It was an open secret that she was John de Wolfe’s mistress, know to all including his wife, who used it to scold him during their frequent dog-fights.
This winter evening, with the unremitting wind still whistling outside, the inn was less busy than usual and only a few regulars were drinking in the big low room that filled the whole ground floor. Nesta had time to sit with him without interruption and he told her the story of his trip to Torbay. She always listened attentively, and made intelligent and often useful suggestions. More than once, her innate common sense had helped him to arrive at some decision.
‘So you’ve got to ride back there for an inquest?’ she asked, at the end of his tale.
‘Joseph of Topsham, and maybe Eric Picot, will have to go down tomorrow to identify the bodies, the wreckage and the cargo. Then I’ll return there on Thursday to hold the inquisition, and take with me some of the sheriffs men to arrest that murderous reeve and a couple of his cronies.’
Old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, shuffled across on his stiff leg, lamed at the battle of Wexford. He held out his pitcher of ale and refilled John’s pot. ‘Evening, Crowner! Staying the night?’ he cackled, his collapsed white eyeball, damaged by a spear point, rolling horribly.
Nesta aimed a kick at his bad leg. ‘Get away, you nosy old fool!’ she said amiably. Edwin tottered away, chuckling, and she snuggled closer into John’s side. ‘Have you told your dear brother-in-law about the killings?’ she asked.
‘Not yet – I’ll see him when I go up to Rougemont in the morning,’ he replied.
But that was tempting fate, for the coroner and sheriff were to meet long before then, in a drama that was just about to unfold. The door to the street suddenly burst open and a figure appeared, the like of which the inn had never seen before. It was that of a senior cleric, a man of lean and ascetic mien, swathed in a great cloak. He threw back the hood as he stood on the threshold, revealing a white coif, a close-fitting cap tied under his long chin. His sharp grey eyes darted around the smoky room, seeking someone with obvious urgency.
‘John de Wolfe! There you are!’ The relief in his deep voice was apparent and he strode across the bar, unclasping his cloak as he went to reveal a snowy chasuble with an embroidered edge flowing over the ankle-length alb.
Nesta jerked from under the coroner’s arm and stood up quickly. In the years that she had been at the Bush, she had never seen a high-ranking priest in full regalia enter the place. She knew him for John de Alecon, Archdeacon of Exeter and one of the four lieutenants of Bishop Henry Marshall. She also knew that he was uncle to Thomas de Peyne and a firm friend of John: the Archdeacon was faithful to King Richard and, unlike the Bishop and several others of the cathedral hierarchy, had not supported Prince John’s abortive rebellion.
‘What, in God’s name, brings you here, John?’ barked the coroner, jumping up to greet him. ‘Taverns are not one of your usual haunts!’
The Archdeacon smiled wryly at the mild blasphemy. ‘Maybe not altogether in God’s name, though everything we do is under him. This is more a criminal matter and one of great urgency.’
De Wolfe waved a hand at the bench he had just vacated. ‘Will you not sit down and have something to drink? You look shaken.’
De Alecon looked about the room and at the patrons staring open-mouthed at this unique sight. ‘It would not be seemly, I fear. John, you must come with me at once. The daughter of Henry Rifford, the Portreeve, has been assaulted within the cathedral Close.’
There was a deathly hush in the room, as all there heard him. John stared at him for a moment. ‘Almighty Christ! How are you involved in this?’
The lean-faced cleric shook his head sadly. ‘I was the one who found the poor girl. On my way from Vespers to visit a sick canon at his house. I heard moaning behind a pile of new masonry on the north side of the cathedral. I found this poor young woman lying on the ground there, beaten and obviously ravished.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘I raised the hue and cry and turned out all the servants and vicars from the Bishop’s Palace and the canon’s houses, then had her carried to the small infirmary behind the cloisters, where she now lies.’
John was already pulling on his cloak and moving towards the door, when Nesta caught his arm. ‘She needs a woman with her – Christina Rifford has no mother, only an old aunt.’
John stopped to listen to the innkeeper: he had learned that she always made good sense. ‘So? Will you come?’
‘It would be better if you took your wife.’
‘She’s not at home.’
‘Then I’ll come – but the girl will have to be examined. That should not be done by any man, not even a leech, especially in these circumstances.’
‘So what can we do?’ Part of the coroner’s duties was the confirmation of rape, but in the three months since he had taken office, thankfully no such crime had come his way until now.
‘Dame Madge from Polsloe priory, is the most skilled at problems of childbirth and women’s complaints. She should be called, for the sake of the poor girl.’
The Archdeacon had followed this discussion intently. ‘It seems the best plan, but the city gates are shut for the night.’
John snorted derisively. ‘This concerns a portreeve’s daughter! The gate will open at the command of a King’s coroner and, no doubt, the sheriff when he hears of it. I’ll get word to the castle to send an escort for the lady.’
With that, he stepped into the night, leaving an excited buzz of discussion behind them in the tavern.
Chapter Four
In which the crowner meets a nun and an angry man
When the Archdeacon, the coroner and Nesta arrived at the small infirmary alongside the cathedral cloisters, a messenger had already been sent to get the girl’s father from his meeting in the Guildhall. He arrived a few minutes after John, who had barely had time to go in with Nesta to see Christina.
The girl was lying curled up on a low bed in the whitewashed cell, her eyes open but staring blankly at the wall. She was shivering violently, and a distraught elderly priest was attempting to soothe her with paternal murmurings. A townswoman who had been passing by when the Archdeacon discovered Christina in the Close had willingly come along as a comforter and was now sitting rather helplessly on a stool at the side of the bed.
Nesta, whose compassion was boundless, went straight to the other side to kneel on the floor, with her face near the girl’s. She began talking to the young victim in soft tones, immediately getting some reaction, as Christina’s eyes moved to focus on Nesta’s face and her hand came out to grip her fingers.
Before de Wolfe had any opportunity to intervene, the door flew open and Henry Rifford erupted into the room. Though John had never had much regard for the portreeve, he now felt very sorry for him in this tragic situation. Normally, the heavily built, almost bald man had a florid complexion, but now his cheeks were dead white, almost grey in colour. Without so much as a glance at the others crowded into the little room, he shot to the bed and put his arms around his only daughter’s shoulders. Christina held him around the neck and only one word escaped her lips, ‘Father!’
There were no tears, no sobs, only the silent quivering.
Suddenly John felt like an intruder and he motioned the Archdeacon and the priest to come outside, leaving the two women with the father and daughter. ‘We must wait until she has settled a little,’ he said. ‘There is no question of talking to the girl or trying to examine her until her father has calmed her.’
De Alecon grimaced. ‘But she seems unnaturally calm now – I suppose that is from the shock of her terror?’ He knew nothing of women, being a truly celibate priest, which was something of a rarity.