The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘Where the hell is Bermondsey?’ demanded Gwyn.

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘Somewhere in London, as far as I know.’

His clerk looked slightly aggrieved at their ignorance. ‘Bermondsey Priory is a famous house, on the south side of the Thames, just below King William’s White Tower on the opposite bank.’

The coroner was more concerned with his mission than with the geography. ‘Does Hubert not say what he wishes me to do?’ he demanded.

Thomas rapidly read to the end of the short message. ‘It seems that the circumstances of the death of this lady are suspicious, but the justiciar says that you will have the details when you arrive. He will be absent in Normandy, but the prior will acquaint you with the situation. The last sentence emphasizes the urgency of your arrival at the priory, in order to examine the corpse.’

‘God’s bones, she’ll be pretty ripe by the time we arrive!’ grunted the Cornishman. ‘That messenger must have been on the road for almost a week and it will take us another week to get there!’

As it turned out, the delay was somewhat less, as the herald had made a forced ride with numerous changes of horse and had covered the journey from London to Exeter in four days. Together with the fortunate voyage of the Saint Radegund , it was not much more than a week before they found themselves jogging into Bermondsey.

This was even less of a community than Woolwich, as it consisted mainly of the priory, with a few cottages sheltering under its walls. The surroundings were bleak, especially on this icy winter’s day, being a waste of marshes that ran along the Thames, which was about a quarter of a mile from the priory. The fog was thinner here and the coroner’s trio could see humps of reedy mud rising above a network of reens and ditches, as the great river had poorly defined edges that changed with the tides and the rainfall.

The priory was built on the first solid ground that rose slightly above the swamp, and as they rode towards the gatehouse de Wolfe could see that the walls formed a substantial rectangle of masonry, within which buildings could be seen, one of them a church. Though Gwyn was not impressed by his first sight of their destination, Thomas’s eyes lit up as he saw a new ecclesiastical establishment. He crossed himself vigorously and muttered some Latin prayers under his breath.

As far as the coroner was concerned, this was a new challenge to his professional reputation, as he had secretly been proud to have the summons from the justiciar, ahead of all the other county coroners in England. It was true that he had a special relationship with Hubert Walter – and indeed Richard Coeur de Lion himself – as he had been part of the king’s bodyguard in the Holy Land and had accompanied him on the ill-fated voyage home when he returned from the Third Crusade.

Still, to have been appointed coroner of the verge, even if only as a locum tenens, was an honour, for this unique post was responsible for the investigation of deaths, assaults, ravishments and fires that might involve the king, his court and anyone associated with that grand if cumbersome entourage.

With these thoughts in mind, he followed the lad on the pony to the gatehouse on the western side of the walls. It had a wide gate under a stone arch to admit wagons and a side gate for pedestrians. As soon as they dismounted and untied their sparse belongings from the saddles, the boy from Woolwich rapidly roped the horses into a line and vanished into the mist without a word, leaving the three men standing outside the forbidding oaken doors like orphans left outside a poorhouse.

De Wolfe strode to the small door and saw that alongside it there was a bell hanging from a bracket, with a cord dangling from the clapper. He rang it vigorously and a moment later a large man with a face like a bulldog appeared. He wore a faded cassock, and John, correctly taking him for a lay brother, dragged Thomas forward to explain who they were. Grudgingly, the porter motioned them in, and without a word slammed the door to the secular world behind them.

They found themselves in a wide outer court, the west end of the church forming the further end, with a cemetery visible over a low wall on their left. A line of buildings formed the right-hand side, and without a word the door-ward pointed to another gate about a third of the way down this stone façade.

The coroner’s team made their way to this inner entrance and saw a small wicket-gate in the centre. Stepping through, they entered a long inner court stretching down to the high boundary wall in the distance. On their left were more buildings, with several doors and a row of shuttered windows on the upper floor.

‘God be with you, brothers,’ came a voice from nearby. Turning, they saw that a small lodge lay inside the gate, from which a tubby monk now emerged. In his element, Thomas de Peyne advanced on him, inevitably making the sign of the cross, and greeted him in fluent Latin.

‘Why can’t they damned well talk English?’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘Then we’d know what they’re gabbling about!’

Thomas ferreted in his shoulder-bag and produced the scroll that had carried Hubert Walter’s commission to Exeter. He displayed the ornate red wax seal of the Archbishop of Canterbury and allowed the guardian of the inner gate to read the text. Suitably impressed, the ruddy-faced monk bobbed his head in deference to the king’s coroner and, to be on the safe side, to Gwyn as well. Then he said something to Thomas and trotted off towards a doorway in the nearest building.

‘That was Brother Maglo and he’s taking us to the prior, but first of all will show us where we will be accommodated,’ explained their clerk, delighted to be within a house of God once again. ‘This is the cellarer’s building and above it is the guesthouse.’

Inside, the ground floor appeared to be a series of storerooms with several small offices where monks were keeping lists and tallies of all the food, drink and supplies needed for the bodily health of the inhabitants, their spiritual health being dealt with deeper inside the priory. The whole place smelled of damp, mouldy grain and a hint of incense. As they reached the far end of the central corridor, their guide spoke in English for the first time, in a voice with a strong Breton accent.

‘Sirs, these are the stairs up to some of the guest-chambers and the dormitory. You will eat here, in this small refectory, as the kitchens are through there.’

Maglo pointed first into a large room at the foot of the staircase, then to a door in the end wall from behind which came a clashing of pots and pans. They climbed the bare stone stairs to the upper floor, where a long dormitory lay above the cellarium below. The first quarter was partitioned into four small rooms, two on each side, the rest of the attic being laid out with a dozen mattresses along the floor. A large crucifix hung over a door at the end.

‘That is the way down into the cloister and to the church,’ explained Brother Maglo. ‘You, Sir John, have this cubicle here. Your assistants will sleep in the first two beds of the common dormitory.’

Having firmly established the statuses of the new arrivals, the rotund Cluniac hurried back to his post, after a final word to explain that someone would soon come to escort them to the prior and afterwards see that they were fed and watered.

De Wolfe entered his cell, which had no door, and dropped his saddlebag on to the mattress, the only furniture in the room. His luggage contained little apart from two clean tunics, a couple of pairs of hose and several clean undershirts, all packed by his cook-maid Mary, as his surly wife Matilda was utterly bereft of any domestic skills.

A hairbrush and a specially sharpened knife for his weekly shaves completed his belongings – he suspected that Gwyn and Thomas had even less, though his clerk always carried his Vulgate and prayer book, together with writing materials. As a token of respect for a religious house, he unbuckled his sword belt and pulled the supporting baldric from his shoulder, then hung them on one of the pegs fixed to the wall, with his grey wolfskin riding cloak alongside it.