When the ostler led him from his stall, John hoisted himself up into Odin’s high saddle and turned his head to the lane, but just as he was moving off, there was a deep bellow from outside and Gwyn came panting in, his face almost as red as his hair from the exertion. ‘Crowner, for Christ’s sake, come quickly! There’s a mob at the Bush, intent on serious mischief!’ For once the Cornishman had abandoned his usual long-windedness, the urgency raw in his voice. ‘There’s about fifty of them, some with burning brands — and that bastard canon is among them, egging them on!’
De Wolfe felt his heart thump with anxiety. ‘Did you see Nesta there?’
‘No, I was just on my way there for a bite of food, but the sight of that rabble clustered around the front and back sent me haring up here. There was nothing I could do on my own.’
John’s warrior nature quickly took control and he snapped out orders. ‘Andrew, take a horse and fly up to Rougemont and get the constable and Gabriel down to Idle Lane with some men. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death!’ He looked down at Gwyn. ‘Run over to the house and get my sword, I’ve only got a dagger with me.’
It was quicker to send him than to dismount and get back up again and, within a minute, his officer was back with John’s broad-sword hanging from its baldric, which he kept hanging in the vestibule.
As he threw the strap over his shoulder, he motioned for Gwyn to get up behind him on Odin. With no stirrup to help him, the ostler bent double for Gwyn to put a foot on his back and with a heave, he was up behind his master, just as the desperately impatient John touched Odin with his spurs. Though the stallion was built for brute power, rather than speed, they were soon cantering through the Close, the great beast not seeming to notice the substantial extra weight on his back.
The coroner yelled hoarsely at anyone who seemed likely to get run down in the narrow lanes that led to Southgate Street, but the thunder of the destrier’s hoofs was enough to scatter any bemused loiterers in their path.
‘Were they after Lucy, d’you think?’ he howled over his shoulder, as they hammered downhill towards the tavern.
‘Couldn’t tell, they were shouting for the witch!’ bellowed Gwyn. ‘I didn’t wait to find out more, I needed to get you down there!’
As they entered Priest Street, the slope became steeper and John slowed Odin to prevent him slipping, but also because increasing numbers of people were hurrying down to where Idle Lane turned off to the right.
They were attracted not only by the hubbub of shouting and yelling, but also by an ominous plume of black smoke that was rising into the still morning air. Any fire in a city was a danger to all its inhabitants, especially when the majority of buildings were still built of wood and many of the roofs were of thatch or wooden shingles.
‘Holy Mary, the place is afire!’ yelled Gwyn in his ear as they turned the corner. Before them the Bush sat isolated on its patch of waste ground, but clustered around the front and up the side to the back yard was a mass of people, being added to as a flood of sightseers and fire-fighters streamed towards it from both Priest Street and Smythen Street on the other side.
Now able only to go at a trot through the press of people, Odin barged his way towards the tavern, his nostrils flaring and his ears going back at the unwelcome smell of smoke. There were dull red flames licking up at several points around the edges of the lofty thatched roof and smoke was billowing out in ever-increasing volume from under the eaves and filtering through several places on the thatch itself.
Yelling at the top of his voice in a mixture of anger and anxiety, John forced the stallion through almost to the front door, where the mob appeared to be most excited and aggressive, shouting and screaming abuse and shaking their fists. They were being forced back from the front wall, which carried the door and two unglazed windows, as strands and clumps of burning straw were beginning to drop down from the edge of the thatch above. The eaves were almost low enough to be touched by a man standing on tiptoe, the large space in the loft being made by the steep pitch of the roof.
Just over the doorway, from which smoke was billowing, was the inn sign, a large dried bush hanging from an iron bracket sticking out of the wall. Someone had already thrown a rope over it with an ominous noose on one end, although the act was futile, as the bush had just caught fire and the rope was already smouldering. Still, the memory of Theophania Lawrence hanging from the bracket on the Snail Tower was still fresh in John’s memory and his rage increased when he thought of Nesta and Lucy still inside the building.
With a roar, he turned Odin to face the rabble, keeping his rump well clear of the falling hot debris. With an almost maniacal flourish, he drew his sword, the three feet of steel making a chilling scraping sound as it came out of the scabbard. As he held it aloft, he felt Gwyn sliding off the horse, a long club in one hand and his dagger in the other.
Afterwards, he could not recollect what he was shouting at the mob, but with the flat of his sword he lay about those within reach, as Gwyn beat a path through them and vanished around the side of the inn.
Odin was in his element, for he had been trained for close combat and neighed and tossed his head and kicked out with his great feet, with devastating effect on those who were unwise enough not to scatter out of his way. De Wolfe made for a man who still held a burning brand in his hand and felled him with a sideswipe of the sword against his head. The torch fell against two others, who screamed as their flesh began to burn, and set up a ripple effect that caused the mob to move outwards in a panic-stricken circle, like a stone thrown into a pond.
Several men made half-hearted attempts to strike John or pull him from the horse, but they were rewarded either with a ringing blow from the flat of his sword or a thwack from the saddle-stick that he carried in his other hand, having hooked the reins around the pommel, as Odin needed no guiding in a situation like this. Thankfully, almost none of the crowd was armed with anything more than their usual dagger, as they had turned out to burn and hang an old woman, not to fight. Most of them made no attempt to oppose the coroner, who was an almost demoniacal figure himself, clad all in black, bellowing in fury and laying about him with a great sword from the back of a monstrous horse.
The crowd broke up as they scattered from his path and suddenly he found himself looking down at the cassock-clad figure of a priest. Gilbert de Bosco glared back at him, yelling something that in the clamour and crackle of flames John did not understand — not that his powers of comprehension were working well, such was his anger.
‘Damn you, you malicious meddler!’ he yelled. ‘Is this how you serve God, by persecuting defenceless women, you evil coward!’ He raised his sword high and only an ingrained respect for the priesthood stopped him from slicing off the canon’s head.
Gilbert stared up in momentary terror, but when he saw that John was instinctively unable to strike a member of the cloth he instantly regained his arrogance and pomposity. ‘Threaten a member of the cathedral chapter, would you!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be brought to account for that, Crowner!’
For answer, the enraged coroner grabbed Odin’s reins and hoisted the beast back to rear up so that his great fore-feet lashed the air momentarily in front of de Bosco’s face. With a scream of fear, the priest stumbled backwards to escape the menacing hoofs and crashed against a man behind, falling heavily backwards to the ground.
De Wolfe brought the stallion back to earth and glared down at the priest as he lay ignominiously in the dirt. ‘If anyone dies or is badly injured in this tumult that you have provoked, my inquest will indict you. Your claim to benefit of clergy may save your neck, but I will personally plead with Archbishop Walter for you to receive the harshest punishment known to the Church!’