The Tinner's Corpse Page 12

  Matilda was snoring, apparently oblivious to the tempest, on the other side of the large feather mattress, which was raised from the floor by a timber plinth a few inches high. Last year, de Wolfe had bought Nesta a new-fangled high bed, imported from France. If Matilda had known about that, she would have been more incensed at her own lack of a similar status-symbol than the fact of his lechery with the inn-keeper.

  He threw back his side of the woollen blankets and sheepskin coverlet and slid naked into the cold air of the bare room, which was furnished only with a couple of oak chests for their clothes, Matilda’s folding chair and her embroidery frame. He groped for his undershirt and tunic, which were draped over one of the chests, and pulled them on, followed by thigh-length woollen hose. Slipping his feet into a pair of soft house-shoes, he stumped to the window and unlatched one side of the hinged shutters to peer through a narrow crack at the new day. A blast of rain-laden wind made him slam it shut, but not before a rippling flash of lightning showed him the yard awash with muddy water. Mary was dashing to the kitchen with an armful of kindling from the woodshed.

  There was a groaning yawn from his wife and she humped herself round to stare blearily at him. ‘Is it light, then? I must get up to get ready for Prime in the cathedral.’

  ‘God, woman, in this rain you’d drown just crossing the Close! It looks as if Noah’s Flood is returning.’

  She struggled to sit up, her back against the drab tapestry that hung on the wooden wall behind the bed. Though most people slept unclothed, Matilda insisted on wearing a linen night-shift, held tightly around her neck with a drawstring. Her hair was sheathed in a cap tied under her chin and the bags under her eyes were more prominent than usual in her sleep-ridden face.

  De Wolfe, no elegant sight himself with tangled black hair and unshaven dark stubble, looked at her in despair. Sixteen years ago, she had hardly been a beautiful bride, but at least she had not had her present ambition to make his life a constant misery.

  ‘Go out of here, John, will you? I need Lucille here to prepare me. Call her as you go down.’

  He was just going to proclaim that there was no way he was going out of the door in this cloudburst, when contrarily the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Deprived of an excuse, he warily opened the door, which stood at the top of a steep flight of wooden steps under which her maid lived in what was virtually a large box.

  ‘Go on, John,’ urged Matilda. ‘And see if that other idle woman has started cooking our breakfast.’

  ‘Mary will be lucky to get a fire started in this wind and rain,’ he muttered, but he began to climb down the slippery stairs to the passage that ran between the yard and the vestibule at the front of the house. As he went, dark grey clouds swirled overhead and lightning flashed, though the storm seemed to be circling away from the city. In the hall, Simon, who chopped wood and did odd jobs in the yard, was rekindling the fire while Brutus ambled in from his sleeping quarters in the cook-house, attracted by the prospect of a warm hearth.

  John slumped into his fireside chair to wait for Mary to bring some food. Matilda would be a long time undergoing the ministrations of Lucille, having her hair arranged and her clothes primped sufficiently well to attend service in the cathedral. He failed to see why she bothered to join a handful of folk clustered on a Monday morning in the empty cavern of the huge nave, whilst an aloof party of priests chanted their private devotions far away beyond the rood screen, ignoring the lay people in the distance. At least in parish churches like St Olave’s the local parsons acknowledged the existence of the congregation.

  Again, de Wolfe wondered if Matilda’s religious obsession meant that she was inclining towards taking the veil, and he had a brief surge of hope that he might be free again. He made a mental note to enquire circumspectly of Thomas, or even the Archdeacon, whether the retreat of a wife into a nunnery was legally held to end a marriage.

  As he sat in lonely state, there were several more flashes of lightning, the rain began again, but the rumble of thunder came after an increasing interval as the storm rolled around the sky. Mary bustled in with a bowl of hot oatmeal, boiled pork and a new loaf from the bread shop round the corner. Her hair was stringy with rain, but as usual, she was cheerful and energetic. ‘You look terrible, Sir Crowner,’ she said, keeping her voice low, so that it would not be heard through the slit into the solar, high up on one side of the chimney breast. ‘When did you last have a shave?’

