The Poisoned Chalice (8 page)

Two quarts of beer and a leg of mutton later, John felt more at peace with the world. Having spent half his life on the back of a horse, the twenty-two miles back from Torre that day were soon forgotten as he sprawled in front of the roaring logs in the large room of the Bush. His long, hawkish face with the big hooked nose was relaxed for once and the arm that was not holding the big pot of ale was comfortably around the shoulders of the innkeeper.

Nesta was a vivacious Welsh woman, with red hair quite a few shades darker than Gwyn's violently ginger thatch. Twenty-eight years old, she was the widow of a soldier from southern Wales, who had settled in Exeter to run a tavern, then prematurely died. Her round face, high forehead and snub nose were attractive enough, but a tiny waist and spectacular bosom made her the object of secret fantasies for half the men in Exeter. John had known her husband at the wars and had been a patron of the inn before he died. Afterwards, he had covertly given her money to help her continue the business. Her hard work and steely determination had made such a success of the venture that after four years it was the most popular tavern in the city.

It was an open secret that she was John de Wolfe's mistress, know to all including his wife, who used it to scold him during their frequent dog-fights.

This winter evening, with the unremitting wind still whistling outside, the inn was less busy than usual and only a few regulars were drinking in the big low room that filled the whole ground floor. Nesta had time to sit with him without interruption and he told her the story of his trip to Torbay. She always listened attentively, and made intelligent and often useful suggestions. More than once, her innate common sense had helped him to arrive at some decision.

‘So you've got to ride back there for an inquest?' she asked, at the end of his tale.

‘Joseph of Topsham, and maybe Eric Picot, will have to go down tomorrow to identify the bodies, the wreckage and the cargo. Then I'll return there on Thursday to hold the inquisition, and take with me some of the sheriffs men to arrest that murderous reeve and a couple of his cronies.'

Old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, shuffled across on his stiff leg, lamed at the battle of Wexford. He held out his pitcher of ale and refilled John's pot. ‘Evening, Crowner! Staying the night?' he cackled, his collapsed white eyeball, damaged by a spear point, rolling horribly.

Nesta aimed a kick at his bad leg. ‘Get away, you nosy old fool!' she said amiably. Edwin tottered away, chuckling, and she snuggled closer into John's side. ‘Have you told your dear brother-in-law about the killings?' she asked.

‘Not yet – I'll see him when I go up to Rougemont in the morning,' he replied.

But that was tempting fate, for the coroner and sheriff were to meet long before then, in a drama that was just about to unfold. The door to the street suddenly burst open and a figure appeared, the like of which the inn had never seen before. It was that of a senior cleric, a man of lean and ascetic mien, swathed in a great cloak. He threw back the hood as he stood on the threshold, revealing a white coif, a close-fitting cap tied under his long chin. His sharp grey eyes darted around the smoky room, seeking someone with obvious urgency.

‘John de Wolfe! There you are!' The relief in his deep voice was apparent and he strode across the bar, unclasping his cloak as he went to reveal a snowy chasuble with an embroidered edge flowing over the ankle-length alb.

Nesta jerked from under the coroner's arm and stood up quickly. In the years that she had been at the Bush, she had never seen a high-ranking priest in full regalia enter the place. She knew him for John de Alecon, Archdeacon of Exeter and one of the four lieutenants of Bishop Henry Marshall. She also knew that he was uncle to Thomas de Peyne and a firm friend of John: the Archdeacon was faithful to King Richard and, unlike the Bishop and several others of the cathedral hierarchy, had not supported Prince John's abortive rebellion.

‘What, in God's name, brings you here, John?' barked the coroner, jumping up to greet him. ‘Taverns are not one of your usual haunts!'

The Archdeacon smiled wryly at the mild blasphemy. ‘Maybe not altogether in God's name, though everything we do is under him. This is more a criminal matter and one of great urgency.'

De Wolfe waved a hand at the bench he had just vacated. ‘Will you not sit down and have something to drink? You look shaken.'

