The Sanctuary Seeker (11 page)

John approached the nearest man. ‘Where would I find Cenwulf of Lincoln?’ he demanded.

The craftsman rocked back on to his heels, resting his iron chisel and heavy mallet on the ground. A thick leather apron, scarred by tools and chippings, covered him from neck to knees. ‘Who wants to know?’ He was a middle-aged fellow, his face almost as leathery as his apron but relieved by a pair of bright blue eyes.

‘The King’s coroner,’ said John bluntly.

The mason dropped his tools and rose slowly to his feet. Master masons were never a servile breed, they were sought-after craftsmen, well paid, with a strong guild behind them. But the mention of the King triggered respect and attentiveness.

‘Look no further, Crowner, I’m Cenwulf … and I know what business you have with me.’

John liked his directness, sensing an honesty and a desire to assist that was absent in most folk, who would do all they could to evade any contact with the law. ‘Then tell me what you know of this man who lies dead now in Witdecombe,’ he said, settled his backside against a large untrimmed stone block and folded his arms, ready to listen.

‘It’s little enough, sir. But I heard the town crier’s messages this morning, when he paraded the close, wanting news of many things, including a man slain near Widecombe. It may have been the same fellow that I met just twelve days ago at Honiton.’

The coroner nodded encouragingly, his long hair swirling over the neckband of his grey tunic. ‘Why do you think he was that man, mason?’

‘Fair, and about the same age as claimed by the crier, but that is little enough. Yet he had a tanned skin and wore a Mussulman’s sword in a curved sheath on his belt.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘When I saw him, a moleskin rain-cloak, but under that, a green tunic or a surcoat - I couldn’t swear to which. And a red cloth capuchin on his head. He had curious high riding boots, too.’

Thomas, lurking behind his master, whispered in his ear, ‘Certainly sounds like our cadaver.’

Ignoring him, John continued, ‘Where, then, did you see him?’

‘We had harsh words, that fellow and me, a wonder we didn’t come to blows.’

John’s interest quickened. Was this another possible suspect, he wondered. Though it seemed odd that he volunteered in his first few words that there had been bad blood between them, considering that the other man had come to a violent end.

i came by my pony from Salisbury, where my contract on the cathedral there had finished and I had arranged for three months’ work here. On the last morning of the journey, I stopped for ale and meat at an inn in Honiton, some fifteen miles on the east road from Exeter. While I was taking my ease on the benches outside, eating and drinking, this man led his horse from the stable and then mounted. The innkeeper stood out to bid him a good journey, so no doubt he had stayed the night there.’

John scratched the stubble on his dark chin. ‘Why did you dispute with him?’

The mason traced a finger almost lovingly along the huge stone touching the material that was his life’s work. ‘He got up on his steed and prodded its belly with a spur. The beast lunged forwards like an arrow from a bow and raced past me, splashing mud and horse-shit from the yard all over me. The bread I was eating was fouled and my clothing splattered.’

‘It was an accident?’ John prompted.

‘Accident be damned! It was the sheer thoughtlessness of a young man with no respect for his elders.’

‘So what did you do?’ chipped in the coroner’s clerk.

“I yelled after him and shook my fist. He looked back, wheeled his horse around and came back to me. I thought he was going to apologise … but he started to abuse me for shouting and gesturing at him.’

John was not interested in their quarrel - it seemed hardly likely to lead to a murder. He wanted to know more about the other man. ‘Do you know his name - or where he came from, or where he was bound?’

Cenwulf shook his head. ‘I had no reason to be more curious than anyone sitting in the sun with some ale, watching the world go by, until he covered me with mire.’

There was loud crash nearby: a sandstone block had slipped from its sling on the hoist and fallen to the ground. Fortunately no one was standing underneath or the coroner would have had more work that day.

Cenwulf, responsible for this team of workers, yelled an oath at then and muttered even more under his breath. ‘Clumsy fools! Men are not what they were in years past.’

John was not to be distracted from his quest. ‘You say he had a horse?’

‘A grey, medium height, dappled in black. It had a black ring around one eye, not the other … and very muddy hoofs!’ he added cynically.