  De Wolfe ran a long-fingered hand over his chin and heard the rasp of stubble. ‘I missed it on Saturday, when I was away on Crockern Tor,’ he admitted. Once a week he washed in the yard and shaved with a specially honed knife, before making his weekly change of undershirt and tunic.

  ‘I’ll heat some water over the fire after you’ve eaten. There’s a new block of goat-tallow soap there for you.’ With this maternal threat, she left him to his solitary meal and his rumination about what today might hold. He was supposed to attend a special sitting of the County Court later in the morning, where some declarations of outlawry, an approver and an appealer were to be heard.

  After his wash in a wooden bucket in the yard, he scraped painfully at his face, using a square of polished bronze as a mirror. Matilda was tucking into a large breakfast by now, so he went back to the solar and hauled out clean clothing from his chest, kept stocked by the efficient Mary. When he was dressed, he stuck his head round the screens behind the hall door to exchange grunted farewells with his wife, then stepped into the street.

  A vivid flash of lightning, forking over the roof of St Martin’s Church opposite, was followed almost immediately by a tremendous crack of thunder. The sky was virtually black and he dodged back inside to take his leather cloak and hood from a peg, as the rain started again. More thunder and lightning exploded overhead, the treacherous storm having circled back over the city.

  In the farrier’s stable across the lane he could hear horses whinnying, frightened by the thunder, and he spent a few minutes with Andrew calming Odin and the other stallions, talking to them quietly and rubbing their necks. When they were calmer, he left for Rougemont, stoically ignoring the bad weather, as he had in a dozen countries over the past two decades. For years, he reflected philosophically, he had spent most of the time either too wet or too dry, too cold or too hot – there had been few periods in his life when the climate was merely pleasant.

  As he walked along the upper part of the high street towards the turning to the castle, he saw Gwyn coming through the East Gate from St Sidwell’s. His stride still had a nautical roll, born of his early years as a fisherman, as he squelched along through the now sodden surface of the road. The pointed hood of his tattered leather shoulder cape was poking up above his head as a protection against the downpour. Seeing the coroner approach, he waited for him at the foot of Castle Hill, but just as John came up to him, there was a tremendous flash of lightning and a simultaneous crash of thunder. De Wolfe’s back was to the centre of the city, but Gwyn was facing it and he was momentarily blinded by the jagged fork of blue light that struck only a few hundred paces away. ‘Jesus Christ, that was close,’ he muttered, as he rubbed his eye-sockets with his knuckles.

  De Wolfe swung round as a sulphurous, scorching smell wafted on the wind. Seconds later, smoke appeared over the nearest roof on the north side of the high street. Around them, stall-holders and pedlars joined with customers in gaping at the fire, then a stampede began down the road to see this new and potentially disastrous phenomenon in Curre Street.1

  Gwyn’s sight returned, though he had a bright flare inside his eyeballs for the next five minutes. As he gaped at the smoke, blown down on to the street by the gusting wind, de Wolfe grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, someone’s thatch has been struck. This is coroner’s business.’

  They hurried along with the rest of the crowd, down to the junction almost opposite Martin’s Lane, but on the other side of the main thoroughfare. The narrow entrance to Curre Street was blocked with curious townsfolk, but Gwyn
pulled them aside unceremoniously, yelling for the King’s coroner to be let through. Fifty yards up on the right, the roof of one of the narrow houses was well alight, belching grey smoke into the sky, flames fanned by the high wind licking around the lightning strike in the centre of the thatch. Although the surface was wet from the rain, the underlying straw, almost two feet thick, was dry from the recent good weather. The ground floor of the house was a shop, its front shutters opening horizontally to form both a protective overhang and a lower counter for the shoes and leather goods the merchant sold. He was capering about in the road, screaming hysterically. There was a strong prospect that his house and business would vanish in the next few minutes.

  Johnpushed through the remaining crowd, with Gwyn at his heels. ‘Anyone still inside?’ he demanded, grabbing the shoemaker by the shoulder to keep him still.

