The Poisoned Chalice (21 page)

Now that the breach had been healed, each party seemed to vie with the other to be the most magnanimous. De Courcy was divested of his cloak, seated by the fire and pressed to take some wine. They commiserated with each other for a few moments, but the practicalities of what could be done soon surfaced.

‘We have a sheriff and a coroner to keep the peace, yet they seem powerless to do anything useful,' complained Hugh, but de Courcy was not ready to blame them yet.

‘It has been little more than half a day since they were involved. I doubt we can expect much progress in that time.'

Lord Ferrars was not so charitable. ‘They have done exactly nothing, as far as I can see. Probably each dozing by their firesides at this moment.'

‘We should take the law into our own hands, as our forebears did,' grated Hugh, his temper rising again. ‘Can we not discover who might have violated Adele for a start? That would be one fellow to slay, at least!'

De Courcy said, cautiously, ‘The prime villain is he – or she – who caused her death. But it may well be that the man who got her with child was the instigator of the abortion and is more guilty than whoever did the act itself, perhaps some poor drab of a wife in a back lane.

Guy Ferrars turned this over in his mind. ‘Surely there are voices in the town who would tell us who indulges in procuring these miscarriages? I would pay a reward of twenty marks for such news, if it led to the name of the killer.'

‘And I would double that, willingly,' said Reginald enthusiastically. The prospect of doing something useful lifted their spirits a little.

‘Is there no gossip in the city about it?' demanded Guy Ferrars. ‘With less than five thousand souls within the walls, it is usual for everyone to know his neighbour's business.'

De Courcy took a sip of wine and said, thoughtfully, ‘The only gossip I hear is about the ravishment of that poor girl of Henry Rifford's. Tongues are wagging that our master silversmith is a possible candidate for that.'

‘Why should that be?' enquired Guy Ferrars. ‘I thought he was a staunch burgess, a merchant guild-master.'

‘So he is, but he has a bad reputation as a seducer and it was to his shop that the girl went shortly before she was defiled.'

Hugh Ferrars, who had taken again to his restless prowling with a mug of wine in his hand, stopped suddenly. ‘Silversmith? Which silversmith might that be?'

De Courcy looked up at the younger man. ‘We only have three in Exeter, and one alone produces first-quality work.'

Hugh rushed on impatiently, ‘I'm not a city man, I prefer our country estates. What's his name?'

‘Godfrey Fitzosbern, in Martin's Lane.'

There was a bang as Hugh slammed down his mug on the oaken table. ‘Fitzosbern! That's the name! Adele was dealing with him over several months. She wanted a whole set of trinkets matched in silver filigree for her nuptial costume – headband, earrings, gorget, bracket and rings!'

Adele's father looked shocked. ‘Of course! I was paying for them, I should have remembered. The whole set was delivered and is locked away in my treasure chest at Shillingford.'

Lord Ferrars stood up, his towering height and wide bulk seeming to fill the small room. ‘What are you saying, Hugh? What has silversmithing to do with this?'

Hugh beat a fist on the table, making his mead cup jangle. ‘The same man, this Fitzosbern! He is suspected of the rape of that girl, who visited his shop the night of her shame. And Adele must have gone to that same shop a dozen times, choosing and fitting those wedding baubles.'

There was a silence as pregnant as the subject of their concern had been. ‘But it was many months ago,' objected de Courcy.

‘And she was at least four months gone with child, according to the nun from Polsloe,' retorted Hugh.

‘Don't let us go too fast. Probably half the rich ladies in Devon have been to silversmiths for their jewellery. Just visiting a merchant doesn't make him a rapist and a fornicator.'

But Hugh would not be swayed. He had the bit between his teeth and any target for attack was better than none. ‘It is a strange coincidence, that the man whom gossip marks out for a rape is the same whom Adele attended many times.'

The older men were far more cautious, but they were by no means dismissive of the possibility. ‘He should be put to some questions,' said de Courcy.

‘Questions? He should be put to the Ordeal, if not to the sword!' shouted Hugh, as hot-heated as ever. His big head swung from side to side on his thick neck, as if he was seeking some target within the dim corners of the room. In his state of chronic anger, he was desperate for something to hit.

