Murimuth suddenly had a vision of a man washing away blood from his hands, as though he could as easily wash away his guilt. Cleanliness as proof of a crime? No, that was nonsense! At least the Coroner should soon be able to open his inquest. Murimuth rested his backside on the little carved misericord behind him and tried to ease his legs. It would be a good thing to rescue that poor child’s body from the alleyway in which she still lay, and see to her burial. There was no excuse for leaving her out there any longer than necessary.
He would make some notes later. Perhaps that would help clear the fog in his mind. Because for now, he felt such a heaviness of spirit.
It was as though his soul was telling him that Father Laurence did know something of the maid’s murder.
Church near Broadclyst
Sir Charles was on his feet and halfway to the door before Ulric had registered the call. There, Sir Charles motioned to a pair of his men. They were rugged-looking fellows, who wore leather bracers like archers, and had the appearance of experienced fighters in the way that they stared through the open doorway with calm concentration, showing no anxiety.
‘Are they Bishop’s men?’ one of the men asked as Ulric reached their side.
‘No. Looks like the congregation is on its way to the church for Sunday worship,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘Get the men ready to greet them.’
One of the archers hastened away to the side of the church where the rest of the band were waiting with the carts and horses. There was a muttering of quiet orders, a slithering hiss of steel, and then nothing more.
Ulric looked at Sir Charles and the other archer. There were another six men in the church, and Sir Charles nodded his head to them. ‘The people are coming. Make haste!’
In the blink of an eye, the men concealed themselves about the church, while Sir Charles and the archer took their positions at either side of the door. Ulric was motioned away, impatiently, and he darted to the wall behind Sir Charles.
There was a chattering of voices, and then the door opened, and a tall, grizzled man entered. He was clad in good scarlet, and Ulric instantly thought he must be the vill’s bailiff. Behind him was a short, buxom woman, and a couple of young fellows who looked like their sons, and Ulric saw more people behind them, thronging the little entranceway.
Whoever he was, the man was no fool. In an instant he took in the sight of the altar thrown against the wall, the blood on the floor, and he roared a warning, setting his hand to his hilt, but even as he made to draw steel, Sir Charles had rested his blade on the man’s shoulder, the steel against his throat. ‘You’ll wait, man.’
Outside there was a sudden commotion as the congregation was herded inside, the archer and two others grabbing any weapons from the unresisting peasants as they came.
It was all so easy. Ulric gazed in wonder to see the people brought in and forced to kneel on the ground, while Sir Charles’s men moved amongst them, cutting away purses and pulling rings from fingers. Some rich, most poorer, men with sullen eyes, women with fear in their faces, holding children to them, terrified of what might happen, all pushed to the rear of the building while Sir Charles’s men took up positions around them.
And only then, when Ulric glanced at the grim faces of the men from Sir Charles’s party, did he feel a leaden fear in his belly.
Exeter North Gate
It was already late when they finally reached the gates to the city, and Simon knew that they must hurry if they were to get to the Cathedral before the Close was shut.
‘Simon,’ Baldwin said as they rode under the city gates, ‘there is no need for you to come as well. If you join us at the Cathedral, you will be held up there and may not escape this night. Do you go to your daughter’s house instead, and we shall come to meet you tomorrow morning as soon as we are free. We can visit the Sheriff tomorrow, and then head for our homes.’
It was a welcome plan. Simon grasped Baldwin’s hand, waved to Sir Richard and Edgar, then called to his servant Hugh, and trotted off in the direction of Edith’s house.
Baldwin watched him, then grunted to himself as he and the others carried on down the street to Carfoix, and along the High Street to the Fissand Gate.
‘Sirs, the gates will be closing soon,’ Janekyn Beyvyn called from his stool just inside. He was eating a husk of bread, and Wolf, Baldwin’s great tricoloured mastiff, went and sat in front of him, his eyes fixed earnestly upon the crust as his jowls drooled. Janekyn glowered at him.
‘Aye,’ Sir Richard agreed. ‘But we have urgent business with the Dean.’
‘I’m afraid Dean Alfred is not well,’ Janekyn said. ‘He has been bled, and is away resting. I think the barber took too much blood. He’s not a young man, but the surgeon wouldn’t listen to anyone.’
‘Well, the Precentor will do,’ Baldwin said. ‘Porter, could you send a boy to tell him that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Richard de Welles regret interrupting him at this sorry time, but we have some grievous news to impart.’
‘Sorry time, sir?’
Baldwin gave a quick frown. ‘Have you not heard?’
‘Simon was right, then,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Please send to the good Precentor, porter. We have bad news for him.’
Monday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist6
Cathedral Close
Adam Murimuth walked from the Cathedral in a state of shock. So much effort had gone into selecting the new Bishop, and to learn from Baldwin and Sir Richard that he had been murdered was devastating. Already he was thinking of the messages that must be sent: to the Archbishop, to the Pope, to the King . . . there was so much to be done.
He had walked from the West Door and was halfway to the Charnel Chapel before he realised he had no idea where he was going. He scarcely even recognised where he was. For a moment he thought the ground was bucking beneath him, like a violent sea, and had to close his eyes to steady himself.
He had lived here at Exeter for some little while, and in that time he had seen many disasters. When the news of the murder of Bishop Walter II was brought to the Cathedral last year, it was he, Adam, who had arranged matters as best he could. When the dispute arose about who would replace Bishop Walter, it was Adam who had negotiated and persuaded until Bishop James was elected. It had not been easy. And now, a scant three months after his enthronement, Bishop James too was dead. It was a disaster for the See. For the Cathedral, it was a catastrophe. The Cathedral needed a Bishop, never more so than now, with a King who was under-age, and a Pope who sought to take over ancient rights and customs. The next Bishop might be selected not in Exeter but in Avignon.
The noise of the masons brought him back to his senses. The hammering of chisels on stone, the rasp of saws, the creak and rumble of the treadmill slowly hauling rocks to the top of the new walls, and all around the bellowing of the hundreds of men involved in the building works. He had almost walked into a massive stone lintel, curved to form a part of an arch.
To hear that Sir Edward of Caernarfon had escaped, that was shocking enough – dear God, to think that so many men could wish to see him return to the throne! – but it would surely mean little to Adam down here in Exeter. Whoever was King, the taxes demanded from the Cathedral would not change. But to lose the Bishop – that was a substantial blow.
Enough! His duty was to keep the Cathedral working so that it could perform its sacred duty of caring for the souls in the city. He must pull himself together so that others could do their job.
Meanwhile, Adam had been responsible for the administration of the Cathedral when Bishop Walter had died. During this latest interregnum he would very likely be asked to take up that function again. His task was to manage the diocese, after all. He must look after the income and expenses until a new Bishop could be elected. The work involved was a great burden to be shouldered.