Figure of Hate (5 page)

As he came on to the drawbridge, the sentry saw there was no need to challenge him, as it was Osric, one of the city's constables, employed by the council of burgesses to keep order on the streets - an ambitious task for only two men in a town of over four thousand.

The skinny Saxon paused under the archway to get his breath back, leaning on the long staff that, apart from a dagger, was his only weapon.

'Is the crowner up in his chamber?' he panted. 'We've got a body already and the damned fair hasn't even started yet!'

The man-at-arms shook his head. 'I think he's in the hall celebrating with the new sheriff. But his officer's in there.' He pointed towards the guardroom and Osric scurried inside, bending his head to clear the low lintel.

Gwyn of Polruan looked up from his game and groaned when he saw who it was. 'Here comes trouble! What have you got for us this time?'

Four faces looked up at him expectantly, the dice forgotten for the moment.

'The flood tide has just washed up a corpse near the quay-side. One of the wharf porters saw it and fished it out not half an hour ago.'

The red-haired Cornishman seemed unimpressed.

'God knows how many drownings we've had this year, with all this rain. The river's been continually in spate since midsummer.'

Osric shook his head, a large Adam's apple bobbing in his long neck as he disagreed.

'No drowner this one, Gwyn! He was stark naked and his face beaten in so much his own mother wouldn't recognise him!'

The officer lumbered to his feet, a stubborn look on his face.

'A few days Or even weeks roiling in the river can tear off their garments, man! And their faces get smashed against rocks and dragged along the stony bottom.'

Equally obdurate, the constable shook his head again. 'Not this one! He's fresh, limbs still stiff and not a hint of corruption on his belly. Not been in the water more than a day, I'll wager.'

Gwyn sighed and bent to pick up the three halfpence he had already won.

'I'll have to come back later to take the rest from you losers!' he said gruffly to the men on the floor.

'Stay here, Osric, I'll go and get Sir John.'
 

The crowd had thinned out since Gwyn had left the hall, but there were still many people left, reluctant to leave while there was still food and drink remaining. He stood inside the door and saw that his master had now moved to stand over his wife and his friend the portreeve, who was still chattering away like a gaudy tomtit.

Gwyn wondered how often over the past year he had brought his master messages similar to the one he now had to deliver. It had been late the previous September that John de Wolfe had been appointed as the first coroner in Devon on the direct recommendation of the King, through Hubert Walter, his Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury. Since then, they had dealt with scores of dead bodies, rapes and assaults, as well as a few fires, wrecks, troves of treasure and even catches of the royal fish, the whale and the sturgeon. During this eventful year, the twenty-year bond between the Cornishman and his master had strengthened, as each had saved the life of the other yet again. This time, the rescues had been within the county boundary, rather than in campaigns across the known world from Ireland to Outremer.

Gwyn looked across the hall at the man whose life was inextricably bound with his own. He saw a tall, slightly hunched figure, jet-black hair swept back from his forehead, long enough to fall to his collar, unlike the usual severe cropping of the neck and sides effected by most Normans. His face was long and hollow cheeked, with a large hooked nose surmounted by bushy eyebrows. Though de Wolfe shaved once a week, there was usually dark stubble on his face, and this, together with his habit of invariably dressing in black or grey, had long earned him the nickname of 'Black John' among the soldiery with whom they had spent much of their lives until three years ago.

Gwyn had been his companion, bodyguard and friend for almost two decades, since he had given up being a fisherman in Polruan to become John's servant in one of the early Irish wars. Their final campaign had been as part of the small band that accompanied the Lionheart on his ill-fated journey home from the Crusade, when a shipwreck in the Adriatic drove him overland to be captured in Vienna and held prisoner in Austria and Germany for well over a year. Both Gwyn and de Wolfe still blamed themselves for not being able to prevent the ambush, especially as they had managed to escape.

Now he stood in the hall and looked across with dogged affection at his master, as he hunched like a great crow over his wife and friend. He knew that de Wolfe's relations with his wife were stressful, there being faults on both sides. The marriage had been arranged by their respective fathers and both were reluctant partners. De Wolfe had solved much of the problem by managing to be away for most of the seventeen years of his married life, finding wars, campaigns and crusades to keep him far from Exeter. In all that time, Gwyn doubted that they had Spent more than a month in any one year at home, It was only when they returned from Austria that they found that they had run out of wars to fight, as well as becoming too old at forty to have the stamina for prolonged campaigning.

Gwyn shrugged off this rare moment of reverie; he was like his master in that contemplation and emotion were foreign to his nature. Pushing past a couple of kitchen servants who were collecting empty mugs and tankards, he walked between the trestles and benches to within a few yards of the coroner and made a discreet signal to him.

With an alacrity that showed that he was relieved to get away from Hugh de Relaga's prattling, de Wolfe moved across to his officer, a questioning look on his long face.

'Well?' he snapped, the severity of his tone being his normal method of address.

'We've got a corpse from the river, Crowner,' drawled Gwyn easily. 'Osric reckons it's fresh. Naked and beaten up, so he's unrecognisable.' John rubbed his hands together. He was not delighted at the thought of another man's death, but pleased to have an excuse to get away from this gathering, as the effort to be sociable was becoming a strain.

'I'll arrange to have my, wife taken home, then I'll come. Where's the body?'

'Still down on the quay-side. They're learning at last that no one is to interfere with corpses until you view them.'

John turned on his heel and stalked back to the nearby table, where Gwyn saw him making some excuse to Matilda and a request to the corpulent portreeve. Then he was back at his officer's side.

'I see our brave clerk is still here. Get him to come down with us.'