De Alecon looked about the room and at the patrons staring open-mouthed at this unique sight. ‘It would not be seemly, I fear. John, you must come with me at once. The daughter of Henry Rifford, the Portreeve, has been assaulted within the cathedral Close.'

There was a deathly hush in the room, as all there heard him. John stared at him for a moment. ‘Almighty Christ! How are you involved in this?'

The lean-faced cleric shook his head sadly. ‘I was the one who found the poor girl. On my way from Vespers to visit a sick canon at his house. I heard moaning behind a pile of new masonry on the north side of the cathedral. I found this poor young woman lying on the ground there, beaten and obviously ravished.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘I raised the hue and cry and turned out all the servants and vicars from the Bishop's Palace and the canon's houses, then had her carried to the small infirmary behind the cloisters, where she now lies.'

John was already pulling on his cloak and moving towards the door, when Nesta caught his arm. ‘She needs a woman with her – Christina Rifford has no mother, only an old aunt.'

John stopped to listen to the innkeeper: he had learned that she always made good sense. ‘So? Will you come?'

‘It would be better if you took your wife.'

‘She's not at home.'

‘Then I'll come – but the girl will have to be examined. That should not be done by any man, not even a leech, especially in these circumstances.'

‘So what can we do?' Part of the coroner's duties was the confirmation of rape, but in the three months since he had taken office, thankfully no such crime had come his way until now.

‘Dame Madge from Polsloe priory, is the most skilled at problems of childbirth and women's complaints. She should be called, for the sake of the poor girl.'

The Archdeacon had followed this discussion intently. ‘It seems the best plan, but the city gates are shut for the night.'

John snorted derisively. ‘This concerns a portreeve's daughter! The gate will open at the command of a King's coroner and, no doubt, the sheriff when he hears of it. I'll get word to the castle to send an escort for the lady.'

With that, he stepped into the night, leaving an excited buzz of discussion behind them in the tavern.

When the Archdeacon, the coroner and Nesta arrived at the small infirmary alongside the cathedral cloisters, a messenger had already been sent to get the girl's father from his meeting in the Guildhall. He arrived a few minutes after John, who had barely had time to go in with Nesta to see Christina.

The girl was lying curled up on a low bed in the whitewashed cell, her eyes open but staring blankly at the wall. She was shivering violently, and a distraught elderly priest was attempting to soothe her with paternal murmurings. A townswoman who had been passing by when the Archdeacon discovered Christina in the Close had willingly come along as a comforter and was now sitting rather helplessly on a stool at the side of the bed.

Nesta, whose compassion was boundless, went straight to the other side to kneel on the floor, with her face near the girl's. She began talking to the young victim in soft tones, immediately getting some reaction, as Christina's eyes moved to focus on Nesta's face and her hand came out to grip her fingers.

Before de Wolfe had any opportunity to intervene, the door flew open and Henry Rifford erupted into the room. Though John had never had much regard for the portreeve, he now felt very sorry for him in this tragic situation. Normally, the heavily built, almost bald man had a florid complexion, but now his cheeks were dead white, almost grey in colour. Without so much as a glance at the others crowded into the little room, he shot to the bed and put his arms around his only daughter's shoulders. Christina held him around the neck and only one word escaped her lips, ‘Father!'

There were no tears, no sobs, only the silent quivering.

Suddenly John felt like an intruder and he motioned the Archdeacon and the priest to come outside, leaving the two women with the father and daughter. ‘We must wait until she has settled a little,' he said. ‘There is no question of talking to the girl or trying to examine her until her father has calmed her.'

De Alecon grimaced. ‘But she seems unnaturally calm now – I suppose that is from the shock of her terror?' He knew nothing of women, being a truly celibate priest, which was something of a rarity.

The door opened and Nesta emerged. ‘She would be better returned to her own home, to be among familiar things. This serpent's nest of men, even though they be priests, is the worst place for her at this time.' Her usually cheerful face was drawn and John saw tears in the corners of her eyes.

