As the corpse was being carried away on a wattle hurdle, de Wolfe and his brother-in-law began walking back to the high street, Ralph Morin and Gwyn at either side. ‘I can’t see why they risk coming into the city, these out-of-town traders,’ said the sheriff testily. ‘They can set up their stalls a few hundred paces away outside the walls and no one can deny them.’
‘The portreeves and the burgesses are rightly strict about the monopoly within the city for the freemen. They pay their taxes and have a right to expect the best of the trading,’ said Ralph Morin. ‘If every free cottar and runaway could come in and sell at a lower price because they pay no dues, the city would be ruined in no time.’
‘I’ll have to hold an inquest on those two in the morning,’ grumbled de Wolfe. ‘For the other man will be dead long before then.’
‘I’ll hang the other three scum for you, John,’ offered de Revelle. ‘The County Court is held tomorrow and I’ll delay it until after your inquest.’
De Wolfe shook his head stubbornly. ‘Thank you, but no, Richard. If the killer lived, I would attach him for the next Eyre of Assize, but as he has no hope of surviving there’s no need. The remaining offence, unless the inquest finds otherwise, concerns trading, not killing, and the burgess court can deal with that. It’s not the business of either of us.’
Richard de Revelle clicked his tongue to convey his exasperation with de Wolfe’s interpretation of the legal system but, on probation himself over the rebellion, he was unable to be as despotic as before.
As they walked briskly in the chill March wind, Ralph Morin turned the conversation into a less controversial channel. ‘What about this problem up on the north coast? What are we doing about it?’
‘I’m sending Sergeant Gabriel up there with a few men to get a feel of the problem, if organised piracy is afoot,’ said de Revelle loftily.
John felt exasperated that the sheriff had appropriated his suggestion as if it was his own, but managed to bite back any protest. ‘I intend setting off straight after the court tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘We can get much of the way before nightfall and on to Ilfracombe the next day.’
‘I thought it was Appledore you were interested in,’ objected the sheriff.
‘We are – and Bideford and, perhaps, Combe Martin. But I have to see this survivor again. He may have recalled something that would help to identify the attackers. He was too ill when we first saw him to be very helpful.’
They fell silent for a while and soon were in the narrow main highway of the city. As they passed the Guildhall, two figures hurried out of the arched doorway of the new stone building and accosted them in the road. They were the two portreeves of Exeter, Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford. They had been elected by their fellow burgesses to lead the civic organisation of the city, especially commerce, as the markets and fairs, the wool and cloth trades made Exeter one of the most thriving English towns. Hugh de Relaga, de Wolfe’s partner in the wool enterprise, was a tubby, cheerful dandy, fond of good living and bright clothes. He was a complete contrast to Henry Rifford, a prosperous leather merchant but a serious, rather gloomy man above middle age. His beautiful daughter, Christina, had been brutally raped a few months ago, which had done little to improve his spirits.
‘Is it over? What damage has been done?’ demanded Rifford in agitation. The two men had been poring over municipal accounts in a back room of the Guildhall and had only just been informed of the riot in Southgate Street.
‘Our clerk says a man is dead – is he a guildsman?’ asked de Relaga.
Richard de Revelle took it upon himself to explain what had happened, never missing the chance to take credit for knowing everything and being the instrument of restoring order. Reassured, the portreeves calmed down, but decided to walk with their clerks to the Shambles and the Serge Market to show their concern to the citizens. ‘We must visit the dwelling of the dead man and ensure that his guild-master is informed so that support can be offered to the family,’ said de Relaga, with his typical concern for the more unfortunate of his townsfolk.
As they parted, de Wolfe reminded them of their other legal responsibilities. ‘As the killer is dead, there will be no need to bring anyone before the king’s judges – but the three men in your gaol are your problem.’
The sheriff could not resist having the last word. ‘I could try them for causing an affray in my County Court tomorrow – but if you want them for illegal trading, you’re welcome.’
With that parting shot, they walked on the few yards until de Wolfe came to the opening for Martin’s Lane, leaving the others to continue on up to Rougemont. Giving a deep sigh, he pushed open his street door and prepared to meet the grim face of his wife when he told her that he would be leaving for another expedition to the north coast.
Chapter Five
In which Crowner John holds an inquest
In spite of his gloomy apprehensions, John found Matilda surprisingly tractable when he entered the hall. She had changed her garments again and wore a blue kirtle, which he knew was one of her best. He tried to open the conversation by telling her of the skirmish in Southgate Street, but she had no interest in that: her mind was on other things.
‘Did you settle that poor man in a decent lodging? Not that there’s anything decent about that low tavern.’ Her active resentment of Nesta had been held in check since her husband had been disabled after breaking his leg, but she was starting to throw the old barbs at him once again.
‘It’s the best inn in the city – certainly better than sharing a room with sweaty pilgrims in Curre Street,’ he countered gruffly.
‘He should have stayed here. It’s warm, quiet and more suitable for a man of his station in life,’ said Matilda firmly.
‘He said he wanted to move to an inn. It was his choice.’
‘You did nothing to encourage him to take up our invitation, did you?’
He glowered at her as he took his chair on the opposite side of the fire. ‘It may not be a very good idea to get too friendly with that particular man,’ he muttered. ‘If what he says is true, he’s playing a dangerous game, not only with the Templars but with the Church generally and Rome in particular.’
Matilda made a dismissive gesture with a heavily ringed hand. ‘You’re just making excuses, John. I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours.’
‘Hardly a friend, just an acquaintance from the past. I owe him no more than any other man.’
‘Well, we can’t leave him to rot in that common hostelry, with half the scum of Devon around him.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said suspiciously.
‘At the very least he must come to sup with us tonight. I’ve told Mary to prepare a decent meal, if she’s capable of it for once – and to make it sufficient for an extra guest.’
‘You want him to eat here?’
‘Of course! We must make amends to him as you snubbed my offer to accommodate him under our roof. Send old Simon down to that tavern with a message for Sir Gilbert to come up here at dusk, to dine with us. I hope you still have some decent French wine in that chest of yours in the corner.’ She pointed to a dark recess of the hall, where her husband kept a stock of sealed stone flasks purchased from a wine importer in Topsham.
He sat silently cursing the woman for interfering in his business: after hearing the archdeacon’s views, he had a gut feeling that no good would come of this unexpected appearance of Gilbert de Ridefort. But his inertia was a futile defence, as Matilda continued to glare at him until he rose reluctantly and went out to the yard to summon Simon.
He dallied a while with Mary, sitting on a stool in her kitchen. It was a thatched hut with a cooking fire, a couple of rough tables stacked with pots, and in the corner the mattress on which he had once enjoyed an amorous hour or two.