Gwyn signalled to Thomas, who was talking to a vicar-choral of his acquaintance, and a few moments later the three of them collected Osric from the guardroom. They began striding down Castle Hill towards High Street, which ran from the East Gate to the centre of the city. Thomas de Peyne limped behind on his short legs, as the constable repeated the meagre information to de Wolfe.

'Close in to the bank he was, according to the fellow who hauled him out. Could well have gone in on the Exeter side of the river, anywhere between here and Topsham.'

This was the port a few miles downriver, where the Exe widened out into its estuary, six miles from the open sea.

'And there's nothing at all to show who he might be?' demanded de Wolfe.

The Saxon shook his head as they hurried through the crowded main street. 'Doesn't look a rough fellow, Crowner. He's shaved and has a decent haircut. Hard to tell how old he is, but he's not a young man. There's a belly on him and his hair has a bit of grey at the temples.'

The town was already filling up ready for the fair the next day, and the press of people, barrows, handcarts and heavily laden porters slowed their progress until they got past Carfoix, the central crossing of the four main streets. Then they turned into side alleys and began going down the steeper lanes towards the quayside. At the bottom of Priest Street, they turned left to reach the Watergate, driven through the southwest corner of the city walls in recent years to give better access to the busy wharf and warehouses that Exeter's rapidly growing commerce demanded.

'He's just past that last cog, Crowner,' said Osric, pointing to the most distant of three vessels that were tied up at the stone quay. As the tide was well in, they were floating upright and would stay like that until the ebb dropped them down on the thick mud to lean over against the wharf. The whole place was busy with men jogging up and down gangplanks with sacks and bales on their shoulders. Shipwrights and sailors yelled garbled orders at the tops of their voices and merchants and their clerks were standing around heaps of cargo on the wharf, checking items by means of notched tally-sticks or knotted cords, as well as from a few parchment manifests.

Ignoring the noisy activity, John de Wolfe led his party onward, threading through the merchandise and shoving the odd labourer out of his path until he reached the last cog, which looked like a fat, bluntended Norse-longboat, its single sail now tightly lashed to the yard that crossed its stubby mast. Just beyond it were two figures, standing guard over something covered with a piece of canvas. They were rough-looking men, one dressed in a ragged tunic, the skirt of which was pulled up between his legs and tucked into his belt.

The other had a leather jerkin over breeches of coarse cloth, and both were barefooted, the lower part of their legs being caked in brown river mud.

'These men found the corpse, Crowner,' declared Osric. 'And this is him,' he added unnecessarily, jerking a thumb down at the canvas-covered mound.

The two men mumbled something and shifted uneasily, as any contact with officers of the law was something to be avoided, however innocent a man might be. The coroner's trio stood around the body, Thomas as reluctant as ever, for even a year's familiarity with his job had not inured his sensitive soul to the sights and smells of sudden death.

De Wolfe nodded at Gwyn, who, well used to the routine, bent and whipped off the piece of sailcloth to expose the corpse.

As Osric had promised, the deceased was stark naked, lying on his back, and against the dark muddy ground his pallor was almost obscene, like that of a plucked goose on a butcher's slab. The belly protruded, and Gwyn gave it a firm prod with his forefinger.

'That's fat, not gassy corruption!' he observed with satisfaction.

'I told you he was fresh,' said the constable, indignantly. 'Look at his hands, they're hardly wrinkled, so he's not been in the water long.'

De Wolfe, who considered himself an expert on injury and death, was not going to let a town constable lecture him on the subject, and he dropped to a crouch to examine the body more closely.

'Still stiff in the arms and legs,' he barked, as he cranked the elbows and knees of the dead man. 'And eyes not clouded yet!' He prodded the eyelids with a long finger as he spoke.

'The face is a proper mess, looks as if he's had a kicking,' said Gwyn judicially. From eyebrows down to jawline, the face was a welter of lacerations and bruises, the skin ripped, the lips puffed and torn and the nose smashed out of all recognition.

Thomas plucked up enough courage to venture a comment, similar to the one Gwyn had made earlier to the constable, 'We've had corpses from the water before, where you've said the injuries were due to being knocked around against stones and rocks after death. Could this not be the same?'

The coroner shook his dark head. 'The cuts and wounds are only on his face and neck. The rest of him is intact. When a corpse drags along the bottom, the knees and backs of the hands get ripped as well.'

Gwyn hoisted up one of the stiff arms. 'And look at these, Crowner! Bruises on both his forearms and hands.'

Thomas was uncharacteristically stubborn today.

'Isn't that what the crowner just described?' De Wolfe, content to expound further, prodded the blue marks with his forefinger. 'You can't bruise a corpse, Thomas! These were inflicted during life, though they're very recent, still being blue in colour.' His officer nodded sagely. 'Men get them from holding up their arms to defend themselves against a beating. This poor fellow's had a good old hammering.'

They stood in a silent ring around the body for a moment, looking down at what had been a living person not long before. Thomas crossed himself several times and murmured some verses of a Latin requiem under his breath.

'We know how he died, but who the hell is he?' grunted Gwyn.

De Wolfe questioned the two labourers and the constable, but none of them could offer any suggestions, which was hardly surprising given the state of the man's face. Crouching again alongside the body, John picked up the hands and studied them, turning them over to see both the backs and the palms.

'He's no rough peasant or manual worker. His hands are free from calluses - though he seems to have a number of small scars and old burns on the inside of his fingers. Maybe he was some kind of craftsman.'

After Gwyn had rolled the corpse on to its face to allow them to examine the back, de Wolfe motioned him to pull the makeshift canvas shroud over it again.

'Nothing more we can do herel We'll have to wait for someone to report their husband or father missing - though he may have come up on the flood tide from Topsham. I doubt it would be as far away as Exmouth, the corpse is too fresh.'