Gwyn took a hand from his reins to scratch his unruly red thatch.
'It was a strange one, Crowner, just like those on poor Thorgils and his crew. But one swallow doesn't make a summer.'
'True enough, but how many three-inch knife wounds have we seen since we came back from Palestine?'
There was no answer to this, and in silence they walked their steeds down into the ford alongside the unfinished Exe Bridge, to reach the city's West Gate on the other side of the river.
CHAPTER FOUR
Early the next morning, a cavalcade assembled in the inner ward of Rougemont, watched by a small group of on-lookers which included John de Wolfe, the constable, Ralph Morin, Gwyn and even Nesta. The occasion was no great novelty, as it was a regular event that took place twice a year — the transporting of the county 'farm' to the royal exchequer at Winchester, one of the twin capitals of England.
But on this raw day in early November, the spectators had come to see off Thomas de Peyne on the journey for which he had been yearning for almost three years. He was near the tail-end of the little procession that was forming, waiting impatiently alongside Elphin, the sheriffs chief clerk. Behind them were two mounted men-at-arms and immediately in front were four sumpter horses. Each of these had a pair of large leather panniers slung across their backs, containing the coin extracted as taxes from the shire of Devon. Two more soldiers rode ahead of these, the head ropes of the packhorses attached to their saddles. Beyond these, Thomas could see the erect figure of his uncle, Archdeacon John de Alençon, sitting astride a grey mare alongside Henry de Furnellis's bay gelding, the whole retinue being led by Sergeant Gabriel and another two men-at-arms.
The horses bobbed their heads and some neighed restlessly or scratched at the ground, making their harness clink and rattle. Gwyn looked with a critical soldier's eye at the convoy, but could find only one real fault.
'That little sod puts us to shame, Crowner!' he grumbled, poking a finger in the direction of their clerk. 'Hanging over the side of his saddle like a bloody nun, even when he's got a decent horse!'
John had decided that Thomas's broken-winded pony was not reliable enough for such a long journey and had hired a palfrey for him from Andrew's stable, but the clerk still insisted on having a side-saddle.
'At least he'll be able to keep up with them, thanks to the heavy load on those sumpters,' replied the coroner. 'Though I don't know how he'll manage on the way back.'
'Perhaps he won't come back,' said Gwyn. 'Maybe they'll make him bishop in Winchester to make up for the injustice he's suffered.'
Nesta kicked him on the ankle in mock anger.
'He'll be back, I know it! The faithful little fellow swore to me last week that he'd never leave you in the lurch, John, not after what you've done for him.'
De Wolfe gave one of his grunts, as this was too emotive to suit him. He turned to watch as the powerful figure of Ralph Morin had a final word with the sheriff, then walked up to his sergeant to give him the order to start. With a thudding of hoofs and a jingle of harness, the cavalcade slowly moved off towards the arch of the gatehouse, accompanied by waves and shouts from the onlookers. Nesta flourished a white kerchief at Thomas and called' out 'God speed you!' as two tears of happiness for the excited clerk ran down her cheeks. John raised a hand in courteous salute to the sheriff and his friend the archdeacon and turned it into a wave for Thomas.
'Try not to fall off that bloody nag!' yelled Gwyn, covering his affection for the little priest with mock ferocity, and as the clerk waved back in farewell, they saw that he too was weeping tears of joy.
As the last soldier vanished over the drawbridge, John felt curiously lonely, as if someone close to him had died. Nesta seemed to sense this and slipped her arm through his. 'He'll be back in a week or so, John. Be glad for him he's waited so long for this redemption.'
As usual, the pretty woman always overflowed with kindness and compassion, and de Wolfe squeezed her arm with his in a mute token of affection. But the feeling of loneliness persisted when de Wolfe and Gwyn went up to their dismal chamber in the gatehouse for a jar of ale and some bread and cheese. Though nothing was said, they both missed the little man sitting at the end of the table, his tongue protruding as he hunched over pen and ink, concentrating on forming the fine Latin script on his parchments.
