The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘Bernice, you are not telling me everything!’ he barked, bending down towards her so that his intimidating dark face was pushed almost into hers.

The girl suddenly burst into tears. ‘I told Elias that Walter had a very large purse that night. I even saw the glint of a gold bezant, when he opened it to give me an extra penny for myself.’

A feeling of triumph began to steal through John’s soul. Here was something worth pursuing. ‘So what did Elias do then?’ he demanded.

Bernice shrugged, two tears coursing down her pleasant face. ‘Nothing, sir. Just went downstairs again.’

De Wolfe straightened up and on an impulse, stroked the top of the distressed girl’s head. ‘Calm yourself, girl. I’m going now. But where can I find this Elias Palmer?’

The round face came up again, the smile back in place. ‘Old Maud might know, sir. He’s always around somewhere.’

Downstairs, he found the woman sitting on an upturned bucket in the unkempt backyard. At his demand, she waddled back into the passageway and yelled for Elias outside the first door on the left. Impatiently, de Wolfe thrust aside the leather curtain and saw a man lying face down on the bed, his breeches around his ankles.

As he jumped up in surprise, grabbing for his nether garments, there was a squawk from beneath him and a girl rapidly hoisted a tattered blanket over her head.

‘Who the hell are you, damn it?’ demanded the man furiously, as he pulled his breeches up below his short tunic and fumbled with his belt.

‘Sampling your own goods, eh?’ replied John sarcastically. ‘I’m the coroner and I want a word with you. Come out into the yard when you’re decent.’

A moment later, Elias Palmer appeared reluctantly through the back door. He was a dandified fellow of middle height, with a shock of light brown hair. His otherwise unremarkable face was disfigured by a livid birthmark that covered the whole of one cheek and part of his temple.

‘What do you want from me, Crowner?’ he mumbled. ‘There’s no law against running a few girls.’

John was not sure if there was or not, but it was of no interest to him. ‘What did you do with the money, Elias?’ he snapped, poking his head forward like a vulture examining its next meal.

‘What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about?’ stammered the whoremonger, but his whole attitude shouted that he did indeed know.

‘Walter Tyrell, that’s what I’m talking about!’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘Bernice told you he had a fat purse with gold in it, didn’t she?’

‘What if she did?’ faltered Elias. ‘There’s no harm in gossip.’

‘But there’s harm in murder, Elias!’ snarled the coroner. ‘You followed him out to that side alley, killed him and stole his purse. Admit it now, for you’re going to swing for it, one way or the other.’

Elias looked wildly about him, stammering denials. At the back door, the faces of old Maud, Bernice and the other girl peered out in fearful fascination. With a sudden lunge, Elias turned and made for the fence that ran around the small yard. With de Wolfe pounding after him, he got to the rickety gate to fumble with the rusty catch. John remembered that he had Gwyn’s sword hanging from his baldric and with a swish, he drew it from the scabbard. There was a flash of sunlight reflected from its blade as he swung it high and brought it down on the top bar of the gate, an inch from Elias’s feverish fingers. The steel sliced clean through the wood and stuck quivering in the thicker central bar, pinning the loose hem of the man’s tunic to the gate.

Almost gibbering with fear, Elias dropped to the ground, his tunic ripping, as he held his hands up in supplication to the coroner.

‘I didn’t kill him, sir, I swear. I just took the purse from his dead body.’

John hauled him to his feet and jabbed him none too gently in the back with the point of the sword.

‘You can tell that to the king’s justices at the next Eyre of Assize,’ he promised grimly.

St James’s Priory was a small religious house on the bank of the river, between Exeter and Topsham. The prior and four monks were Cluniacs, their mother house being St Martin’s in Paris and they led a quiet existence, tending their vegetable plots and fish-traps on the Exe.

When Thomas had visited Gwyn, he had found him well-fed and comfortable, but fretting at his incarceration, unable to visit his wife and children. On the afternoon following his visit to the brothel, de Wolfe went down to see his henchman. He took care to ensure that none of the sheriff’s spies was following him, as he knew that de Revelle was still trying to discover where John’s officer was hidden.

‘How long am I going to be stuck here?’ demanded the Cornishman. ‘Thomas has been very good, bringing me news of my family, but if I stay here much longer, I’ll turn into a bloody monk myself!’

John brought him up to date on events, especially his arrest of Elias Palmer, who was now confined in Rougemont, where the cells had been emptied by this week’s hangings. The pimp, while steadfastly denying the murder, had confessed to taking the purse from Walter’s belt and, in fact, led John to a chest in his own room in the brothel where he produced the bag, still filled with coin.

‘But the damned sheriff still won’t accept that he killed Tyrell, the obstinate swine,’ fumed John. ‘He still believes that I have spirited you away somewhere and says that he’ll wait until doomsday to bring you before his court.’

‘Does he admit that he worked that swindle over the chicken blood on my sword?’

‘Not at all! Even though I told him that Christina had admitted knowing about it-which is stretching the truth a little.’

‘That poxy sword!’ muttered Gwyn. ‘It’s got me into trouble again, damn it.’

John pulled aside his riding cloak to show the ornate sheath dangling from his baldric, the diagonal strap over his shoulder that took the weight of the weapon. ‘I’ve brought it down for you, in case there’s any trouble if de Revelle does discover where you are.’

‘Thank you, Crowner,’ said Gwyn, rather diffidently. ‘But that thing has brought me nothing but ill-fortune. Grateful as I am for your gift, I think I’d like to see it exchanged for a less grand weapon, as I’m convinced there’s something about it that brings bad luck.’

Gwyn’s pure Celtic blood gave him a strongly superstitious nature and John had learned that it was futile to argue with him. He agreed to return it to Roger Trudogge and negotiate for a less ornate blade.

Feeling frustrated with his lack of progress in closing this affair, de Wolfe rode back to Exeter, pondering his next moves in trying to lift the cloud of suspicion that still hung over Gwyn. Every so often, a worm of doubt wriggled in his mind, whispering that the big man might really have killed the fuller, but each time John crushed the notion, knowing in his heart that though Gwyn might swing at someone in a raging temper, there was no way that he would lay in wait for them in a dark alley.

The problem was that the sheriff resolutely refused to give up this golden opportunity to hurt his brother-in-law, in revenge for John’s earlier exposure of him as a potential traitor and rebel. Only Matilda’s intercession had saved Richard from the ignominy of dismissal and possible arrest.

‘How in God’s name can I convince everyone that this thieving whoremonger is the real culprit?’ he muttered under his breath, as he rode Odin through the same South Gate where his officer had been briefly imprisoned. He thought of putting Elias to the Ordeal, a form of torture involving hot irons or boiling water, but that was intended to try the issue of guilt or innocence, not to extract a confession. Maybe he could submit him to a ‘pressing’, usually reserved for suspects who refused to answer any questions, being ‘mute of malice’. The unfortunate victim was manacled to the ground and had iron weights placed on his chest, the number being increased until he either confessed or died. However, a coroner could not order this without the agreement of the sheriff, which was hardly likely to be granted.