The old priest, anxious to do something useful away from these women, hobbled off, saying that he would arrange for porters to bring a litter: it would be a short journey to Rifford's house in the High Street as, within the small city, nowhere was more than a few minutes' walk away.

‘What about Richard de Revelle?' asked the Archdeacon. ‘He is very thick with Rifford. When he learns of this, there will be hangings and ordeals in plenty!'

Any response was cut off by the door being torn open and Henry Rifford appearing before them. His face was now almost purple with rage and he could hardly speak for anger. ‘Find me this bastard and I'll kill him with my own hands!' he snarled. Such words from an overweight, middle-aged leather merchant should have been ridiculous, but the heartrending sight of a father in anguish moved both men to genuine pity.

De Alecon laid a hand on Rifford's shoulder in silent sympathy. ‘May God support and comfort you at this time, brother.'

John de Wolfe was more practical in his commiseration. ‘A litter has been sent for and we will take her home. The sheriff is being told, and already the castle constable has all his men scouring the streets, looking for this villain.'

‘How could this happen in a consecrated place? And what
did
happen?' whispered the father, his rage simmering down to a shaking iciness of spirit.

The Archdeacon explained gently what little he knew, that he had heard sounds of distress, and had found Christina on the ground, almost hidden behind stacks of new stone being used in cathedral repairs. He had run to the nearest canon's house for help and they had brought the girl on a mattress across to the cloister's sick-room. She had not said a word, but from the torn and dishevelled state of her clothing and the bruises on her face and neck, he had assumed reluctantly that the worst had taken place.

‘She should not have been out alone at night in the town. I blame myself for laxity in that,' moaned Henry Rifford. ‘She should have been with her cousin. That stupid sister of mine should have kept a closer eye on her – and so should I.'

John tried to lighten the load on his conscience a little. ‘She is almost a grown woman, Master Rifford. Girls that age are headstrong and unwilling to be cosseted by their elders. She is old enough to be married soon.'

At this, the portreeve groaned and hit his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God, married! I had forgotten. What is her fiancé to make of this – and his father, Joseph? Abused and sullied, not two months before the wedding – if now there will be any wedding.'

To do him justice, Rifford failed to think at that moment of the financial loss that might stem from an abandoned union with the rich ship-owning family.

By the time that Dame Madge had been fetched from Polsloe, a mile north of the city, Christina had been returned to her home in the high street. Nesta and the Archdeacon had diplomatically left and the sheriff was with the coroner in the house near the East Gate.

Aunt Bernice was distraught with horror and self-recrimination for not having prevented Christina from leaving the house. For a time the old lady was semi-hysterical, but then pulled herself together sufficiently to sit alongside Christina's pallet and try to soothe her with what passed for motherly love.

Henry Rifford had calmed to a cold determination to find whoever had attacked his daughter and have him hanged, preferably after the most hideous tortures. Richard de Revelle seemed to agree with him, but the problem was to establish exactly what had happened and who was the perpetrator.

‘I'm not clear what part you have to play in this, John,' said the sheriff aloofly. Matilda's brother was an elegant man, fond of expensive clothes which he wore with a flourish that hinted at his ambitions to be a courtier, rather that the chief law officer and tax collector of a far western county. He had a triangular face, with long brown hair swept back from a smooth forehead, narrow eyebrows and a thin moustache above a small pointed beard.

The current tragedy had temporarily swamped their mutual dislike, but John was determined not to let Richard get the better of him. ‘My part is to confirm rape, Richard. If it has occurred then it is serious enough to be a Plea of the Crown, not a matter for the local courts. I must record all the details for the King's judges when they next visit Exeter. If we find a good suspect, then they will try him.'

The sheriff scowled: it was the same dispute, over and over again. ‘If I find a suspect tonight, John, I will hang him tomorrow – that I promise you.'

‘And I'll put the noose around his neck myself!' added Rifford, still quivering with emotion.

John glowered at his brother-in-law. ‘Let's leave this argument until we set it before Hubert Walter, shall we? There are more pressing matters at this moment.'