Then the talk was suddenly brought back by Edgar to his own problems. ‘Has there been much gossip in the town about Christina?’ he asked, rather fiercely.
Nicholas hesitated. ‘You know what people are, Edgar. They like to bandy news about, especially bad news. There have been a few customers who enquired after you, knowing that you and the lady were to be married.’
Edgar banged a pot on to a shelf with unnecessary force. ‘Were to be married! Perhaps that sums it up, for I am no longer sure that Christina is concerned about a wedding.’
‘Oh, come now, boy! It will take weeks for her mind to settle, poor girl. Give her time and I’m sure all will be well again.’
‘But I’m not sure that I want to marry her now,’ blurted out Edgar. He could talk to his master more easily than to his father about things of the heart.
Nicholas stopped his chopping and looked up at his apprentice, who was now perched on a stool to reach the upper shelves. ‘That, too, is understandable, but you must give it time, boy.’
Edgar worried away at the matter, like a dog with a bone. ‘Have the gossips suggested any likely culprits for this shameful crime?’ he asked, through gritted teeth.
Nicholas considered for a moment. ‘Nothing sensible. Only a wild rumour that Godfrey Fitzosbern might know something about it – but that’s surely because his was the last place your lady visited before the assault.’
Edgar clattered off the stool and turned, red-faced, to his master. ‘Everyone seems to have this idea. There must be fire where there is smoke.’
The apothecary tried to placate his pupil. ‘The sheriff took in Fitzosbern’s two workmen but they were released within the hour. As our sheriff usually likes to hang the nearest suspect as a matter of convenience, that must mean there is no substance to the gossip.’
‘It can also mean that the workmen are innocent and the suspicion falls all the more heavily on their master!’ cried Edgar, pacing the narrow space behind the counter. ‘All fingers seem to point at that man, especially with the reputation he has for fornication and adultery.’
Nicholas clicked his tongue in warning. ‘Be careful what you say, my boy. That man is a bad one to cross. Christ knows that I have no love for him, as he continually blocks my efforts to form a Guild of Apothecaries here in the West – but, even so, I would not dare accuse him of rape without some solid evidence.’
The apprentice seemed unconvinced and fingered his dagger hilt as he paced restlessly up and down the shop, muttering under his breath. ‘I will confront him, see if I will, Nicholas! My gut tells me he is the man. I’ll have it out with him yet!’
The herb-master sighed at the young man’s rapid changes of mood and wondered if there was some calming soporific he could slip into Edgar’s broth at the next meal.
By early afternoon, there was a temporary lull in the panics of the day and John took the opportunity to visit the Bush. He had been home briefly at midday and eaten a quick meal with Matilda, as part of his campaign for domestic peace. This time Mary had provided pork knuckles with boiled cabbage and carrots, which suited John well, especially as the meat was still freshly killed and not salted as it would be later in the winter. He liked plain food, though Matilda claimed to disdain such ‘serf fodder’ as she called it, professing to favour fancy cooking, especially from French kitchens. Though born and brought up in Devon, she constantly claimed to pine for her Normandy origins, conveniently ignoring that it was three generations since her forebears had crossed the Channel. The only contact she had ever had with Normandy had been a two-month visit to distant relatives, made some years before.
During the meal, John gave her sparse titbits of information about Adele’s death, to keep her mind off her recent feud with him. Matilda relished the scandal concerning the pregnancy and the denials of Hugh that he was the father and avidly anticipated the gossip that would be bandied about among the wives of Exeter.
‘Have you any thoughts on who might be the procurer of the miscarriage?’ he asked, hoping to get some practical help from among her prurient chatter. ‘Does the gossip among the ladies of the city ever suggest a name for such a person?’
His wife bridled at this. ‘That’s something that I would never lower myself to discuss,’ she snapped huffily. ‘No doubt there are drabs and old wives, especially down in the slums of Bretayne, who might perform such crimes, but I assure you no lady of quality would know of such things.’
John felt warned off the subject and, fearing that he might set her off on one of her moods, he dropped it. As soon as he could, he left the house, saying that he had to get back to Rougemont to dictate to Thomas de Peyne, but as soon as he reached the high street, he turned left and hurried down to Idle Lane.
Gwyn was in the tavern, filling his capacious stomach with a halfpenny meal and ale. As soon as she could leave her tasks with her cook in the back yard and the girl who put out the pallets and blankets in the dormitory upstairs, Nesta came across and plumped herself down next to them on a bench, to talk to them in Welsh.
‘A good thing for trade, this visit of the Justiciar,’ she exclaimed, pushing a wisp of auburn hair back under her coif. ‘Every penny palliasse and pile of straw upstairs is booked for the next four nights, with people coming to see the great Archbishop!’
‘Coming to petition him and beg some favour, more likely,’ growled the ever-cynical Gwyn.
The comely innkeeper was anxious to be brought up to date on the day’s tragedy, especially as she had played a major role in identifying the victim. John told her the story as far as it was known, and repeated the question he had asked his wife about possible abortionists in the city.
Nesta’s pretty face frowned slightly as she concentrated her thoughts. ‘I can’t say I know of anyone who attacks the womb, so to speak.’ She grinned impishly at the coroner. ‘I’ve not yet needed such services, in spite of your endless efforts to get me with child!’
John nipped her thigh with his fingers in retribution. ‘Enough of that loose talk, madam. But is there no one who tries to help women who are with child? God knows, there are many poor families with too many little mouths to feed.’
Nesta nodded readily enough. ‘Oh, where it comes to old wives’ remedies, there are plenty who peddle herbs and magic potions to restore the monthly flow. Useless, most of them, but a few hags have a reputation for success.’
‘Such as whom?’
The Welsh woman considered for a moment. ‘I should seek out old Bearded Lucy. She is well known for her pills and remedies – the poor come to her when they can’t afford a leech.’
‘Where can we find her?’
‘She lives in a hovel in Frog Lane, on Exe Island. You can’t miss her – she has almost as much hair on her face as this great lump of a Cornishman here.’
Gwyn grinned happily, he was almost as fond of Nesta as his master was, and greatly enjoyed her poking fun at him.
John rubbed his dark jowls reflectively. ‘Bearded Lucy? Wasn’t she in danger of being drowned as a witch some years ago?’
Nesta looked blank – it had been before her time in Exeter – but his officer nodded. ‘I remember that. It was soon after we came back from the Irish campaign of ’eighty-five. Some man in the market dropped dead and she brought him back to life some minutes later by beating on his chest and yelling magical spells.’
The coroner gave one of his rare laughs. ‘Yes, I recall it now. The man was a member of one of the guilds and he raised a petition among them to have her pardoned, after the Bishop’s court convicted her of being in league with the devil.’
John’s mistress was not surprised. ‘When you see her you might well believe that – and that she might ride the night sky on a broomstick. She is such a hag that the mothers on Exe Island use her to frighten their children when they misbehave.’