The door opened and Nesta emerged. ‘She would be better returned to her own home, to be among familiar things. This serpent’s nest of men, even though they be priests, is the worst place for her at this time.’ Her usually cheerful face was drawn and John saw tears in the corners of her eyes.
The old priest, anxious to do something useful away from these women, hobbled off, saying that he would arrange for porters to bring a litter: it would be a short journey to Rifford’s house in the High Street as, within the small city, nowhere was more than a few minutes’ walk away.
‘What about Richard de Revelle?’ asked the Archdeacon. ‘He is very thick with Rifford. When he learns of this, there will be hangings and ordeals in plenty!’
Any response was cut off by the door being torn open and Henry Rifford appearing before them. His face was now almost purple with rage and he could hardly speak for anger. ‘Find me this bastard and I’ll kill him with my own hands!’ he snarled. Such words from an overweight, middle-aged leather merchant should have been ridiculous, but the heartrending sight of a father in anguish moved both men to genuine pity.
De Alecon laid a hand on Rifford’s shoulder in silent sympathy. ‘May God support and comfort you at this time, brother.’
John de Wolfe was more practical in his commiseration. ‘A litter has been sent for and we will take her home. The sheriff is being told, and already the castle constable has all his men scouring the streets, looking for this villain.’
‘How could this happen in a consecrated place? And what did happen?’ whispered the father, his rage simmering down to a shaking iciness of spirit.
The Archdeacon explained gently what little he knew, that he had heard sounds of distress, and had found Christina on the ground, almost hidden behind stacks of new stone being used in cathedral repairs. He had run to the nearest canon’s house for help and they had brought the girl on a mattress across to the cloister’s sick-room. She had not said a word, but from the torn and dishevelled state of her clothing and the bruises on her face and neck, he had assumed reluctantly that the worst had taken place.
‘She should not have been out alone at night in the town. I blame myself for laxity in that,’ moaned Henry Rifford. ‘She should have been with her cousin. That stupid sister of mine should have kept a closer eye on her – and so should I.’
John tried to lighten the load on his conscience a little. ‘She is almost a grown woman, Master Rifford. Girls that age are headstrong and unwilling to be cosseted by their elders. She is old enough to be married soon.’
At this, the portreeve groaned and hit his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God, married! I had forgotten. What is her fiancé to make of this – and his father, Joseph? Abused and sullied, not two months before the wedding – if now there will be any wedding.’
To do him justice, Rifford failed to think at that moment of the financial loss that might stem from an abandoned union with the rich ship-owning family.
By the time that Dame Madge had been fetched from Polsloe, a mile north of the city, Christina had been returned to her home in the high street. Nesta and the Archdeacon had diplomatically left and the sheriff was with the coroner in the house near the East Gate.
Aunt Bernice was distraught with horror and self-recrimination for not having prevented Christina from leaving the house. For a time the old lady was semi-hysterical, but then pulled herself together sufficiently to sit alongside Christina’s pallet and try to soothe her with what passed for motherly love.
Henry Rifford had calmed to a cold determination to find whoever had attacked his daughter and have him hanged, preferably after the most hideous tortures. Richard de Revelle seemed to agree with him, but the problem was to establish exactly what had happened and who was the perpetrator.
‘I’m not clear what part you have to play in this, John,’ said the sheriff aloofly. Matilda’s brother was an elegant man, fond of expensive clothes which he wore with a flourish that hinted at his ambitions to be a courtier, rather that the chief law officer and tax collector of a far western county. He had a triangular face, with long brown hair swept back from a smooth forehead, narrow eyebrows and a thin moustache above a small pointed beard.
The current tragedy had temporarily swamped their mutual dislike, but John was determined not to let Richard get the better of him. ‘My part is to confirm rape, Richard. If it has occurred then it is serious enough to be a Plea of the Crown, not a matter for the local courts. I must record all the details for the King’s judges when they next visit Exeter. If we find a good suspect, then they will try him.’
The sheriff scowled: it was the same dispute, over and over again. ‘If I find a suspect tonight, John, I will hang him tomorrow – that I promise you.’
‘And I’ll put the noose around his neck myself!’ added Rifford, still quivering with emotion.
John glowered at his brother-in-law. ‘Let’s leave this argument until we set it before Hubert Walter, shall we? There are more pressing matters at this moment.’
They were standing in the main hall of the house, outside the door to the small room used by Christina. This opened and Dame Madge appeared. She beckoned to the coroner, who went in and half closed the door.
The nun from St Katherine’s Priory at Polsloe was a forbidding woman, tall and gaunt with a hard, bony face that was at odds with her dedication to healing and the care of the unfortunate. She was the senior of the nine nuns who lived there under the rule of the prioress and, in spite of her stern appearance, was a fount of kindness and compassion. Though she acted as the infirmarer at the priory, dealing with any type of affliction, her main reputation was as a midwife. Her services were often sought by women in Exeter and the nearby villages, especially in difficult births. Now she pulled the coroner aside at the door and spoke to him in a low voice. ‘There seems little doubt that she has been violated, Sir John. I have not yet looked at her intimately, but what do you need to be proved for your legal purposes?’
John looked across at the bed, then shut the door firmly on the sheriff, who was trying to eavesdrop. ‘We will have to ask her what happened, and if she knows who did this dreadful thing – but I must also have proof that she has indeed been ravished, by confirming a flow of blood from her private parts. That is the law.’
The nun, in her black Benedictine robe topped by a flowing white veil, nodded gravely. ‘She will hate all men within sight for some time – perhaps even her father – so it is best if you stay outside and leave her to her aunt and myself. I will inform you of what I find.’
John knew that Dame Madge had forgotten more about female conditions than he was ever likely to know, but he pleaded, ‘I must have some material proof of defilement, such as torn and bloodstained clothing.’
‘I will see what there is to see,’ said the nun, gently pushed him out and closed the door.
In the hall, Henry Rifford’s sense of hospitality overcame even his seething anger and distress, and he motioned that coroner and the sheriff to the great fireplace, where they stood and warmed their backs while he fetched some wine and Italian glasses for them. In a stilted imitation of normality, the three men sipped silently for a few moments, until Christina’s father suddenly slumped on to a bench and began to sob quietly, his head in his hands. John and Richard de Revelle stood in embarrassment, not knowing what to do or say, until the coroner went across and laid a hand on the leather merchant’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.
Rifford raised his haggard face. ‘If only her mother had lived – she needs a mother at a time like this. My sister is well meaning, but she is a silly old fool. Letting the girl go out alone at night, damn her!’