‘Shall I ask my wife to come to sit with her?’ asked John, confident that Matilda, for all her many faults, would not hesitate to come to the aid of a family in distress.
Richard felt obliged to match his brother-in-law’s offer. ‘My lady, Eleanor, too, would undoubtedly be happy to help, Henry, but she is at our manor at Revelstoke, many miles away.’
The portreeve wiped his eyes and gulped his thanks, agreeing that another mature woman might be helpful, after the nun had left. A servant was called and dispatched to Martin’s Lane with a message for Matilda.
As he left, two more men appeared on the doorstep, meeting there by chance. One was Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont, appointed by the king, for Exeter Castle was held directly by the Crown. Ralph, a large Viking-like man with grey hair and a massive forked beard, was in charge of the garrison and nominally the sheriffs second-in-command as far as the defence of the city was concerned. The other was Hugh de Relaga, the other portreeve, a fat, normally jolly man with a peacock taste for extravagant clothes. Like the Archdeacon, he was a good friend to John de Wolfe, another of the faction faithful to King Richard, grimly opposed to the renegades who had supported his brother. They were the two men elected by the burgesses of Exeter jointly to lead the administration of the city, though now there was talk of adopting the office of mayor, recently introduced in London and Winchester.
De Relaga made straight for his fellow portreeve and grasped his arms, pouring out sympathy and futile offers of help, while the constable reported to the sheriff and coroner. ‘The town’s sealed as tight as a drum, soldiers on every gate to reinforce the keepers. No one can get out until dawn, so he’s bound to be in here somewhere.’
Richard was impatient. ‘It’s obvious, Ralph, that he must be in the city! But which of the five thousand inhabitants are we seeking?’
John restrained himself from saying that they could discount three thousand women and children. Instead he asked Morin if anything had been found in the cathedral Close. The grey head swung towards him. ‘I haven’t been told yet exactly where this foul attack took place, other than that it was in the Close. The sergeant took a couple of men through there but saw nothing untoward, only the usual beggars and late stall-holders. They had no news for him.’
Though it was hallowed ground, belonging to the Cathedral and immune from the jurisdiction of the town, the Close was an unlovely and unsavoury area. Everyone in Exeter had to be buried there, like it or not, and was charged for the privilege. The place was a shambles of grave-pits, heaps of earth, old bones and refuse. Hawkers sold their wares, apprentices played ball games and raucous children used it as a playground. Criss-crossed by paths and sewage ditches, the only large open space in Exeter was a place to be avoided by anyone with aesthetic sensibilities. However, although the Close saw frequent fights and hooligan squabbles, John could not recall that it had been the scene of a rape.
‘What can we do next, Sheriff?’ asked the constable.
‘The damned fellow has gone to ground, back to the hole he crawled from. At dawn, search the inns, see if any strangers have blood on them or have anything about them that is suspicious. Keep the guards at the gates and examine every man who leaves town.’
Again John held his tongue at these futile orders, but silently questioned them. ‘As yet,’ he said, ‘we don’t know if there was any blood to be smeared on the attacker. I am waiting for Dame Madge to finish her examination.’
The two portreeves came over to them and the next few minutes were occupied with outrage, recrimination and Rifford’s fears for his daughter’s health, physical and mental – and the almost unthinkable possibility of a bastard pregnancy.
They were interrupted by Dame Madge, appearing again at the inner door. The coroner went to her, and Richard de Revelle came close behind him. John could think of no reason to deny him being involved, as the chief enforcer of the law in Devon.
‘She is easier now, poor girl,’ began the nun, in her deep masculine voice. ‘Christina is strong and sensible, though it will take her a long time to recover from this experience. She never will get over it completely, I fear.’
Henry Rifford came to stand with them, leaving the constable and Hugh de Relaga to remain discreetly in the background.
‘What of her injuries?’ asked John directly.
‘You had better see some of them yourself, Crowner – those on her neck, arms and face. I think she has been gripped and restrained, rather than beaten. But I fear that she has also been roughly deflowered.’
Her father groaned and pushed past the other three to go to his daughter in the bed beyond.
Dame Madge’s cadaverous face turned to John again. ‘Her kirtle was soiled with mud and was torn up from the hem, as was the neck of her bodice. But her chemise showed this.’ She took a hand from behind her back and held out a rolled-up garment to the coroner. It was of fine linen, thin and supple, the only undergarment that ladies wore under their kirtle, showing only at the neckline and reaching down to the ankles. This one was slightly stained with patches of brown mud and some speckling of blood, with one area of heavier bleeding an inch or so across.
‘You said you must have evidence,’ said the nun gravely, ‘so you had better keep this. The blood came from her womb passage. She was forcibly taken from behind.’
John took the chemise and folded it again so that the soiling would be hidden from her father. ‘You said I should see her other injuries?’
The Benedictine nodded and turned back into the room. ‘You can talk to her now, the good girl is back to her senses.’
They went to her bedside and Aunt Bernice, still sniffing and snivelling a little, moved back to let John get closer.
He saw some scratches on the girl’s cheeks and blue bruises at each side of her throat. The nun slid up Christina’s wide sleeves and showed half a dozen purple bruises, the size of coins, on her upper arms.
‘You know me, Christina?’ John asked gently.
Her face ashen beneath her dark hair, Henry’s daughter nodded. ‘Sir John, I’ve seen you in the town. And I’ve met your wife at the cathedral and at St Olave’s.’
‘She will be coming in a moment, to keep you company for a while. We have to find out what happened, to bring your attacker to justice.’
‘Did you see who is was, Christina?’ asked Richard. She knew the sheriff welclass="underline" he was a frequent visitor to the Rifford house, as her father was one of his cronies.
‘No, he came from behind, sir. All the time he was behind – I could see nothing.’
‘Tell us what happened, from the beginning,’ John prompted.
The young woman, a little colour now returning to her cheeks, put a hand up to her eyes to wipe the moisture that welled from beneath her lids. ‘I collected my bracelet from Master Godfrey, at the house next to yours. Then, as I was so near, I thought I would go into the cathedral to make a prayer at the shrine of St Mary, which was my dear mother’s name.’
Even in her distress, she was economical with the truth, not mentioning the reason for her sudden need for devotion, but Dame Madge clucked her appreciation of the girl’s sanctity.
‘I visited the cathedral and made my prayer – there were a few other people and priests in there but it was dark apart from the altar candles. Then I left for home.’
John was puzzled. ‘But how came you to be on the north side of the Close? That’s a long way from the cathedral doors?’
Christina grimaced for her bruised neck ached. ‘I used the little door in the base of the North Tower. I know it well, I visit the cathedral often. I prefer it to the small churches of the town.’