The urchin, determined not to be left out of the drama, yelled that the man was alive a few minutes ago and had made a noise. One of the older servants from the second house slipped a hand under the victim’s bloodstained mantle. ‘He’s still warm, for sure.’ There was a pause. ‘But I can’t feel his heart beating.’
There was an agitated debate about moving the presumed cadaver. Most of the crowd advised against it until someone in authority came along.
‘Who do we call?’ asked the First Finder, anxious not to be fined for failing to carry out the correct procedure.
‘Ask Thomas de Peyne,’ suggested one man. ‘He’s the coroner’s clerk. He lodges in the third house from the other end of the row. He’ll be back from the shire court for his dinner by now.’ A servant boy was dispatched at a run to fetch him and, a few moments later, Thomas came at a fast limp down Canon’s Row to see what was going on. Rather self-importantly, he passed through the crowd, who stood aside deferentially to let him get to the arch. He clambered awkwardly down the steps, his lame leg hindering him, then moved up the passage more easily. The victim’s face was unrecognisable, due to the caked blood smeared all over it and the swelling and bruising of both eyes, nose and lips.
‘Give me a cloth, someone,’ he commanded, feeling an unusual sense of superiority as a representative of the law.
A man up above grabbed the rag the dog had been chasing and dipped it in a puddle of muddy rainwater, before passing it down to the corner’s clerk. Thomas used it to rub away some of the blood from the face and immediately, in spite of the swelling, recognised the victim. ‘It’s Godfrey Fitzosbern, the master silversmith!’ he called back to those clustered on the steps under the little arch. ‘He’s been murdered!’ he added dramatically.
As if to contradict him, the corpse groaned again. One arm twitched and moved slightly across the body.
‘I told you so!’ yelled the urchin triumphantly, from where he crouched at the foot of the steps.
There was consternation among the onlookers.
‘What shall we do?’ worried the First Finder. ‘He’s so badly injured that if we move him, he may die – and then we will get into trouble with the sheriff and the coroner.’
There was a chorus of agreement. ‘Let him be, until the law officers come. Let them take the responsibility.’
Thomas was also unsure what to do. His quick brain ran through the options and decided that even though the man was not yet dead he was almost certainly going to die, so they may as well call the coroner first.
‘Send across at once to Martin’s Lane for Sir John de Wolfe,’ he ordered imperiously. It was not often that he had the chance to be the centre of attention and his ego blossomed, repressed as it had been since he was disgraced in Winchester.
Fitzosbern seemed to have relapsed into his deathlike state and Thomas crouched anxiously at his side while they waited for the coroner to appear. He had a sympathetic nature, born of suffering his own disabilities, and he hoped that the silversmith would survive – or if he didn’t, that he would die without further pain.
Within ten minutes, a scattering of the murmuring crowd around the arch and heavy feet on the steps told of Sir John’s arrival together with Gwyn, who had been eating with Mary in the back yard kitchen.
Thomas moved further up the conduit beyond the injured victim, to make room for the two large men. ‘He groaned and moved a little a few minutes ago,’ he reported, ‘but he’s said nothing sensible.’
John took the dirty wet cloth and wipe the silversmith’s mouth clear of blood and mucus. As he did so, the tongue came out and feebly licked at the moisture. ‘Get me some water,’ yelled John. Although a pipe lay only inches away there was no means of getting into it, so someone had to sprint to the nearest house to get a jugful. Meanwhile, John was continuing to clean the rest of the face and speaking loudly into Fitzosbern’s ear in an attempt to get a response. When the water came, he held it to the man’s lips and though most dribbled down on to his chin and chest, some entered his mouth, where it provoked a fit of spluttering.
‘He’s choking,’ observed Gwyn dispassionately, as he crouched on his haunches at the wounded man’s side.
The second attempt at drinking was more successful and Godfrey managed to gulp some water between coughing spasms. Then he said his first coherent word. ‘More!’
His right eye opened, the left being completely closed by its puffed-up lid. He stared blearily at the coroner. ‘De Wolfe!’ he whispered.
‘Who did this to you?’
Fitzosbern managed a miniscule shake of his head. ‘Didn’t see – dark. Where is this place?’
He drank again as John told him he was in the cathedral culvert.
‘Not here … not hit here. Can’t remember …’
John turned to Gwyn and Thomas. ‘Let’s try to sit him up, his neck is bent, no wonder he chokes when he tries to drink.’
They attempted to lift him to set his back against the wall, but Fitzosbern let out a strangled croak of agony. ‘My chest – oh, Christ!’ A moment later, he gagged and a massive flow of blood erupted from his mouth, landing on his cloak, the remains dribbling down his chin and neck. ‘He’s punctured a lung, his ribs must be broken,’ diagnosed John, from his long experience of battle casualties.
‘He’ll not survive this,’ muttered Gwyn.
John bent closer to the silversmith, whose only good eye had closed again. His breathing bubbled weakly through the blood in his windpipe, and when Gwyn felt the pulse in his neck, it was thready and irregular. ‘He’s going, I reckon,’ he said gravely.
Thomas began crossing himself and muttering the Last Rites in Latin over the moribund figure.
The coroner bent close again. ‘Fitzosbern, you are dying, man. Do you understand?’ The one eye opened and there was a weak nod. ‘You cannot say who attacked you?’ Again the head moved sideways and back for an inch. ‘In the certain knowledge that you will not recover, have you any confession to make? There is a priest here, who can give you absolution.’ He thought it kinder not to mention that the priest had been un-frocked.
Godfrey’s mouth worked, but almost no sound came out. John bent closer, but could not understand any of the words. He tried a different method. ‘Listen to me. Were you the cause of Adele de Courcy being with child?’ There was a weak nod. ‘And did you force Nicholas of Bristol to procure a miscarriage?’ Another nod.
The one visible eye rolled up, showing only the white between the slit in the lids. ‘Hurry up, he’s going,’ warned Gwyn.
‘And did you, Godfrey Fitzosbern, ravish Christina Rifford?’
The eye rolled down, there was a jerk of the body and a sibilant croak, louder than before. ‘No, never!’
At that, another gout of blood rolled from between his lips and, with a great sigh, the master silversmith went limp and his head fell limply on to his chest.
‘He’s gone, God rest his soul,’ whispered Thomas, who all this time had been intoning the Office for the Dying and passing his hand endlessly between his forehead, chest and shoulders.
The coroner settled back on his heels in the narrow passage and looked at his officer. ‘Well, Gwyn, who did it?’ he asked.
Chapter Eighteen
In which Crowner John examines some wounds
For want of a better place, the body of Fitzosbern was taken to Martin’s Lane and laid on the floor of his back workshop. The furnace was cold in the deserted house. The two workers were in the castle gaol, Mabel had eloped and the cook-servant had returned to his son’s home in St Sidwell’s, as he no longer had an employer.