Edwin, rejuvenated by the prospect of battle, stumped off as fast as he could, leaving Gwyn and the coroner to decide on the next move.
‘It’ll be a long while before the castle people get here. But it won’t be light until seven, so those two can’t get out of the gates until then.’
Gwyn grunted. ‘What about their horses? They can never hope to slide out of the town on horseback?’
John looked back at the junction of the narrow streets, where Idle Lane and Butcher’s Row joined. ‘The stables for the inn are over there. Make sure their animals are still inside. Knock up the stable-boys and tell them not to let any horses out until we tell them.’
As Gwyn hurried one way, John walked cautiously the other, down towards Rack Lane. Apart from a few nocturnal cats, many scurrying rats and the odd whimpering dog, the streets were silent. The moon’s bright orb hung in a clear, frosty sky and gave a good light, but there were plenty of shadows to hide two desperate men who had nothing to lose but their lives.
He stopped where the two streets met, unsure of which way to go. De Bonneville and Baldwyn could be anywhere in the city by now – they could have left the inn at least an hour ago.
The city walls should be an impregnable barrier, unless they could bribe a gate-keeper to open up for them – or, thought John cynically, if someone in authority gave orders for them to be let out.
He heard Gwyn coming back from the stable and stepped into the centre of the slushy road so that he could be seen and not attacked by mistake.
‘Their horses are still there, so they will have to escape on foot. Where could they go, not to be overtaken at first light by mounted men?’
John pushed back his helmet a little, as the long nasal guard rubbed his prominent nose. He considered what he would do in the desperate circumstances of the two fugitives.
‘The river!’ he said suddenly.
They were in the south-west quadrant of Exeter, where the Watergate gave access to the quayside and to the ships that came up the Exe from the sea. John pointed down Stripcote Hill towards the inside of the town wall.
‘We may as well go down that way, until the sergeant and his men arrive. The sheriff will be in no hurry to help us, though Ralph Morin might.’
As they strode down the steep slope, Gwyn asked if they should raise a hue-and-cry among the townsfolk. The law required that when a crime was discovered or a body found, the four nearest households should be roused and should chase any suspects or fugitives. But John thought it pointless to start pounding on doors at four in the morning for sleep-fuddled citizens resentfully to stumble around the streets in the dark.
They reached the wall at a point near the West Gate, then came in a few yards to the twin towers of the gate, where they were challenged by an alert watchman.
‘Someone’s awake, at least,’ growled Gwyn, whose opinion of peace-softened civilians was usually unrepeatable. The gateman reported that he had seen no one around for several hours and certainly would not open up his gate at any price. It was a hanging offence to risk the security of the city, even in times like this when there was no war or insurrection.
‘Is there any place where two men might get across the wall?’ asked John, looking up at the fifteen foot fortifications, built of the usual soft red stone. Sometimes, lack of maintenance and neglect allowed parts of city walls to crumble away.
The watchman shook his head. ‘No, not a stone missing. The good city finances encouraged the portreeves to repair it last year. Sound as a bell, it is.’
They moved off eastwards, still listening for any sounds of the soldiers coming.
All was silent and they walked to the Watergate with no further sign of any human activity.
The Watergate was in the corner of the city walls, leading straight out on to the wharves. The gate was shut but they found the watchman sound asleep. After giving him a rousing telling-off, the coroner and his henchman started back into the town, taking an unsavoury lane that led towards the Shambles and eventually the cathedral Close.
Suddenly, Gwyn gripped John’s arm. They listened and strained their eyes to the left, down an alley. There had been a metallic tinkle, unlikely to be rat or cat. Their own shoes were leather and the soft slime of mud and manure deadened any footfalls.
Gwyn melted into the shadows on one side of the alley and John vanished back around the corner of the lane. The opposite wall of the alley was bright in the moonlight.
They waited, frozen into statues in the blackness.
There was another slight rattle of metal on stone.
Slowly, a figure slid round the corner of the next building down the alley, and silently crossed over into the shadow opposite, the same shadow that hid Gwyn but five yards distant. Then another man, slighter in build, emerged and stood half in shadow but with part of his body still in moonlight. This part included an arm holding a naked sword.
Oblivious of the pair concealed only a few feet away, the fugitives’ whispers came clear through the still, frosty air. ‘Watch that bloody mace, Baldwyn. It clatters at every movement.’
‘I’ve no sword, damn it to hell. That’s still at Peter Tavy.’
‘You’ll never see that again. Nor yet Peter Tavy, I’m afraid.’ The one in deep shadow moved again and the chain of his weapon made the same small sound, even though he tried to keep it rigid.
‘Which way now? I don’t know this pestilent town.’
‘Turn right, then left. The Watergate will be ahead of us. If we jump the gateman silently, we can slit his throat and get out on to the riverside. There must be a boat there, to float us downstream far enough to land and make across country.’
Becoming bolder, Gervaise stepped into full moonlight and trod silently along the alley towards the junction with the lane.
Baldwyn, just visible to John, kept pace with his master in the shadows under the eaves. He was walking directly towards the immobile Gwyn and inevitably must see him within the next few seconds.
John’s strategic instincts told him that he must give Gwyn the maximum advantage of surprise, so he stepped round the corner and stood in full moonlight, blocking the end of the alley. Simultaneously, he drew his sword with a flourish from its scabbard, the steel grating ominously against the bronze lip of the sheath.
The two escapers were as if struck by lightning. The sudden appearance of their persecutor from nowhere, to stand before them in the ethereal light of a full moon, seemed almost supernatural.
‘Christ!’ screamed Gervaise in terror. He threw away his sword, which hit the nearest wall with a clang. Then he turned tail and ran back round the corner of the alley.
‘Get him, Gwyn!’ roared John, throwing himself forward to chase the fleeing man. But Baldwyn was made of sterner stuff and stepped out to swing a murderous blow at the coroner with his chain mace. If it had connected, the heavy iron ball covered in spikes would have pulped John’s head, even with the protection of the helmet. But Gwyn, his presence in the shadows unsuspected by Baldwyn, leaped forward with a yell and hacked down with his heavy sword on to the hardwood handle of the mace. The short chain that carried the ball swung up and wrapped itself around the sword-blade, preventing Gwyn from making another stroke.
The coroner, who had felt the wind of the mace-head within an inch of his ear, staggered sideways, and before he could recover, the squire from Peter Tavy had snatched up his master’s discarded sword and had jumped back to face them both.
Gwyn’s sword had slid free of the mace-chain, but Baldwyn stood blocking the alley, his mace touching one wall and his sword-point the other. ‘Come then, I’ll have the pair of you!’ he snarled, crouching slightly and swinging the mace-chain menacingly.