  The man shook his head, his eyes rolling. ‘No, thank God, they’re all here in the street. But what can we do, sir?’

  Recognising authority had steadied him, but de Wolfe could offer little useful advice. ‘Pray for a deluge, that’s all,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘If you have valuables or stock in the downstairs rooms, get them out now, before the fire burns through from the upper storey. But come out as soon as any smoke comes down.’

  The merchant yelled at several young men, apprentices or sons, and they dashed into the back of the shop to recover what they could before the fire spread.

  ‘I’ll give them a hand, poor souls,’ said Gwyn and followed them inside. As he left, another voice spoke at de Wolfe’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s a member of my guild, the Cordwainers. Pray God he doesn’t suffer too much damage.’

  It was Henry Rifford, a wealthy leather merchant and one of Exeter’s two Portreeves, leaders of the city council elected by their fellow burgesses. He was a humourless, pompous individual and de Wolfe was not over-fond of him. They stood and watched as the smoke and flame increased above them, but as yet there was no sign of it leaking through the shutters of the two upstairs window openings.

  ‘I’ve pressed the burgesses to ban any more thatch inside the city, but we can do nothing about these older buildings with straw or reed roofs,’ complained the portreeve. ‘Many other towns prohibit them – but who is to pay for slating the dwellings instead? The owners or landlords are unwilling or unable to afford it.’

  Thunder rumbled overhead again as de Wolfe said, ‘If these fires spread and burn down the city, it will cost a lot more. And the loss of life must be considered, too. Both these issues bring town fires under the coroner’s jurisdiction – though I can hardly bring in an inquest verdict against the Almighty for sending a flash of lightning.’

  Someone must have been praying very hard indeed, for at that moment the dark clouds overhead opened up and a tremendous deluge fell from the heavens. The wind dropped as the storm centred itself overhead and an almost vertical wall of water hammered on to the city. Everyone dashed for shelter, de Wolfe and Rifford included. They ran across the narrow street and huddled under the arcade formed by the wooden pillars that supported the projecting upper storey of the shop opposite. The downpour continued without a break, and clouds of steam began to rise from the thatched roof across the road.

  ‘This will help save Martin,’ cried Rifford, as the flames around the edge of the large hole in the roof subsided into an angry hiss. They watched as the relentless rain washed a sooty waterfall over the edge of the roof, bringing down blackened straw into the street.

  ‘Whatever’s on the upper floor will be ruined by the water if not the fire,’ growled de Wolfe, ‘but that’s better than losing the whole house – and maybe the whole street.’

  The cloudburst had them pinned into their shelter for a time, and as they watched the conflagration extinguished by God’s own hand, their conversation turned to other things. De Wolfe felt obliged to enquire after Rifford’s family and learned that the Portreeve’s daughter Christina had recovered slowly from the rape she had suffered last year and had decided to continue her plans to marry the gangling Edgar of Topsham. Rifford went on to talk of the campaign amongst the burgesses to have a mayor in Exeter, instead of two Portreeves. ‘Just aping the bigger cities, I say. They’ll want a commune next, as well as a mayor – just to be like London.’

  He was angry at the thought of losing his position and de Wolfe steered him away from the subject. ‘Talking of communes, I’ve had some dealings with the Chagford tinners lately. I met Walter Knapman – they say he has a brother in the same trade here in Exeter.’

  ‘Yes, Matthew, he’s his twin, though he looks nothing like him. I don’t know him well, as the tinners reckon they don’t need guilds like the rest of us.’ Rifford shook the rainwater off his expensive otter-skin cape.

  ‘Is he in business with his brother?’ De Wolfe had learned in the past that the two portreeves were a fount of information about the commercial life of the city.

  ‘I understand that Matthew arranges the sale of the tin after it has cleared the second smelting. Most of it goes by ship, either direct from the quay or on barges for transhipment at Topsham. He has a few men working for him – one is the stepson of Walter, I believe, a young fellow called Peter Jordan.’

