Nesta squeezed his arm compassionately. She knew how de Wolfe hated having to give bad news to families.
'Did the poor woman take it badly, John?' she asked.
'If screaming and fainting is taking it badly, then yes, she did. Thankfully, I took Thomas with me, he is always good at such tragic moments.' He sounded sombre at the memory of that visit.
Gwyn swallowed the better part of a pint before coming up for air and then wiped his soaking moustache with his fingers. 'What about the other guild people - any opinions from them?'
'I spoke to the men in his workshop - he has a large place behind the house, where they make all types of candle, as well as wax for seals and dubbin and polishes for saddlery and leather goods. He was in a good way of business, with four journeymen and the same number of apprentices.'
One of the maids called across to Nesta about some problem out in the cook-shed and she rose to attend to it, but before leaving said, 'I knew Robert de Hokesham slightly. I bought candies, tallow and oil from him. He used to call regularly to collect the money due. He seemed a pleasant, honest man.'
As she hurried away, Gwyn pursued the matter. 'Did you gain anything about the guild aspect, Crowner? All three of these dead men were prominent masters and had been active in their guilds. Is that just a coincidence?'
De Wolfe sighed as he reached down to fondle Brutus's head under the table., 'Once again I consulted Hugh de Relaga, but he had nothing to offer. Of course, he knew de Hokesham well, he was a member of the city council, but as with the glazier Hamelin de Beaufort, there seems nothing whatsoever in his background to make him a candidate for such a gruesome killing.'
'So what happens next?' demanded Gwyn.
'As this obviously concerns members of guilds, I've arranged with Hugh de Relaga to have a meeting the day after tomorrow with the wardens of most of the major guilds in the city,' answered John. 'Maybe they can throw some light on this matter, as it concerns them so closely.'
Gwyn saw Nesta returning across the crowded taproom and hauled himself to his feet, as he diplomatically prepared to leave.
'What about the inquest on this fellow today?' he enquired as he shrugged his scuffed leather jacket around his massive shoulders.
'We can't hold it tomorrow, so arrange it for Thursday,' commanded the coroner. 'Though if the information is as sparse as with the other deaths, it will be another waste of time.'
Gwyn planted a kiss on Nesta's cheek, getting an affectionate smile in return, then lumbered towards the door.
She sat down again alongside de Wolfe and slid her hand under the table to rest on his thigh.
'Forget dead bodies for a while, John,' she pleaded. 'If I get a nice big bone for Brutus, maybe he can wait a while before you go back to Martin's Lane.' She gave his leg a hard pinch and looked meaningfully at the wide ladder that led to the upper floor.
That evening, in the great cathedral of St Peter and St Mary, one of the most important festivals of the religious year was being celebrated as the last hours of the eve of Christmas moved inexorably towards the day itself.
As the evening wore on, Matilda de Wolfe, attired in her best gown and a heavy hooded mantle of fleecelined velvet, left her house .in Martin's Lane and made her way across the Close to the cathedral doors in the West Front. Her maid Lucille dragged behind her mistress, as a reluctant chaperone. They joined the stream of several hundred other worshippers, many of whom had, like Matilda herself, forsaken their parish churches for the spectacle in the cathedral, which was now virtually complete, more than eighty years since Bishop Warelwast began rebuilding on the site of the old Saxon church, his huge twin towers pushing up into the sky as if they intended to last for a thousand years.
In the great nave, she pushed her way as far as possible to the front of the crowd standing on the bare flagged floor, so that she could get a good view of the great wooden screen that separated the common people from the quire and chancel, where the priests and their acolytes performed their mysteries. The cathedral was not intended to cater for the devotional needs of the general population, being a place where God could be praised endlessly by the clergy in the nine religious offices that punctuated every day and night. The twenty-seven parish churches and their priests were deemed sufficient to cater for the pastoral needs of Exeter folk, but the feast of Christ's birthday was an exception, when a show was put on by the cathedral chapter, partly for the benefit of the public. The usual time for Matins was brought forward from after midnight to the tenth hour, so that devotions could lead up to the vital first minutes of the new day, when Mass was celebrated, the only occasion in the year when it was so timed.
