Richard de Revelle glared back at him. ‘Then if you persist in this insulting accusation, John, that red-haired villain will be arrested the moment he shows his face in Exeter. In fact, I’ll give strict orders to the constable and the guards to throw him into Stigand’s tender care as soon as he appears!’ He sat down and leered up at his brother-in-law. ‘So make up your mind, John. Is it to be me — or him?’
The guard at the top of the drawbridge at Rougemont rarely had occasion to defend the castle against intruders. Apart from a few urchins and pedlars who now and then tried to get in, the last time the drawbridge had been raised and the portcullis lowered for defence had been over fifty years ago during the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. This morning, the day after the sheriff returned from Winchester, was no exception and the only event to keep the man-at-arms awake after the previous heavy night’s drinking was the appearance of a walking scarecrow on the ramp that crossed the wide ditch of dirty water that was the moat. She was halfway up, stumbling slowly as she hoisted herself painfully along with the aid of a stick, when the sentry yelled at her to clear off.
Although his voice was not too unkind, she stopped and scowled at him. If he had been nearer, he may have been discomfited by the angry glint in her eyes and flinched under her oddly penetrating gaze. ‘I must speak to the crowner, boy!’ she called, in a voice that was unexpectedly deep and strong, coming from such a decrepit frame.
‘He’s not here, mother — and even if he was, I couldn’t let you in.’
There was no real reason why he should keep her out, as the inner ward contained St Mary’s chapel, the courthouse and a number of lean-to dwellings built against the curtain walls for a few military families, though most lived in the larger outer bailey. However, he had standing orders to keep out vagrants, vagabonds, pedlars and beggars. The old woman’s ragged clothing and frightening facial hair seemed to put her in one of those categories and he advanced to the centre of the archway to emphasise the prohibition.
Bearded Lucy stared at him for a moment, as if contemplating putting a curse on him, but as the soldier seemed emphatic that the coroner was not there, she shrugged her rounded shoulders and stumped slowly back down towards Castle Hill, her stick tapping on the hard ground. The guard watched her go, uneasy at that final look she had given him — if he had been Thomas de Peyne, he would have crossed himself.
The old woman knew that Sir John lived in Martin’s Lane and slowly made her way there through the crowded high street, indifferent to the rude comments and occasional jeers of passers-by, especially those who came too close downwind of her unwashed body and filthy clothing. Even in a community where bathing was an eccentric perversion, the odours that came from old Lucy were unusual in their intensity.
At the corner of the narrow lane which led through to the cathedral Close, she hesitated, uncertain of what to do next. She was well aware that she would be unwelcome in any decent dwelling, but she had an overriding need to speak to Sir John. In her previous dealings with the coroner, she had found him to be a dour and rather forbidding man, but one who was unusually honest and compassionate, a rare quality in the Norman aristocracy, who were more likely to use their whip on her than a civil tongue. Peering down the alley, she saw the three tall, narrow houses on the right, the furthest one being that of the coroner. It was opposite the entrance to a livery stable that lay behind the Golden Hind tavern, which fronted on to the high street.
She began shuffling down the lane, still uncertain as to how she could get to speak to him, when her problem was unexpectedly solved by the appearance of two men from the stables. One wore the leather apron of a farrier, scarred with scorch marks from fitting hot shoes, but the other was John de Wolfe himself. She hobbled forward and accosted him as deferentially as her stubborn nature would allow.
‘Sir John, please! Can you spare an old woman a moment?’
The farrier gave her a contemptuous look and vanished back into his stable yard, leaving de Wolfe to deal with this untidy apparition.
‘Do you remember me, Crowner?’ she asked. ‘I have had dealings in the past with the landlady of the Bush.’
John knew very well who she was and nodded gravely. ‘You are the lady from Exe Island, I believe.’
It was a very long time since anyone had called her ‘lady’ and her faith in this man was strengthened further. She moved closer and was gratified to see that he did not flinch. ‘Can I speak frankly to you, sir? There is no one else in this city that I would trust.’
In spite of himself, John gave a furtive glance at the front of his house, to make sure that Matilda was not standing on the doorstep. The only window-opening was shuttered and anyway, at this time of day, his wife was still probably dozing up in her solar.
‘What is it, Lucy? Are you in trouble of some sort?’ He had a suspicion of the nature of her problem, but waited to hear it from her own mouth, which twisted wryly at his question.
‘Trouble? We are all in trouble, we cunning women. We are being persecuted and it will surprise me if I live to see the end of this month, along with some of my sisters.’
He listened gravely while she made an impassioned condemnation of the wave of hatred that was sweeping the city against her kind — and the injustice of the hysterical mob violence that had been drummed up by Gilbert de Bosco and those whom he had influenced.
‘Poor Theophania Lawrence has already paid the price, along with Elias Trempole — and Alice Ailward and Jolenta of Ide will undoubtedly soon be hanged. I fear for more of us poor souls, though I care little for myself. But I would warn you, Crowner, someone very close to you may also be at risk.’
His scalp prickled at the slow but deliberate way in which the deep voice rolled out these portents of doom, especially when her last words could refer to no one else but Nesta.
‘What have you heard, Lucy?’ he snapped urgently. ‘Is there a threat to my woman in the Bush?’
Her heavy lids lifted as she looked up at him, her sharp eyes intense within their reddened rims. ‘It is more what I feel in my old bones, sir, than what I have heard. We sisters often hear each other in our heads, without the need to shout. I knew what had happened at the very second Theophania died — and I know that the Welsh woman may also be betrayed.’
De Wolfe chewed at his lip, intensely worried by her words. He felt the conviction of her belief, though he usually had little time for sooth-saying and fortune-telling.
‘Did you seek me out to tell me this?’
The old woman shrugged. ‘In part, Crowner, for you have both been tolerant of me. But also, I beseech you to do what you can to stop this oppression. You are a just man and a powerful law officer. Surely there is something you can do to cool this madness?’
John looked at the bizarre face, and saw a strength of character that fleetingly, was almost regal as the old woman stared at him in hope. He only wished there was something he could say which could assuage her fears. ‘I have been greatly concerned myself at this misplaced crusade,’ he growled. ‘But you must understand that, regrettably, there is very little I can do. The mob responsible for Theophania’s killing melted away before they could be caught — and catching them would not bring her back now.’
He gripped her arm, not shying away from the feel of a skeletal limb beneath the grimy cloth. ‘As to the others, I cannot yet fathom why Elias was murdered. And the other two women were brought before the bishop’s court, over which I have not the slightest influence — in fact, the very opposite, as many in the cathedral have little love for me.’
Lucy nodded sadly, but persisted. ‘I believe you, sir. But those two women cannot be hanged by the Church. I hear they will be sent to the Shire Court for sentencing, so have you no power to see them shown some mercy there?’