  They talked on as the heavy rain continued unabated for another quarter of an hour. The thatch opposite was now a sodden, steaming mass, beginning to disintegrate as the thin rafters smouldered through and collapsed under the weight of saturated straw. The risk of a fire-storm in the city had vanished and when, a few minutes later, the rain eased to a steady drizzle, the shoemaker and his family, with helpful neighbours, began salvaging what they could from the upper floor.

  Gwyn came across, from where he had been sheltering and gossiping with a couple of soldiers, to see if his master was ready to go up to Rougemont. When they reached the castle, the perverse weather had changed once more, and though the wind had blown up again, the clouds had cracked apart to show blue patches here and there, though gusty showers still lashed down at intervals.

  They trod through the mire of the inner ward to reach the Shire Hall, a bare stone box on the left of the main gate, more like a barn than a court-house. It had a slated roof, as thatch inside a castle was always a target for fire arrows when under siege. There was a single large doorless opening on one side and few bare slits high on the walls to let in more light. Inside, the earthen floor was bare, apart from a low wooden platform along one end wall, on which were two trestle tables, a bench, a wooden armchair and a few stools.

  A couple of the sheriff’s clerks were setting out their writing materials at one table, at the end of which Thomas de Peyne was already hunched on a stool, glumly cutting a new point on a goose quill with a small knife. In the body of the hall, a few men-at-arms ambled among the few members of the public who had come to see the proceedings. This was a routine session and probably all the spectators were relatives or victims of the main players.

  De Wolfe sat on the bench at the central table, and Gwyn took himself off to chat to one of the soldiers while they awaited the opening of the court. A few minutes later, Richard de Revelle came across from the keep, escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and two more men-at-arms. He was his usual dapper self, attired in an expensive tunic in his favourite green, the neck and hem banded with gold embroidery. A darker green mantle of heavy serge was draped over his shoulders and his neat moustache and goatee beard had been freshly trimmed. The clerks hauled themselves to their feet until the sheriff had sat down in the only chair, ready to preside over his court.

  There was no sign yet of the subjects of the proceedings and de Revelle condescended to favour his brother-in-law with some conversation. They discussed the house-fire and its fortunate extinction for a few moments, then de Wolfe brought up Saturday’s meeting on Crockern Tor. ‘These tinners seem a fiercely independent lot. I suppose they’ve been favoured by kings for centuries, because of the taxes they bring in to the Treasury,’ he observed provocatively.

  The sheriff’s fa
ce darkened. ‘Damned arrogance, I call it. Wanting to oust me as Lord Warden, when I’m there by right as the King’s representative.’ He was almost apopleptic with anger at the memory of the Great Court.

  De Wolfe wondered which king de Revelle wished to represent, given his partiality to Prince John’s cause.

  ‘Walter Knapman’s behind this!’ went on the sheriff. ‘He wants to be the emperor of the Devon tinners and he’s been stirring them up for many months, so my spies tell me. Lord Warden indeed! He’s just a tin-shoveller who’s risen above his station in life.’ His hands balled into fists on the table before him, as if he had Knapman’s neck between them. ‘This business of the headless overman – I’d not put it past Knapman to have arranged it himself, just to aggravate the tension amongst the tinners for his own ends.’

  This was something the coroner had not considered, but he dismissed it as a fantasy of de Revelle’s fevered imagination. He realised with some surprise the depth of the sheriff’s feelings at the challenge to his authority over the Stannaries. He must have been putting more of the tin coinage into his own coffers than de Wolfe had suspected, to be so incensed about even a remote chance of losing this lucrative position.

  Further delving into the Stannary problem was prevented by the appearance of a small procession at the hall entrance. Ralph Morin, the burly castle constable, led in a pair of dejected-looking men, dirty and dishevelled with heavy shackles to their ankles. Two more soldiers prodded them along from the rear, followed by a rather frightened-looking fellow accompanied by someone de Wolfe recognised as a prominent local lawyer. The last two peeled off and stood in the front of the small crowd, while the men-at-arms and the two prisoners came up to the foot of the platform, facing the coroner and the sheriff.

  The clerk of the court, plump and pompous with a shiny bald head, stood up at the side table with a roll of parchment in his hands.