Reginald de Courcy made an unconvincing plea for moderation. ‘Come now, we are all romancing, surely? A wild rumour, born of idle gossip about the portreeve's daughter, born out of a man's poor reputation with women. Can we jump to an even wilder surmise that he must also be a murderer?'

Lord Ferrars was silent, at least not disagreeing with the speaker, but reluctant to abandon their only possibility. However tenuous it might be, it was better than nothing in their present state of frustration.

But the younger Hugh was in no mood for moderation. ‘I can't stay stifled up in here, forever talking in circles.' He threw more mead into his cup from a jug, splashing half of it on the table, then drained it at a gulp.

At the door, he prodded his squatting squire with a long-toed shoe. ‘Come on, we'll walk the town and ease our minds in a tavern or two.'

They pushed out into the lane and made for the high street, finding their way by the dim glow of chestnut roasters, horn lanterns of hawkers' stalls and the glimmer through linen shades over unglazed windows.

John de Wolfe slumped in his chair, almost dozing from the effects of red wine and the warmth of the fire on his front. Though it was only the middle of the evening, he was contemplating taking to his bed out of sheer boredom. Matilda had already succumbed and was snoring gently, her head back against her beehive chair, mouth wide open and the embroidery silks forgotten in her lap.

Through eyelids lowered to almost closing, the coroner stared at the fiery patterns made by the glowing logs, trying to decide whether to refill his wine cup or climb the outside stairs to the solar and his bed.

Suddenly, Brutus lifted his head and his ears went back. The big hound had been lying at John's feet, head between his paws, but now he was alert. Sleepily his master caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. ‘What is it, old dog?' he murmured.

The mastiff turned his head slightly to one side, listening intently. John sat up and strained his own ears, knowing that despite his age, Brutus still had keen hearing.

There was something outside, some commotion in the lane. Though the house walls were wooden, they were made of a double layer of thick oak and the inside was hung with tapestries, which helped muffle sounds but still some hubbub filtered through. He could hear shouts and raised voices, as Brutus jumped up and loped to the door to sniff at the bottom crack.

John got to his feet and followed the dog. Matilda had not stirred and was still making soft whistling sounds in her throat. Throwing his cloak loosely over his shoulders, the coroner stepped out into the street, looking to his left from where the noise came. The lane was better lit than much of Exeter, as two pitch flares were stuck in rings on the walls of the farrier's diagonally opposite, towards St Martin's church. That light now fell on two struggling figures outside his next-door neighbour's house, the frontage of which was set back a few feet from John's dwelling.

Immediately, he saw that it was a one-sided struggle, as the heavy figure of Godfrey Fitzosbern appeared to be beating the life out of a much slighter man, accompanied by oaths and yelling from them both.

John dodged back into his vestibule to pull his sword from its sheath, then ran back into the street. By the time he returned, a third figure was involved, dragging at Fitzsobern's tunic. Even the dim light was sufficient to show that it was that of a woman.

‘What in hell is going on?' roared John, as he ran towards the struggling trio, holding his sword aloft.

When she saw her neighbour approaching, Mabel, for of course it was Godfrey's wife, screamed, ‘He'll kill the boy, get him off, for God's sake!' She continued to tug at her husband, but he gave her a swinging back-handed blow that knocked her flying against the doorpost of his shop. He then set to kicking the body on the ground, who huddled up with his arms protectively over his head.

‘Stop that, Fitzosbern!' yelled the coroner, grabbing him by the shoulder. His sword was useless – he could hardly run his neighbour through, although he contemplated whacking him with the flat of the blade.

The guild-master was in such a rage that he was oblivious of de Wolfe's presence, almost blue in the face and yelling abuse at the cringing figure lying in the cold mud. John tried to get an arm-lock around his neck to drag him off, but the frenzied assailant twisted away.

Then, abruptly, the battle took another turn as two other figures materialised from the gloom and grabbed Fitzosbern, pulling him away from the man on the ground. But Godfrey pulled an arm free and delivered a ringing punch to the face of one of the new arrivals, sending him staggering. Then there was a metallic scrape as the other fellow pulled out his sword and, an instant later, Fitzosbern was pinioned against his own front wall, with a sharp blade pressed across his neck.

