They walked silently between two garden plots into Priest Street and then into Idle Lane, where the timber and thatch inn stood to welcome them.
‘What happened to Edgar after all today’s excitement?’ she asked, as they stopped at the tavern door.
‘He was released and went home to his father. He was desolate at the thought of Nicholas never leaving gaol, except to go to his death.’
‘And Fitzosbern? What of him now?’
John followed Nesta into the warmth of the inn and helped her off with her cloak. ‘I’m not sure if he has committed any offence at all. Maybe inciting Nicholas to induce a miscarriage is a crime, but he can deny that if he wishes. There’s no proof apart from the leech’s word.’
‘The sheriff doesn’t seem much bothered about proof, it seems,’ observed Nesta, with bitter sarcasm. She led the way to a table near the fire and motioned to Edwin to bring some ale. A few regular patrons were in the tavern, but after the bustle of the Archbishop’s visitation, it was quiet at this early hour of the evening.
They sat talking for a while, the locals already aware of the day’s drama concerning the best-known leech in town – John often marvelled at the speed with which news travelled in Exeter.
As it grew dark, he rose reluctantly to his feet, his head almost brushing the rough-hewn beams that supported the upper floor. ‘I’d better be on my way, Nesta,’ he said, in the mixture of Cornish and Welsh which they used together when alone. ‘Mary is cooking boiled beef tonight and my dear wife will be agog to hear the latest scandal straight from the horse’s mouth.’
She saw him to the door, where he kissed her goodbye and set off in the gloom for Martin’s Lane and married bliss.
Chapter Sixteen
In which Crowner John unsheaths his sword
The break in the clouds that John and Nesta had seen from the town wall had rapidly widened and, by mid-evening, there was a clear sky and a biting frost, unusually severe for the eleventh day of December. The wind had dropped and the sky was a brilliant mass of stars, with a half-moon just rising in the east.
Like most of the folk of Exeter, John was indoors, glad of hot food, mulled wine and a good fire. Both he and Matilda wore woollen tabards over their surcoats and thick stockings with their soft house shoes. With no glass in any window in the city, they depended on linen screens and shutters to keep out the wind and rain, but the all-pervading cold required heavy clothing and a good stock of fire wood.
The boiled beef, with turnips and cabbage had been good: Mary was as efficient in the kitchen hut as she was in other things. Over the meal, John had told Matilda all the details of the afternoon with some relish, enjoying the chance to demolish the reputation of their next-door neighbour whom his wife had always championed. Even now she fought a rearguard action on his behalf, but without much conviction.
‘At least, this nonsense about Fitzosbern being the attacker of Christina Rifford is banished – the girl recollected nothing to his discredit. As to the fathering of Adele’s child, these are only the allegations of that murderous apothecary,’ she objected.
She was silent for a moment, a sobering thought having struck her. ‘To think that I visited him last month when I had that pustule on my eyelid – he could have poisoned me, for all I knew.’
John pushed aside his empty platter and laid his dagger on the scrubbed table. ‘Nicholas would have no reason to lie – his confession means the end of him, so what could he gain by distorting the truth?’
She grumbled under her breath, but had no answer for this.
They moved to the fire and sat eating a couple of hard apples each, which served as dessert. John had some of Picot’s wine warming by the fire and he poured Matilda a liberal draught, using a thick wineglass, one of a pair he had looted in France some years before. Usually they used pewter or pottery cups, but tonight he felt like celebrating with the luxury of glass. It was true that the breakthrough over the death of Adele de Courcy had been made by the sheriff, against John’s better judgement, but he consoled himself with the thought that the result had been quite unexpected by de Revelle, in spite of his claims that he had tricked Nicholas into confessing.
‘What will happen next, John?’ asked Matilda, her curiosity overcoming her pique at having her flirtatious neighbour discredited.
He looked at the leaping flames through the cloudy glass above the wine. ‘I strongly suspect that the Ferrars and Reginald de Courcy will dictate that. When they hear of Nicholas’s revelations, our silversmith will be in great trouble. I think Nicholas is safer in the castle gaol than Fitzosbern is in his own house.’
‘They wouldn’t harm him there, surely. That attack by Hugh Ferrars was on the spur of the moment, when he was deep in drink.’
‘He’s often deep in drink, so I’ve heard. But you’re probably right. They may appeal him together with Nicholas for conspiring to procure a miscarriage, leading to manslaughter.’
‘Could you be involved in this, as crowner?’
‘Yes, I’m supposed to be present at all appeals – but if my inquest jury made a presentment of homicide, then it should go before the King’s Justices when they come.’
Matilda groaned. ‘Oh, we’re back to that old business. I thought Hubert Walter had settled this dispute between you.’
‘He couldn’t, not if his damned Assizes don’t appear often enough.’
Suddenly, their fireside chat came to an abrupt end. With an awful feeling of familiarity, John heard a commotion in the lane outside. Simultaneously, Brutus, who had been eating supper scraps in the back yard, dashed through the passage, barking furiously.
John leaped up and hurried to the vestibule, where Mary had run through to grab the big hound by the collar. ‘There’s a riot in the lane!’ she announced. ‘Men with torches.’
John grabbed his round helmet from a bench and slammed it on his head. He hauled his sword out of its scabbard, which was hanging on the wall, and pulled open the front door. As he expected, the rumpus was coming from his left, where the silversmith’s shop lay. Bobbing flares added to the light from the farrier’s torches, carried by half a dozen men who were crowding around Fitzosbern’s door, shouting for him to come out, with oaths and some of the foulest language even John had ever heard.
As he ran along to the shop, he saw one man kicking lustily at the front door, though it was far too sturdy to be shifted, having been built to protect a valuable stock of silver. ‘Stop that, damn you!’ he yelled. ‘I command you to stop, in the name of the King. This is a riotous assembly!’
It was the first thing he could think of. On reflection later, he was not sure if a coroner could prohibit a breach of the King’s peace but, as he was the most senior law officer in the county after the sheriff, it seemed a reasonable thing to do in an emergency.
He reached Fitzosbern’s door and pushed aside the fellow who was battering upon it, whom he recognised as Hugh Ferrars’s squire, the one he had clouted on this same spot a few nights earlier.
As his eyes became accustomed to the dimmer light, after staring into his own fire, he saw that Hugh was in the forefront of the group, with his father behind him. He was more surprised to see Reginald de Courcy, too, alongside Hugh, with two others who were presumably squires or friends of the older men.
‘Get out of the way, de Wolfe,’ snapped de Courcy. ‘This is none of your business.’