Matilda genuflected and crossed herself, then peered around in the dim light afforded by pitch-brands burning in iron rings on the main pillars, as well as by some soft candlelight percolating from the quire through the fenestrated carvings of the screen. In the distance, she could just glimpse the presbytery and the High Altar, but her gaze was mainly directed to identifying some of her friends from St Olave's, who had promised to be present this evening. As the bells in the great towers began to ring out, she shuffled across to where she saw some familiar figures and soon was with a group of her cronies, enjoying a subdued gossip while they waited for the service to begin. All around her, the crowd murmured, stamped their feet and rubbed their hands against the biting cold. High above, a few birds that had flown in through the unglazed clerestory windows chirruped as they squabbled for places on the roof beams - and occasionally, members of the congregation cursed as the sparrows fouled their best clothes.
Matilda was pleased to find that her new friend Joan de Whiteford had come to partake of the Mass, along with her cousin Mistress le Bret. For some reason, John's wife seemed attracted to the younger woman with an almost maternal urge to take her under her wing.
Perhaps it was the misfortune of her early widowhood, as well as the undoubted cachet of her knightly status, that made Matilda warm to her. The coroner's wife preferred the company of women to men, because in general she disliked men. Being married to John was a burden she had suffered for years - she had once even entered a local nunnery, but found the life too spartan for her liking.
She chatted amiably with Joan for a few moments and was glad to find that the pretty woman was also devoutly religious, which made her even more to be cherished.
They avidly shared the atmosphere of this special evening and eagerly anticipated the ceremony that was about to begin.
At about the tenth hour, sweet chanting from the choristers began in the distance and a solemn procession entered the quire and chancel. Held high, a gilded cross led in a cortege of splendidly robed priests and their followers, who all peeled off to take their appointed places. Bishop Henry Marshal, for once giving up his political journeying to be present in his diocese, took himself with his mitre and golden crook to his throne near the altar, while his four archdeacons, the other twenty canons and a multitude of vicars-choral, secondaries and choristers distributed themselves around the quire and presbytery.
Chanting, responses, psalms and prayers echoed through the vaulted building and though the proceedings were conducted entirely in Latin, of which no one below the screen could understand a word, the ethereal effect, combined with the cloying thin smoke of incense, created a mystical mind-state so far removed from the rigors of everyday life, that all present felt that they could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in that great building. Matilda felt her new friend clutch her arm as the melodious chanting of the choir wafted over them and she patted her hand in mutual companionship.
Soon, a canon inside the quire began reading the first lesson, again in Latin, but as the words were being intoned, a young chorister in a white gown appeared on the steps of the distant altar, holding aloft a flaming torch. Then he turned and with the audience breathlessly entranced, he began singing the
Hodie natus celorum rex
in a high, sweet voice, proclaiming that 'the King of Heaven on this day consented to be born for us of a virgin'. Then the boy pointed with his fight hand at the statue of the Virgin beside the altar and went down on one knee, at which the assembled clergy responded with
Ut hominen perditem
- 'that he should call home outcast man to the kingdom of heaven'.
Matilda felt Joan quiver with almost ecstatic emotion and her own eyes misted when three choristers from each side of the choir, again dressed all in white albs, came to the altar steps and, with the first lad, turned to sing the
Gloria in excelsis deo
as they walked slowly down through the quire and out through the great carved screen to face the congregation.
When Matins was finished, the midnight Mass was celebrated, and when at last all the clergy and their acolytes had processed out of the cathedral, the spellbound congregation began to make their way home in the biting cold. Matilda stood with her friends just inside the west door, making final conversation and exchanging seasonal goodwill greetings. Rather reluctantly, she said farewell to Joan who, with her cousin for company, left to walk back to Raden Lane. As everyone drifted off, muffling themselves against the keen east wind that had sprung up, Matilda found herself almost alone in the cavernous nave, where most of the torches had now burnt themselves out and the remainder were guttering to a feeble light.
