The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘The only hope is to find the real killer,’ sobbed Nesta, clinging on to John’s arm.

‘That’s almost impossible, given the short time we have,’ snarled the coroner.

‘So we need more time!’ declared the sergeant. ‘Which means we’ve got to get him out of there…now listen to me!’

Four heads bent together over the table and began muttering in conspiratorial tones.

The following night, several shadowy figures moved around the city, in addition to the usual drunks and furtive patrons of the numerous brothels.

One who was not out and about was the coroner, who as a royal officer himself, needed to stay well clear of any nefarious activity. To establish his innocence in advance, he stayed in his own hall all evening, much to his wife’s surprise, for he usually found an excuse to take his old hound Brutus for a long walk each night, a transparent excuse to go down to the Bush Inn to visit his mistress.

John even raided his wine cupboard and opened a stone jar of his best Loire red, insisting that Matilda sample a few glasses, as they sat by their hearth. This considerate domesticity made his wife somewhat suspicious, but she could hardly complain at his solicitous behaviour, however unusual it might be. Later that evening, when she retired to bed in her solar, John feigned tiredness and insisted on accompanying her, though he drew the line at anything but a rapid descent into sleep.

Meanwhile, out in the darkened city, Thomas de Peyne was slinking around the back of the Guildhall to reach the constable’s hut, at a time when he knew they would be fortifying themselves with bread, cheese and ale before going on their late night rounds. Sympathetic to Gwyn’s plight and like most people, contemptuous of the sheriff’s corruption, they readily agreed to the clerk’s request for them to direct their feet towards the north side of the city for the next hour or so, keeping away from the cathedral area.

The disgraced priest then slipped away towards the Close, the large area around the massive cathedral of St Peter and St Mary. This was mainly a burial ground, flanked by the houses of the canons and various small chapels and churches. It had a series of entrances from other streets, in one of which, Martin’s Lane, the coroner lived. Thomas kept well away from there and lurked under an arch leading to Southgate Street. It was too early for the bell to summon the clergy to Matins, so the Close was quiet, with just a few beggars and drunks fast asleep against the burial mounds.

Soon, footsteps approached and the figure of Sergeant Gabriel appeared, a hooded cloak over the leather jerkin that was part of his military garb.

‘All’s well,’ reported Thomas, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Osric and Theobald have decided to patrol up near the North Gate tonight.’ He reached into a pocket inside his shabby cassock, the only remnant of his ecclesiastical past, and handed over a heavy purse. ‘The coroner says that this should be sufficient for your purpose.’

Gabriel, with a furtive look up and down the dark alley, slid the purse into his own cloak. ‘Wait here, Thomas! We should be back within a few minutes.’

He vanished into the darkness, leaving the little clerk in a state of acute anxiety, his teeth chattering partly from the chill night, but mainly from fear of being discovered. The few minutes promised by Gabriel seemed to lengthen into hours and the prospect of being arrested and cast into a cell himself began to strengthen in his fevered mind. He was just trying to decide if the penalty for gaol-breaking would be hanging or mutilation, when the sergeant materialized again, with Gwyn close behind.

‘Thank God and all his angels!’ gabbled the clerk, crossing himself convulsively in his relief.

‘No time for gabbing now,’ snapped Gabriel. ‘Let’s get him safely put away.’

They hurried across the Close, passing before the great West Front of the cathedral, dimly seen in the starlight. A muddy path between open grave-pits and older mounds took them diagonally across to the opening into Martin’s Lane, but instead of passing the coroner’s dwelling, Thomas stopped before a heavy door set into the front of a small white-washed church with a plain, narrow tower. Twisting the iron ring, he pushed it open and ushered the others inside.

‘Here you are, Gwyn, a safe haven for the next forty days! Even the sheriff won’t dare to have you dragged out of here, this is God’s sanctuary!’

‘How did he take it, John?’ asked Nesta the next evening, as they lay together on her mattress in the Bush, where a corner of the loft had been partitioned off as a bedroom for the landlady.

De Wolfe’s craggy face split into a rare smile as he recalled the sheriff that morning, almost incandescent with rage at the news of Gwyn’s escape into sanctuary.

‘He was fit to have a seizure, I thought he might have attacked me!’ he chortled. ‘It was his pride that was most injured, when he discovered that his cunning plot had been thwarted.’

‘Did you confront him about the chicken blood?’ she demanded, indignantly.

‘I did indeed! Of course he denied it and said I had no proof that it was chicken blood. I said he had no proof it was human, so it was a stalemate, but he knows that I know the truth.’

‘What about the gaoler at South Gate?’ asked Nesta. ‘He must be in dire trouble over this.’

‘The sheriff was all for locking him into his own cells and throwing away the key!’ grinned de Wolfe. ‘Thankfully Gabriel got Gwyn to punch his face a few times and then tie him up. The man didn’t mind, as he’s three marks the richer for it! We let four others escape from Gwyn’s cell at the same time, just to avoid making it look too obvious. It’s not as if bribing gaolers is uncommon, it happens all the time.’

‘But de Revelle must know that you were behind it?’

‘Of course he does! But he can’t prove it, whereas his own sister can testify that I was never out of her sight all that evening.’

The auburn-haired Welsh woman cuddled up to him under the sheepskin that covered them, but she looked worried. ‘But isn’t this just delaying the outcome?’ she fretted. ‘What happens to Gwyn at the end of the forty days?’

Though she knew something about sanctuary, her lover had just explained it more fully. Gwyn could stay in St Martin’s church for that period, safe from arrest, but unless he confessed his crime to the coroner in a set form of words and agreed to ‘abjure the realm’, he would be locked in and starved to death when the forty days was up. ‘Abjuring the realm’ meant leaving England for ever, on pain of death if he ever returned.

‘We have to clear this matter up long before the time runs out,’ replied John, serious once again. ‘Discover who really slew Walter Tyrell and expose de Revelle’s trickery.’

Nesta suddenly sat up, the candlelight revealing her nakedness until she modestly clutched the coverlet to her bosom. ‘I did hear something today, John,’ she said earnestly. ‘A weaver from Tiverton was in here this afternoon. He’s a regular customer, calls in for a meal and ale every time he comes to Exeter to buy wool. Everyone was gossiping about Tyrell’s murder and I asked if he knew him.’

John pulled her back down and covered her with the fleece, waiting with interest for the rest of her story, his bare arm about her shoulders.

‘We got talking about it and I led him on as well as I could.’

‘You brazen hussy! Am I to be jealous?’ he jested.

‘Be serious, John! He said that it was well-known that Walter’s brother, this Serlo, has for a long time been trying to buy out his brother’s share in the mills, so that he can become sole owner. But Walter refuses and there has been bad feeling between them.’