‘Some claim that this yellow curse is brought into the ports by ship-men from abroad,’ growled the coroner. ‘Did you ever see such outbreaks in Cornwall?’
Gwyn shook his massive head. ‘Not myself, but my grandfather told me of such deaths many years ago. They were around Falmouth and Newlyn, so maybe they’re right about harbours giving it entrance into the country.’
‘I’ve heard people blaming rats for the plague,’ contributed Thomas as he smoothed out a sheet of parchment.
The Cornishman scratched his crotch ruminatively. ‘Odd you should say that, for my father used to be a tinner before he took to fishing at Polruan. He said that in tin workings where there were many rats, men used to get sick with yellow skin and eyes and some died. But they didn’t pass it on to other men, as far as I could make out.’
He squinted out of his narrow window opening at the roofs of the city below, where a cold east wind was swirling a few flakes of snow about.
‘Are we going out to every death from this pestilence, Crowner?’ he grumbled. ‘If it spreads, we’ll have no time for any other work, especially if it reaches other more distant ports, like Dawlish or Dartmouth.’
He almost bit his tongue as he let slip ‘Dawlish’, for that was where his master’s woman lived and he had not meant to mention the possibility of the yellow death endangering her there. But de Wolfe was phlegmatic about the risks.
‘Thank Christ it’s almost the end of the sailing season, so there’ll be few vessels coming in there from abroad until the spring.’
‘It’s said that very cold winter weather freezes out the contagion,’ said Thomas consolingly. ‘So let’s pray for plenty of snow and ice this year.’
‘Looks as if it’s starting already,’ growled Gwyn, staring out through the embrasure. ‘I’ll have to scrounge another brazier from the barracks. This bloody chamber gets cold enough to freeze the balls off those rats of yours, Thomas.’
‘They’re not my rats, you Cornish lump!’ retaliated the clerk, but John cut short their frequent bickering.
‘You asked about holding inquests on these deaths, Gwyn,’ he said. ‘The sheriff was talking about that earlier. It seems that the Justices in Eyre have declared that unless there’s anything suspicious, we can dispense with investigating them.’
His officer pulled his thick jerkin more closely around him, as the strengthening wind blew more persistently through the unglazed window slit.
‘That’s a blessing. I don’t fancy taking the curse back to my wife and sons at the Bush,’ he muttered.
The coroner, also feeling the sudden cold, rose from his seat behind the rough table and draped his dark cloak around his shoulders. ‘I’m going down to the Guildhall. I want to talk to Hugh de Relaga about our vessels. Talking of Dawlish, I think that two of the ships are there now, so I want to know if they can make any more voyages before being beached for the winter.’
As he made for the doorway, the mischievous Gwyn added a helpful suggestion. ‘Best go down to the coast and see for yourself, Crowner!’
Though his expression was blandly innocent, de Wolfe knew that he was slyly hinting at an excuse for visiting the delectable Hilda of Dawlish.
The Guildhall, recently rebuilt in stone, was in the High Street, only a few hundred paces from de Wolfe’s house in Martin’s Lane. He strode down from the castle, conscious of the biting wind, though the snow flurries had ceased. If this was the weather in early November, thought John, we might be in for a hard winter — perhaps all to the good, if it damped down this threatened epidemic.
The narrow street was as crowded as usual, stalls and booths obstructing each side. The middle, with its central culvert that carried filth downhill, was filled with handcarts, porters pushing barrows and ox-carts piled with bales of wool or straw. The rest of the space was clogged with jostling humanity, all buying, selling, talking, shouting and cursing.
The coroner, a head taller than most men, pushed his way through to reach the wide door of the hall, which was the centre of the economic and civic life of Exeter. As well as providing accommodation for the various trade guilds, it housed the city council, the group of burgesses who ran the administration, under the leadership of the two portreeves. There was talk of electing a mayor, a continental practice which had recently been adopted by London and a few other towns, but for now Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford led the more prominent merchants and tradesmen who governed the city.
Almost all the building was taken up by the main hall, parts of which were divided up by movable screens to form alcoves to accommodate a variety of guild and business functions. A number of merchants and tradesmen were standing around, chattering and gesticulating as they conducted their business. At the back was a pair of small rooms, one of which was for the portreeves and their clerks. The two leaders came in at least once a day, though they had their own profitable businesses to run elswhere in the town. Hugh de Relaga was a prominent dealer in wool, and his colleague, Henry Rifford, was a leather merchant and tannery owner.
John was pleased to find Hugh at his table in a corner of the chamber, poring over a list of accounts just supplied by his chief clerk. As a trader, it was essential to be literate — a rare accomplishment in a society where few but those in holy orders could read and write.
‘I trust we are making a fortune, Hugh!’ he called from the doorway.
The rotund merchant rose from his chair with a broad smile and waved de Wolfe to a nearby stool. He was an unfailingly cheerful fellow, with a fondness for gaudy clothing. Today he wore a yellow linen tunic under a surcoat of bright red satin, with a mantle of green velvet draped over the back of his chair. His head was swathed in a turban-like coil of red brocade, the free end hanging down over one shoulder.
‘We’re doing very well, John, though these outbreaks of distemper may affect the transport of goods,’ he said breezily. ‘However, our long voyages will soon be ending for the winter.’
He was repeating John’s earlier remark to Gwyn about their ships being laid up for the season. They were vital for their business venture, as when Hilda had been widowed the previous year she had brought her late husband’s three ships into the existing partnership between de Relaga and the coroner. They used them to move their wool and cloth around the Channel ports as far distant as Flanders and the Rhine.
The portreeve sent one of his clerks for wine and pastries, and over refreshments he gave John a summary of their present trading position. Though de Wolfe was a ‘sleeping partner’, he took a healthy interest in the fortunes of their firm. He had invested the wealth he had acquired over years of campaigning into their joint business and had benefited considerably from the thriving expansion of Exeter’s commercial life.
Hugh pushed aside his parchments and smiled benignly at the coroner. ‘So you’ll not starve this month, John. We are doing quite nicely. But tell me how other matters are going with you — have you settled back fully into your old harness?’
The coroner set his cup on the table and wiped his lips appreciatively. Trust Hugh to have only the best wine from the Loire.
‘It hardly seems as if I’ve been away for those months,’ he said candidly. ‘At least, it does as far as my duties go. At home it’s a different matter!’
The portreeve nodded sympathetically. It was a little difficult for him, as he was about the only friend of John’s that Matilda would tolerate, mainly because he was rich, well dressed and always made a point of flattering her. But he knew the situation in Martin’s Lane and was sad that his friend felt so frustrated and unhappy with his lot. He decided to avoid the subject and stick to John’s coronership.
‘You found Westminster not to your taste?’ he asked.