It took a few moments and ajar of Gwyn's rough cider to get a coherent story from the young fellow, but the upshot was that, early that morning, William le Calve had been walking with their steward, Adam le Bel, along the waste beyond the village fields.
'They were looking at the edge of the forest, deciding where the best place was to start felling trees, to assart more land for the livestock, as the strip-fields are now pushing well into the pasture,' explained the young man — in unnecessary detail, as far as the impatient coroner was concerned.
'So what happened, damn it?' he snapped, but the groom was hazy about the more vital parts of the story.
'Don't rightly know, sir, not having been there,' he muttered lamely. 'But they brought the old steward back dead as mutton and Sir William had a big wound in his arm, with a cross-bow bolt lying near by.'
An hour later, de Wolfe was listening to a more detailed account of this sketchy story.
The younger son of the lately deceased Peter le Calve was lying on a couch in one of the side rooms of the hall in Shillingford. It was a moderately comfortable chamber with a good fire in the hearth, clean rushes on the floor and some hanging tapestries to relieve the grimness of the grey stone walls. William was very pale and had obviously lost a lot of blood. His left arm above the elbow was expertly bound with a clean linen bandage and in the background the handsome lady whom John had glimpsed on his earlier visit was standing with an old serving woman, who clutched a pitcher of hot water and a towel. Godfrey le Calve was standing alongside his younger brother, solicitously resting a hand on his other shoulder, his face almost as pale as that of the wounded man.
'It was meant for me, you know!' he said shakily. 'The bolt that killed my steward.'
De Wolfe raised his eyebrows questioningly and William answered from his couch, in a voice tight with pain.
'I fear he's right, Sir John. No one would want to slay poor Adam, for the sake of Christ! Surely he was mistaken for Godfrey here.'
John mulled this over and felt inclined to agree. Two men shrouded in winter cloaks walking together, one recognisable as William le Calve — it might easily be assumed that the other was his brother, as Adam le Bel was about the same height as Godfrey.
'How severe is your wound, William?' he asked solicitously. The coroner noticed that the new linen around his arm was already becoming stained with blood. The lady in the dark brown kirtle stepped forward and laid gentle fingers on William's brow. Godfrey hurried to introduce her as Lady Isobel of Narbonne, a 'friend' of his late father.
'The bolt went right through the muscle, Sir John, and tore out sideways, so that there is a big open flap,' she said in a low, rather husky voice. In spite of the circumstances, de Wolfe's interest was aroused. He saw that she was about his own age, slim and good looking, with a dark beauty suggesting that she came from southern France or even Spain. However, with his amorous life already far too complicated, he pushed aside certain thoughts with a conscious effort and concentrated on the wound.
'He has lost much blood, I suspect,' he said. 'Was it much fouled?'
He well knew that the danger with any wound was that even if the victim survived the shock and blood loss, dirt carried in might lead to a fatal purulence. In fact, many archers deliberately stuck their arrows in ground contaminated by animal or human filth to increase the eventual killing power of their weapons.
Gravely, Lady Isobel shook her head. 'One can never tell, but it seemed quite clean and at least the bolt had fallen out. I washed the wound with hot water, then poured some brandy-wine into it, which I have heard can help to neutralise any poison.'
William looked up at her and winced, recalling his screaming agony of an hour ago, when the strong spirit cauterised the naked flesh inside his arm.
'You have been kindness itself, madam,' he whispered. John turned to the anxious elder brother, eager to get on with the story.
'So what happened? Tell me from the beginning.' Godfrey took the coroner's arm and led him across the room, to where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting just inside the door.
'My brother is shocked. I do not want to distress him more than we must. Come and see the other poor fellow first.'
He led the way into the main hall, past muted servants and a few manor officers, some of whom John remembered from his last visit to this tragic place, including the falconer and the houndmaster. They went outside and down into the undercroft, the semi-basement that was used as a storehouse. Here, on a couple of planks laid across some boxes, were the pathetic remains of Adam le Bel, the steward of Shillingford. Covered with his own cloak, the old man still appeared dignified, even in death, when Godfrey uncovered his face.
'William and Adam here went out to decide where the men should start assarting later today. We need more arable land and pasture, so must push back the forest in places.'
'Were they alone?'
'The bailiff and the reeve went after them, but were some distance behind, as they stopped to chase some loose sheep back into a pen. They say they were a few hundred paces away by the time William and Adam reached the edge of the trees.' Godfrey stopped and gulped. He seemed a mild man and this revival of violence on his manor had unnerved him.
'So what did they see then?'
'The reeve says that suddenly our steward here seemed to stagger and fell against my brother. He thought he had had a seizure of some sort, as he was an old man, not in the best of health. Then a moment later, William yelled out and clasped his arm, before sinking to the ground himself.'
'What then? They ran to them, I suppose?' demanded de Wolfe.
'When they got to the pair, William was on his knees, grasping his arm with his other hand, trying to stanch the blood that was pouring out. Old Adam here was lying dead in the grass alongside him.'
'Did anyone see the attackers?'
Godfrey shook his head. 'I made particular enquiries of the bailiff and groom, but they saw nothing apart from the two victims falling. The bow-shots must have come from within the trees, as it was all open waste and pasture in the other direction.'
'Did anyone give chase in the forest?' demanded the coroner.
'Not until later — naturally, my two servants were more concerned with stanching the flow of blood from my brother's arm and then getting help to bring him back here.'
'But later?' persisted de Wolfe.
'All this happened less than a few hours ago — you arrived so quickly, thank God. I sent the reeve, the houndmaster and half a dozen grooms and labourers up there about an hour ago. They are still there, but I have had no report of them finding anything or anybody.'
John turned his attention to the still shape lying on the planks. He nodded to Gwyn and his officer took off the cloak and peered at the dead steward's left side.
'A quarrel sticking out just below his armpit, Crowner.
Buried in about half its length, I'd say.'
As Gwyn lifted the corpse by its shoulder to offer a better view, John, Godfrey and Thomas bent to look at the side of Adam's chest. A thick rod of hard wood, about a hand's span in length, was projecting from the bloodstained yellow cloth of his tunic. The last few inches carried three flights of thin leather set symetrically around the shaft.
'The tip must be in his heart,' said Gwyn with grudging admiration.
'I wonder what the range was … it looks an expert shot.'
'We need to get it out. It may give us some clue as to its origin,' muttered de Wolfe to his officer. Gwyn nodded and moved around so that his great body was blocking the view of the less hardened Godfrey.
Thomas, who had been hovering behind, knew what was coming and retreated to the doorway of the undercroft as Gwyn reached behind for his dagger and pulled it from its sheath. With de Wolfe watching closely, he slit the tunic on either side of the arrow and ripped aside the torn undershirt beneath. An experimental pull on the shaft told him that there was considerable resistance inside, so with two bold slashes he enlarged the wound made by the crossbow quarrel and ran his blade down alongside it. With a few hard tugs and some more manipulation of his dagger, there was a squelching sound and the projectile suddenly slid out of the wound.