Their workload had declined again, with no outstanding cases other than the mystery of Thorgils' ship and the bizarre happenings of the previous day. It was just as well, as with Thomas absent for up to a fortnight, every time there was an incident John would have to borrow one of the sheriffs clerks to record his business.
'We could have asked that Eustace if he'd stand in as clerk for a time,' muttered Gwyn, through a mouthful of bread.
De Wolfe shook his head. 'Thomas will only sulk when he finds out, so better leave him to running these ships when the season comes.'
He swallowed the last of his ale. 'Now what in hell's name are we to do about these deaths? We must go back to Shillingford after dinner today and at least hold the inquest — not that that will get us any nearer solving the problem.'
The big Cornishman brushed breadcrumbs from his worn leather jerkin, then hoisted his backside on to the sill of one of the window slits before replying.
'There's a feeling in my guts that we haven't heard the last of whoever killed Peter le Calve. And what about those stab wounds?'
The coroner picked up a small knife that Thomas used to sharpen his quill pens and absently jabbed the point into the bare boards of the trestle table.
'Once again, I got the impression when I put my finger in the wound that it curved back on itself slightly. It's strange, but not enough to get excited about. Both were two-edged blades and very wide indeed, compared with our usual daggers … but you know as well as I do, any knife can be rocked back and forth to widen the slit it makes in the skin.'
Gwyn nodded reluctantly. 'Or the victim can move on the knife, which does the same thing,' he conceded. 'A pity we can't see inside the body — maybe the track deep in the vitals would tell us more.'
'The Church would have a fit if we suggested doing that,' grunted John. 'Yet I once heard from a Greek physician with us in the Holy Land that Egyptian physicians in Alexandria were dissecting both corpses and live criminals, centuries before Christ.'
The practical Gwyn was not very impressed. 'Much use that is to us today! It's a wonder that the damned bishops and priests let us look at the outside of cadavers, let alone probe the insides!'
For some reason that even John had never been able to discover, his henchman had a rooted antipathy to the organised Church and all its minions — their clerk being the only exception. Now, with Thomas gone on his way to be reinstated in his beloved Church after a belated acceptance in Winchester that the accusations were maliciously false, the coroner and his officer felt deflated, and they itched for something to divert them. Eventually, Gwyn went to find a game of dice in the guardroom and John took himself off to see Hugh de Relaga, to discuss their profits from the wool business and to talk some more about using Thorgils' ships when the spring sailing season came along.
As the sheriffs cavalcade wound its way eastward, a much more modest group was wending its way in the opposite direction, about thirty miles south-west of Exeter. As well as the difference in numbers, it was a much more bizarre sight than the orderly column led by Sergeant Gabriel. On the narrow track that wound through lonely heathland and woods near the upper reaches of the Avon estuary, three horses trudged along, one behind the other. The last was a packhorse, burdened by wicker panniers on each side and bedding rolls across its back. It was led by a huge man on a pony much too small for his bulk. He was dressed in a shapeless tunic of brown canvas over blue breeches, his calves bound by cross-gartering. The giant, even larger than Gwyn, was completely bald and had a red face with a large hooked nose, but what made his features most grotesque was the total collapse of his mouth, the lips being indented so much that his chin seemed to come up to almost meet his nostrils. When he opened his mouth, the cause was obvious, as he had not a tooth in his head — nor a tongue. Fifteen years previously, Jan the Fleming had had all these removed by the public executioner of Antwerp, after the irate burgomaster of that city took exception not only to his seducing one of his daughters but having had the gall to claim that she had invited him into her bed. Almost before the bleeding had stopped, he was bundled on to the first ship to leave the Rhine and ended up in Scotland, a country he had never even heard of before. This was how he came to be servant and bodyguard to the man on the leading horse, the contrast between them being as great as could be found anywhere in Christendom.