John looked at the sheriff, who scowled. They both had good reason to know of that door in the tower, as only a few weeks ago, John had scored heavily over his brother-in-law in the matter of a murderer who had reached sanctuary through it.
‘There were great blocks of new stone outside, which I had not seen before. I was picking my way among them when suddenly I was seized from behind. Someone jumped on my back and threw me to the ground.’
The tears began to flow freely for the first time and John wished that Matilda would hurry.
‘He grasped my throat, hands coming round my neck from the back. My face was in the mire, I could not scream, for fright and being choked. And it was dark – so dark!’ Christina sobbed at the memory indelibly stamped on her mind for the rest of her life.
‘Do you need to question her so tonight?’ asked the nun sternly.
‘One last thing, Christina, it’s so important. Did you see or hear anything that might suggest who this attacker was?’
She replied, an abject misery, ‘Not a word, not a sound did he make – only heavy breathing. But he was so strong! He tore at my clothing, lifted my kirtle and pulled at my legs. Then … the pain …’
She dissolved into loud weeping and Dame Madge, using her brawny arms, pushed both the coroner and sheriff towards the door. ‘Outside!’ she said peremptorily.
When the door was closed on the bedroom, she turned to the law officers. ‘She was more bruises on her bosom, where she has been roughly fondled, and others on her thighs, where her legs have been forced apart. And she has bruises elsewhere, where you might imagine, though thankfully, no rips.’
‘The blood?’ asked the sheriff, insensitively.
‘She has lost her maidenhead, of course,’ snapped the nun gruffly. ‘That is all you will get from her tonight.’
John walked across to the portreeves and gave them an edited version of what he had been told. As he finished, he was glad to see the street door opened by a porter, who ushered in Matilda. Somewhat mystified at the cryptic message she had received, she soon grasped the situation and revelled in the importance of her role, with both the city portreeves and the sheriff involved, even if the latter was her own brother.
Matilda was a stocky, short-necked woman of forty-four, several years older than her husband. Unlike her elegant brother, she had a square face and slightly puffy eyes, though she had had a certain handsomeness in her youth.
A champion snob, she affected French fashions and Lucille did her hair in what John thought was outlandish frizziness, compared to the usual modestly covered hair of Exeter women. But tonight he was glad to see her and piloted her across to Dame Madge, who took her into Christina’s room. As she went in, Matilda turned to him and said, ‘I’ll stay the whole night, John. You must look after yourself at home.’
Cynically, he thought that he would be looked after just the same whether she was at home or not: if it were not for Mary, he’d starve to death. Her promised absence overnight led to another train of thought and, after arranging to meet the sheriff and constable at the castle soon after dawn, he made his way to the lower end of the town, to where the Bush Inn stood in Idle Lane.
Chapter Five
In which Crowner John holds an inquest at Torbay
Early next morning John called at the Rifford house on his way up the castle, partly to enquire after Christina and partly to make sure that his wife was still there. Mary would not let on that he had not slept at home that night – and even if Lucille betrayed him, he had weathered worse storms before.
After a rumbustious night in Nesta’s bed, he had slept like a log and finally filled up on a great breakfast of eggs, ham, horse-bread and ale. He walked back through the town, his tall, spare figure loping past stall-holders and their customers. He ploughed heedlessly through a herd of goats on their way to slaughter and dodged handcarts filled with vegetables fresh from the countryside – the five town gates were now open. He wondered wryly if the extra guards on duty had been anything but a waste of time: most of them would miss a suspect even if he was shouting, ‘Ravisher’, at the top of his voice. Ox-carts trundled their huge wheels through the muddy slush as he crossed Southgate Street and the cries of vendors of everything from fresh river-fish to live ducks and bread hot from the over, rang in his oblivious ears.
On the way to the Riffords, he diverted slightly to have a look in daylight at the scene of last night’s crime. He entered the cathedral Close through the Bear Gate and walked around the great west façade to the north side. Here, he found large new blocks of stone, some partly fashioned, others plain cubes, waiting to be hoisted up to the masons on their scaffolding. The building, begun as long ago as 1114 by Bishop Warelwast, was only now in the last stages of construction – indeed, some of the soft stone used eighty years ago already needed replacement.
John found the small door in the base of the North Tower and traced a short route from there to the main path, which ran parallel with the row of canons’ houses. He poked about the new masonry, some piled up high above his head. There were several empty spaces, both between each stack and between them and the cathedral wall – plenty of hiding places for a girl to be dragged into and assaulted.
Bending down, he studied the ground but saw nothing except churned mud. He had not expected anything dramatic and the absence of blood was not surprising, given the small quantity shed and the state of the ground.
He soon abandoned the search and strode briskly away, passing his own street door without a glance. He stopped at Godfrey Fitzosbern’s house, but decided to leave him until later. Soon he was at Henry Rifford’s and was met by Matilda in the main hall. ‘The girl is sleeping, thank God,’ she informed him. ‘I sat with her all night. Her cousin Mary is with her now, and the old aunt has gone to her own bed, so I can leave for a while.’
‘Did she say anything more of what happened?’
Matilda clucked her tongue and scowled at him. ‘Still the crowner, John? Will you not let it rest for a moment? No, she said nothing, and I did not bring the matter up. She needs peace and forgetfulness for a time, not inquisition.’
As he helped her on with her heavy serge cloak, she commented, ‘Where on earth can this Edgar be? You’d think her betrothed would have been around here at the gallop – he lodges only down at Fore Street with the leech Nicholas.’
John had forgotten the fiancé, but now realised that Edgar must have gone with his father, Joseph, down to Torre to identify the wreck and the dead sailors.
When he told Matilda, she exploded. ‘You sent word to them yesterday! They must have ridden out before dusk and stayed on the way. The boy will still not know that his fiancée has been deflowered.’ In spite of the tragedy, she was excited at all this drama unfolding before her very eyes. ‘You must ride and tell him before he returns home, to prepare him for the shock,’ she ranted. ‘Maybe he will not be so keen on a wedding when he hears this.’
John rubbed the dark stubble on his lean jaw. How was he best to fit together all these tasks? He felt like a juggler at the Martinmas fair, with six balls in the air at once.
He had to have the Topsham people to identify the sailors’ bodies, and he had to hold an inquest with them present. In the circumstances, it was a lot to ask them to ride back to Torbay again tomorrow, especially after they learned of the assault on Christina. It would take them the better part of a day’s ride, especially with the short hours of December daylight. ‘You’re right, madam. I must ride down and meet them, to take them back to Torre. I will have to hold the inquest tonight or first thing in the morning, while they are still there – then hurry home to see what has developed with this ravishment.’