‘You’re an observant man, Cenwulf,’ said John appreciatively. ‘Can you recall anything else?’

The man’s forehead puckered in thought. ‘I was too angry to take much notice. The man looked as if he might strike me with the bolt of leather he used to whack his horse but, thank God, he thought better of it.’

‘Why was that?’ asked John

‘Because I would pulled him off his horse, gentleman or not, and given him a good hammering,’ said Cenwulf truculently. ‘As it was he muttered something, then turned his grey mare and trotted off. That was the last I saw of him. I asked the landlord who he was, but he had no idea of his name, just said he’d taken a night’s lodging on the way from Southampton, but didn’t say where he was going.’

John scratched the dark stubble on his chin reflectively.

‘You said “gentleman”. What led you to think him that?’

‘Good clothes, though foreign-looking. His voice was not that of a common soldier. Though he spoke English as good as me, there was no doubt that he was a Norman.’

John, a half-breed himself, was unsure whether to take this as a compliment or not.

‘Can you recall anything else?’

‘There were bulging saddlebags and two wicker panniers across his beast’s shoulders, next to the rider’s knees. I remember thinking this must be a man going home after a long absence, with gifts and his worldly goods.’

A few more minutes’ questioning showed that the mason had nothing else to offer, apart from the name of the inn, the Plough at Honiton. He would be in Exeter until the early spring, so John knew where to find him if anything else turned up.

The coroner thanked Cenwulf civilly and left him to his work.

As they walked back to the centre of the Close, John gave firm orders to his clerk. ‘Saddle up your mule, Thomas, and go straight to Honiton. Even that sad animal should get you there by nightfall. Here’s threepence for your board and lodging. Stay at the Plough and learn all you can - and be back here directly tomorrow.’ He felt in the pouch at his belt for the coins.

One look at his master’s face convinced Thomas of the futility of protest, so he took the money, crossed himself and slunk off to his lodging.

This left the coroner with no scribe to record the imminent inquest on the Saracen affray, but he decided to commit to memory the names of those involved and to dictate the proceedings to Thomas the next day.

The cathedral bell boomed once above him and he hastened his steps back towards the castle. He had to go past his own door, as St Martin’s Lane led from the close into the high street. If Matilda was at home, there was no risk that she would see and delay him, as no windows opened on to the street. Her room, the solar, was at the back.

However, as soon as he turned the corner into the high street, he saw two familiar figures planted in his path. They were deep in conversation, but as soon as he approached, they turned to greet him.

John de Wolfe, are you well? How are the dead today?’

Hugh de Relaga was a portly man, above middle age and with the benign joviality of a merchant blessed with more than average income. He was a wool merchant, with family in Devon and Brittany, and was one of the two portreeves of Exeter. John had purchased a share in his business with money he had acquired during the Irish campaigns and the income from this kept him in adequate, if not lavish comfort.

The other person was a different figure, but an equally staunch friend of John. A churchman, he was of lean, ascetic appearance, almost to the point of being haggard. While the plump portreeve was dressed in a brocade tunic and velvet short-cloak fastened at one shoulder with a large gold brooch, John de Alecon, Archdeacon of Exeter, wore a street cassock of dull fawn hessian, girded by a plain rope, a wooden cross hanging from a leather thong around his neck. His thin grey hair was combed forward to a ragged fringe across his lined forehead. As with Cenwulf the mason, though, the appearance of this sombre priest was relieved by a pair of darting bright eyes, this time of a darker, almost violet blue, a legacy of the Viking ancestors of the Normans. ‘How many customers today, John?’ he inquired. ‘Is the corpse trade flourishing?’

Though his face was not built for much smiling, John grinned good-humouredly. These were his friends and he needed such in Exeter as enemies were to be had in plenty.

‘Come with me now, if you want to see the crowner at work,’ he responded. ‘I’m on my way this minute to hold an inquest at Rougemont.’

Hugh de Relaga smacked him on the shoulder. ‘I think I will, friend, to see how Hubert Walter’s latest bright idea is working. What about you, priest? Will you join us?’

