Guiltily, the coroner shook off these unwelcome thoughts to come to grips with the present problem. ‘We must find you somewhere to sleep until this foolishness is past. Let’s go down to the Bush and I’ll have words with Nesta.’
With Gwyn muttering imprecations under his breath against all priests, from the Pope downwards — and being uncharacteristically gentle with Thomas — they trooped out and made for Idle Lane.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As the trio were walking through the town on that pleasant May evening, a pair of priests had their heads together in their lodgings in Priest Street. They were not normally friendly and rarely said more than a civil good-day to each other, but circumstances had driven them closer.
Many of the narrow houses in the street were divided into rooms for the lesser ranks of the clergy. This evening, Edwin of Frome, the Saxon priest from St Martin’s, had met Henry de Feugères of St Paul’s on the doorstep as they returned for their supper and a few hours’ sleep before Matins. The incumbent of St Paul’s stood aside for the other to enter and, with a casualness that was too good to be true, offered an invitation to the other: ‘Father Edwin, have you a moment to spare? Perhaps a cup of wine in my chamber?’
Startled by this unusual gesture, the morose priest from St Martin’s nodded and followed the other down the gloomy passage to a room at the back, which had a shuttered window that looked into the yard behind. The house had two floors with six rooms for resident clerics, plus a common refectory and cubby-holes for three servants. As usual, the kitchen, privy and wash-shed were outside in the yard.
Edwin pushed aside the heavy leather flap that closed his doorway and led his guest into a room that contained some good furniture, including a raised bed, an oak table and several leather-backed chairs. There were two cupboards on the walls and, apart from a small crucifix on the wall, there was little to show that it was a priest’s cell. Henry de Feugères went to one of the cupboards and took down a stone bottle and a couple of pewter cups. Pouring a drink for them both, he waved Edwin to a chair and sat himself on the other side of the table.
‘Unfortunately, we have something in common,’ he began, looking keenly at the sad features of the other priest.
Edwin nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. ‘Both favoured by a visit from the crowner as a result of being branded a misfit by those in the cathedral precinct,’ he muttered bitterly.
‘At least we are not alone, Brother,’ said the burlier priest, with an irony that was not lost on the Saxon. ‘Gossip has it that half a dozen have had the episcopal finger pointed at them.’
They drank the red wine in silence for a moment. Then Edwin spoke. ‘It is an outrage, but we Saxons have suffered such persecution for the last hundred years and more. I have no doubt that that is the reason for my name being on this shameful list.’
It was an invitation for Father Henry to hazard a guess at why he was included in the Bishop’s black list, but he was more circumspect. ‘I can think of no excuse for such an insult in my case!’ he blustered, ‘except that my face does not fit in the exclusive clique that the canons run down at the cathedral there.’ He failed to mention his reputation for unreasonable rages, which exceeded in violence those Edwin visited upon perverters of the Vulgate. They sipped their wine silently, each brooding on his problems.
‘What can we do about this slight on our characters?’ demanded Edwin. ‘It’s pointless petitioning the Archdeacon or the Bishop, for it’s they who have caused this in the first place.’
‘If we raise too much dust, we’ll get posted to an outlandish chapel on Bodmin Moor or some such remote place,’ agreed Henry de Feugères.
‘Then what about a letter to the Archbishop?’ suggested the Saxon.
The priest of St Paul’s snorted. ‘Hubert Walter is more a soldier and politician than a priest — God knows why the King appointed him to the See of Canterbury. We’d get nothing from him, except a reference back to Henry Marshal — and we’d end up on Bodmin Moor just the same.’
Another sullen silence ensued while their minds roved over the limited possibilities, until Edwin of Frome spoke again. ‘Then what about the Justices? They’re in the city now and although one is another canon, the other is a cleric from Chancery, Serlo de Vallibus. Maybe he can do something.’
‘We certainly want our names cleared,’ declared de Feugères, slamming his fist on the table, his temper always simmering near the surface. ‘Everyone now knows they sent John de Wolfe to interrogate us. I’ve seen my own parishioners staring at me and whispering. One child even threw a mud pie at me this morning — I smacked his arse roundly for his trouble.’
The Saxon looked dubious. ‘What we need is for the real killer to be caught. That’s the only way these sneers will abate. But if you think petitioning the Justices in Eyre might help, we can do it — there’s little to lose, after all. We’ll go along to the court tomorrow and waylay this Chancery clerk.’
The priest of St Paul’s had a distant look in his eyes. ‘Something you just said, Edwin. About the real killer being caught. That would indeed be the best way to lift this burden from our shoulders.’
‘But we have no idea who that might be,’ objected the Saxon.
‘The gossip is that the coroner’s clerk is the most likely candidate. I’m not concerned about whether he is or not, but giving the sheriff or the Justices a name would take the pressure off us.’
‘Unless the killer struck again afterwards,’ said the still dubious Edwin.
De Feugères downed the rest of his wine and refilled their mugs. ‘It’s better than nothing. I’m damned if I want law officers pestering me every few days, trying to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.’ He gave a quick, shrewd glance across at the other priest. ‘I certainly know that I’m not the culprit. I presume that also applies to you?’
Edwin of Frome looked shocked. ‘Of course not! How could such a thought even cross your mind? Because I’m a Saxon, I suppose, dedicated to slaying the invaders of my country.’
De Feugères held his temper in check and held up a placating hand. ‘Let’s keep to the problem of accusing this Thomas de Peyne, who may well be the true killer, anyway. We can’t name him as such openly, because the fact that we are suspected ourselves would make our testimony worthless.’
‘So we must betray him anonymously?’
De Feugère nodded. ‘The easiest way would be with an unsigned note. We could get some urchin to deliver it for a halfpenny, I could get one of the servants to find one in the street well away from here, so that it could never be traced back to us.’
Edwin looked dubious. ‘Deliver it to whom? It’s no good sending it to the coroner who investigated us, he would never accept a threat to his own clerk.’
The irascible de Feugères struggled to control his impatience with the stupid fellow opposite — no wonder a handful of Norman invaders were able to defeat millions of his race within a few months.
‘Of course not. Send it to the sheriff — there’s no love lost between them. De Revelle would be delighted with such a suggestion.’
‘Will you write it or shall I? The script needs to be disguised, just as I understand that the note left at that Jew’s murder was deliberately obscured.’
‘Then you pen it and I’ll have it delivered,’ said de Feugères. ‘Maybe we can think of something else on another day to reinforce suspicion against de Peyne. As my patron St Paul wrote to the Corinthians, “in the mouth of two or three witnesses, shall everything be established”.’
This final cleverness was a mistake on Henry’s part, as Edwin’s obsession took fire like flame across dry heathland.
‘You misquote, sir!’ he yelled. ‘The true word of God is “shall every word be established”.’