De Wolfe bent down to hoist up the first victim from the snowy mud, just as the man Fitzosbern had punched climbed to his feet and delivered a shin-cracking kick to the merchant's left leg. Fitzosbern roared with pain and the coroner dropped his man back into the mud to leap forward and swing the flat of his sword against the shoulders of the kicker.

‘What in Christ's name is going on here?' he bellowed. The other man still had his long blade at Fitzosbern's neck, a thin trickle of blood now running down from a shallow cut across his Adam's apple. Without hesitation, John lifted his huge sword and again brought the flat of it down on the forearm of the assailant, who gave a howl of pain as his weapon clattered down the wall. Fitzosbern slid to the ground and the coroner grabbed the cloaked swordsman. He swung him round to reveal the face of Hugh Ferrars, flushed and obviously drunk.

‘You could have cut the man's throat, sir!' he snapped ‘Do you to want to hang for it?'

‘The bastard deserves it, by all account,' snarled the young man. ‘Anyway, I was saving this other fellow's life. Fitzosbern was killing him – who is he, by the way?'

They turned to the groaning figure that John had unceremoniously dropped back into the mire, ignoring both Fitzosbern and Hugh's squire, who was sitting on the ground rubbing his shoulder where the coroner's broadsword had struck him.

‘It's Edgar of Topsham, by damnation!' barked Ferrars. They dragged him to his feet and supported him while the apothecary's apprentice gingerly felt his face, ribs and kidneys to see what was damaged.

Now the silversmith himself climbed groggily to his feet and staggered over to him, his temper not improved by the blood running down his neck. ‘Arrest them, murderers!' he croaked, clutching John's arm. ‘He tried to kill me, the swine – look at this blood!'

The squire had recovered enough to make another lung at Fitzosbern, but John pushed him away. ‘Control this fellow, Ferrars, or I'll have you both in the castle gaol.'

Hugh muttered something at the other man, who seemed even more drunk than his master and the squire backed off a few paces.

The guild-master was still shaking the coroner's arm and demanding that he arrest all three of his antagonists. ‘This evil young pup, be began it all!' Godfrey gave the shivering Edgar a hearty push in the chest, but John grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back.

‘Let's have no more violence from any of you!' he yelled. Suddenly he was aware again of the other person among them, Mabel Fitzosbern, who had come across from her front doorstep, where she had sheltered since her husband had struck her. The light from the farrier's showed that she had a livid bruise down the side of her cheek and her left eye was rapidly closing with purple swelling of the lids. Her linen head-rail had been torn off and her ash-blonde hair was hanging in a tangle across her shoulder. ‘He would have killed the boy, if you hadn't appeared,' she hissed, with a venom that surprised de Wolfe, coming from such a pretty and elegant woman. ‘It's that damned husband of mine you should arrest, not these men!'

‘Hold your tongue, woman! What do you know about it?' yelled Fitzsobern. ‘This evil young bastard accused me of raping his girl!'

Mabel put her bruised features close to his and spat in his face. ‘And I'd not be surprised if he was right, you swine! I can tell the world a thing or two about you and your habits!' Godfrey raised a hand to strike her again, but de Wolfe grabbed it in a steel-like grip. ‘You can't testify to anything about me, you bitch,' yelled Fitzosbern, struggling against the coroner's restraint. ‘You are my wife and I command you to get inside that house. I'll deal with you later.'

Now Edgar found his voice for the first time, speaking thickly through bruised lips. ‘Coroner, you must arrest this man – or call the sheriffs men if you don't have the power. Look how he used me! He assaulted me and would have killed me if you hadn't come along. And I believe he is a ravisher. My Christina was last in his company.'

Fitzosbern roared again and struggled to get free from John's grasp. Hugh Ferrars, who had managed to keep quiet during these exchanges, launched himself forward to seize the silversmith, but John fended him off with the point of his sword.

‘Leave it!' he yelled. ‘All calm down, or I'll put the lot of you under the castle keep!'

He became aware of a growing knot of curious onlookers drifting into a semi-circle, attracted from the high street by the shouting and clatter of sword blades.