John de Alecon shook his head wryly. ‘Some of us have duties to attend, Portreeve. Not all of us have time on our hands, like you burgesses.’

With a gesture of benediction, he moved off towards the cathedral close while de Relaga and the coroner set off up the slope towards the castle. They talked about the price of wool and the loss of a shipload going from Exmouth to Flanders. They passed through the gate in the curved embankment that cut off the north-eastern corner of the town and formed an outer ward to the castle, part quarry, part living space for soldiers and their families, who had erected huts against the walls.

‘Is this about the killing in the Saracen last night, John?’ asked the portreeve, as they climbed the steep incline and then the drawbridge into the castle gatehouse.

‘It

is indeed - and a wounding where the fellow may die.’

De Relaga puffed a little at the exercise, his short legs not matching the long stride of the coroner. ‘This used to be sheriff’s business. How does he take your meddling in his functions?’

John made a sour face. ‘Not happily, but he has to put up with it. He’s torn between dislike of me and my appointment and the wishes of his sister, my dear Matilda, who likes the idea of a law officer for a husband.’

De Relaga shook his head sadly. ‘Be careful of Richard de Revelle, John. He can be a devious, spiteful man, as I know to my cost.’

‘I’ll watch him, never fear,’ John replied grimly.

‘He’ll not get the better of me - since the Holy Land campaigns I have some powerful friends.’

‘But they are not in Exeter, John.’

By now they had entered the busy inner ward and passed the little chapel of Mary on the right of the gatehouse. Straight ahead was the Shire Hall, a plain building with a roof of stone slates. It had one large room with shuttered window openings each side and two wide doors. There was nothing inside except a wooden dais at one end, on which were a few stools.

Here the sheriff held his county court every two weeks. The borough court of the burgesses, under the portreeves, was held in the Guild Hall in the high street, and the ecclesiastical court was held in the old wooden chapter house of the cathedral, signalling the jealously guarded divisions that held sway in the town.

Inside the bare hall, people were already milling around. Gwyn of Polruan was marshalling them as best he could, with a voice that could shatter a clay pot at twenty yards. He had assembled all those who had been within sight of the Saracen the previous evening, together with half a dozen men and boys from each of the four quarters of the town. Several burgesses had also turned up, partly out of curiosity and partly from a sense of civic duty. One was the other portreeve, Henry Rifford. He was a large, red-faced, self-important fellow, with a town house and a large manor out at Clyst St Mary, on the Exmouth road.

A crony of the sheriff, Rifford had been hostile to John’s appointment and the coroner was as wary of him as he was of the Bishop, another of de Revelle’s men. In fact, as far as John was concerned both town and cathedral seniors were split down the middle.

The crowd parted as two soldiers trundled a two wheeled cart through the door, on which was a body, covered with bloody canvas. This was for the numerous jurymen to view, according to the new legal procedure.

John stepped onto the platform and the two portreeves, though they had no official function, followed him and sat on two stools to observe the proceedings.

Through the other door, four soldiers, wearing conical iron helmets with nose-guards, dragged the two miscreants, hands bound securely behind their backs. To ribald jeers from the jury, they frogmarched them to stand below the centre of the dais.

Just as John was about to begin, there was a blast outside from a horn and two sergeants strode in, followed by Richard de Revelle and another two soldiers as a ceremonial rearguard. Just behind the Sheriff walked Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont, appointed by the King. He was a large man, with a mane of grey hair and a flowing beard to match. John had fought alongside him in Ireland and knew him to be fair and impartial.

The sheriff, though not in armour, wore his bright armorial surcoat, white linen with a crimson griffin front and back. He climbed onto the platform and stood centre stage, almost pushing the coroner aside.

The crowd fell silent. The sheriff was by no means a popular figure, neither for his office nor his personality.

He represented authority as a tax collector, a harsh judge and the fount of fiscal and capital punishment.

Richard de Revelle looked at his brother-in-law and smirked, his thin, handsome face conveying a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘Pray carry on, Sir Crowner!’

John scowled at him, but said nothing. The sheriff had the right to be present if he so wished, although his attendance was not necessary to the proceedings.