Reluctant to have the almost divine atmosphere come to an end, she told Lucille to wait on the steps and made her way back towards the intricately carved screen which carried the huge central crucifix almost to the apex of the chancel arch high above. The many candles in the choir beyond were still burning, throwing a pale light for a few yards into the nave. Gripped in an aura of religious awe, Matilda went down on her knees on the cold slabs, for once careless of her best raiment, and prayed fervently for herself and almost everyone she knew. She even included her wayward husband and her brother, the idol who had turned out to have feet of clay.
Especially she prayed for her new friend Joan, pleading that she should obtain solace and peace of mind after her widowhood. Eventually, as a sexton began snuffing out the candles inside the quire, the ritual-induced state of grace faded and as she could think of no one else for her prayers, she rose and made her way through the empty nave towards the doors.
Out on the steps, she beckoned impatiently to the shivering Lucille, pulled her hood forwards and tugged her cloak more closely to her neck, then set off along the path that led diagonally towards St Martin's Church and the entrance of the lane that led to her house. The icy weather had driven even the beggars out of the Close to seek better shelter, and the tumbled, rubbish-strewn area, with its untidy grave mounds, was completely deserted. The only light came from a waning quarter-moon, often obscured by clouds, together with the distant flickering of a few torches set at the various entrances to the Close, but Matilda had walked this way a thousand times and knew every rut in the path. Halfway to Martin's Lane, she commanded her maid to run ahead and tell Mary to prepare a hot possett of wine for her as a nightcap. Urged on by the snap in her mistress's voice, Lucille hurried away, leaving Matilda to cover the last few hundred paces to her front door.
Still abstracted by the aura of the Mass, Matilda failed to notice soft footsteps coming up behind her. Suddenly a violent push against her shoulders sent her flying to the ground. Her forehead struck a lump of frozen earth thrown from a gravepit and the scream that had formed in her throat turned to a croak, as she almost lost consciousness.
A moment later, she was rolled on to her back and a menacing figure straddled her, his hands groping for her neck. As her wits returned, her first thought was that she was about to be ravished, and she struggled violently. Matilda was a solidly built woman, and desperation gave her the will to buck and twist under her assailant, but he was too strong for her. Again she drew in a deep breath to scream, but now his fingers scrabbled aside her mantle to grab her neck and squeeze, her shriek for help dying in her mouth. The fingers tightened and now she feared for her life, rather than her honour, as the strong hands continued to throttle her. Her head felt about to burst and red flashes appeared inside her eyes as she frantically tried to draw a breath. A feeling of unreality and disbelief coursed through her muddled brain, as she tried to convince herself that this could not really be happening. A buzzing began in her ears, but she was still able to hear a voice hissing sibilantly a few inches from her face.
'You old bitch! Tell that evil bastard you call a brother, that the body in his damned college - and the two that followed - shows what happens to people who cross me.' Suddenly, the grip on her throat was released and the weight of her assailant's body lifted as he rose to his feet. Then Matilda felt a violent kick in her ribs, thankfully somewhat blunted by her thick mantle, before the harsh voice spoke again.
'And you can tell him that his own time is coming, as it is for his foul accomplice Henry Pomeroy! I want revenge for Hempston, which ruined my life.' Then she heard footsteps loping away towards Bear Gate and Southgate Street. Gasping, then sobbing with pain and fear, she turned on to her side and lay crumpled into a bail, shivering first with distress and then with cold. Slowly, she dragged herself to her knees and painfully rose to her feet. There was still not a soul in the Close that could come to her aid, and weeping she staggered like a drunken person towards the end of Martin's Lane, only a hundred paces away. As she went, she put her fingers to a newly recognised pain in her forehead and sobbed anew as they came away moist with seeping blood. •