warrior, began to explain, but was cut across by the strident tones of the sheriff.

‘I’ve had him arrested, John! And unless he can produce some very good evidence of his innocence, he’s going straight to prison to await trial at my court next week!’

John stepped across to stand close in front of his brother-in-law and glared down furiously from his greater height.

‘So, he’s guilty until proved innocent, is he? I thought it was supposed to be the other way around!’

De Revelle stepped back hastily, half-afraid that John was going to strike him. Then he swept an arm around to indicate wife and brother. ‘These good people came to me after your travesty of an inquest today, to demand proper justice! You did nothing to name or even place suspicion on any perpetrator!’

‘If you knew anything about the law, Richard, you’d realize that an inquest is not a trial! That’s down to the king’s justices when they come to the Eyre of Assize.’

‘Nonsense! For centuries, my Shire Court has been sufficient for any type of case. Your new-fangled royal courts are merely a device to extort money!’

De Wolfe gave a mocking laugh. ‘Well, you’re an expert in that subject, Sheriff! Now what are you doing here with my officer? He’s a servant of the king like me, so tread very carefully.’

Serlo Tyrell stepped forward, indignant and truculent. ‘That big Cornishman killed my brother and left this woman widowed. Everything points to him, and we want justice!’

‘I never killed anyone!’ yelled Gwyn, who had so far held his tongue. ‘Even though it means speaking ill of the dead, that Walter falsely accused me of letting his poxy cottage burn down. Then he struck me and when I defended myself, he pulled a knife on me!’

‘And then you threatened to kill him,’ cried the sheriff, in his high pitched voice. ‘These two men from St Sidwell will vouch for that.’ He pointed at the pair, who shuffled their feet uncomfortably.

‘And when and how is he supposed to have done that?’ demanded John. The widow entered the fray, with a harsh demand to know where Gwyn was at the time of the murder. ‘He could have been anywhere about the streets!’ shrilled Christina. ‘Ask him where he was.’

‘I was down with my family in Milk Lane!’ boomed Gwyn, angrily. ‘Then I went back to a game of dice in the castle guardroom until I found a bed in one of the barrack huts.’

‘That’s easy to say, fellow!’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Can you prove it?’

Exasperated, Gwyn turned to de Wolfe. ‘Do I have to answer these damn-fool questions, Crowner? My wife and all my sister’s family will vouch for me being there-and half the bloody garrison saw me at Rougemont!’

Before John could answer him, the sheriff snapped out another question, intent on building a web of suspicion around the Cornishman.