The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

Gwyn’s blue eyes goggled at the thought of such a huge sum.

‘You’re bloody mad, Tyrell! Where would I get five pounds? And as for your friendship with the sheriff, well, he’s a bigger crook than you are!’

Incensed at this slur on both his honesty and that of his high-born friend, the fuller made the mistake of punching the Cornishman in the chest. He might as well have struck the city wall, for all the effect it had.

Gwyn gave a roar of annoyance and with a hand the size of a ham, pushed Walter in the face, so that he staggered back into the circle of villagers, for whom the prospect of a fight outweighed even a house fire in entertainment value.

But now things turned nasty, as sobbing with rage, the swarthy fuller reached to the back of his belt and drew out a wicked-looking dagger. As he brandished this, the crowd fell back, with a communal murmur of disapproval at this unsporting escalation of the quarrel.

‘Put that away, you silly fool!’ growled Gwyn, but Tyrell came forward and lunged at him with the blade. Gwyn stepped back and automatically felt for his sword-but his hand failed to find the familiar hilt hanging on his belt. He had left it in the cottage and even while confronted by an angry man waving a knife, he fleetingly realized that his most treasured possession was by now probably ruined beyond repair.

A dagger attack was no novelty to Gwyn after two decades of fighting across Europe and the Holy Land, but even he was surprised by the ferocity of Tyrell’s assault. Dodging the first wild slash, he tried to grab the man’s wrist, but the fuller made a back-handed swing which caught Gwyn on the forearm. The sharp blade sliced through the leather of his sleeve and drew blood from a long cut below his elbow. It was not serious, but the Cornishman gave a bellow, more from indignation at being wounded by such an amateur, than from pain.

‘When I get a sword, I’ll cut your bloody head off!’ he yelled, to the delight of the circle of onlookers. Deciding that this had gone far enough, Gwyn made a feint with his injured arm and in the split second that Walter’s eyes flicked towards it, he gave him a resounding blow on the side of the head with his other fist. As the fuller staggered with his teeth still rattling, Gwyn grabbed his knife arm and twisted the blade from his fingers, then pushed him violently so that he staggered and fell flat on his back on the dusty road.

‘Clear off, Tyrell! You can have your bloody house back again, what’s left of it. I’ll rent one further down the street that’s got a decent roof!’

The red-headed giant threw the knife down alongside Walter, who clambered to his feet, still gibbering with rage, uttering threats and promises of dire retribution.

‘The sheriff will hear of this first thing in the morning, damn you!’ he snarled, as he tried to dust down his soiled tunic. ‘You threatened to kill me! I’ll attain you for assault at the next Shire Court!’

Gwyn, his temper already cooled, grinned at the fuming Walter. ‘Will you choose trial by combat, then?’ he said mockingly. ‘I’ll gladly challenge you with dagger or sword!’

There were jeers from the circle of spectators and his neighbour joined in the row.

‘You should sue him, Gwyn! He struck you first-and he’s wounded you!’

Landlords being about as popular as tax-collectors, the men of St Sidwell began to scowl and look threateningly at Tyrell, who took the hint and still muttering, loped off towards the East Gate, which though it was well after curfew, had been opened by the porters to let him through because of the nearby fire.

With that particular drama over, the men turned their attention back to the burning cottage, but already the collapse of the walls had partly blanketed the fallen thatch and instead of a roaring inferno, the fire was settling into a steady bonfire.

‘There’s nothing you can do until morning, Gwyn,’ said the tanner.

‘Best come home and bed down with us for the rest of the night. My wife can bind up that arm of yours.’

As he moved away reluctantly, Gwyn took a last look at the remains of his home.

‘As soon as it cools, I’ll see if I can find my old sword,’ he growled. ‘But I doubt it’ll be much use after being in there!’

‘Twenty years I’ve had this-and now look at it!’

The huge man looked mournfully at the weapon that lay across his knees, as he sat on a stool in the guard-room of Exeter’s Rougemont Castle.

‘I won it in a game of dice in Wexford,’ he continued nostalgically. ‘It’s been with me in campaigns from Ireland to Palestine and saved my life a dozen times!’

A thin, leathery old soldier, the sergeant of the garrison’s men-at-arms, looked down critically at the sword, as he passed behind the coroner’s officer to refill his ale-pot from a jug on a shelf. The leather scabbard had burnt away, as had the wooden hilt and the remaining metal was bent and discoloured. ‘It’s come to the end of the road now, Gwyn,’ said Gabriel.

‘Why did it get so bent, just being in a fire?’ asked the other occupant of the chamber, which was set at the side of the entrance arch of the gatehouse. He was a fresh-faced young soldier, who had never yet seen any weapon lifted in combat.

‘The ridge timber of the roof fell across it when it collapsed,’ Gwyn explained glumly. ‘But even without that, the heat will have ruined the temper of the steel.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ asked Gabriel. ‘You can’t be a law officer without a sword.’

Gwyn dropped the useless weapon to the floor with a clang. ‘I can’t afford to buy a new one, my wife’s expecting another babe. There’ll be clothes for that-and we’ll need to replace things that were lost in the fire.’

‘You’ll just have to win another game of dice, lad,’ suggested Gabriel. ‘Or find a war somewhere, to collect a bit of loot.’

The already gloomy chamber darkened as someone blocked the morning light coming through the low doorway and a deep voice joined in their conversation.

‘Your purse empty again, Gwyn? Is it ale or gaming this time?’

The young soldier jumped to his feet and saluted, as Gwyn hauled himself up from his stool to greet the newcomer.

‘Morning, Crowner! Just having a grumble about my ruined sword.’ He picked up the offending weapon and showed it to his master, who examined it with professional interest. While Gwyn related the unhappy events of the previous night, the young soldier looked at Sir John de Wolfe with some awe. He was a legendary figure in the barracks-a knight, a former Crusader and now the king’s coroner for the county of Devon. Almost as tall as the burly Gwyn, he was lean with a slight stoop, his long face and beaked nose giving him a hawkish appearance. The black hair curling to his collar and the dark stubble on his cheeks, as well as his liking for sombre clothing, explained why he had been known as ‘Black John’ by the troops of a dozen wars over the years.

‘This old piece of iron has seen some action, Gwyn!’ he said with feeling. ‘It’s saved my life a few times, that’s for sure.’

‘As yours did for me, Crowner,’ replied the Cornishman, his ruddy face breaking into a grin, the bright blue eyes twinkling. Then he became serious again, as he took back the ruined sword. ‘How am I going to watch your back now? I suppose I’ll have to rely on that old ball-mace.’

De Wolfe did not reply, but jerked his head towards a doorway on the inner side of the guard-room, where a narrow stone staircase spiralled up in the thickness of the wall. This gatehouse had been the first thing that the Conqueror had built in Devon, after he had ruthlessly squashed the Saxon rebellion less than two years after the battle at Hastings. At the top of the tall, narrow building, a bleak chamber had been allotted to the coroner-deliberately chosen by the sheriff, John’s brother-in-law, as the most inhospitable room in the castle.