Free Sword of Shame by The Medieval Murderers

claiming that he was off to round up a jury for the inquest.
    â€˜You’d better call in at Milk Lane and tell Gwyn that he should keep away,’ ordered the coroner, as the little clerk reached the doorway. ‘There’s no point inexposing him to the spite of the sheriff, for I’ve a good idea of what de Revelle is trying to do.’
    This only succeeded in transferring some of John’s anxieties to his clerk and with a worried frown, Thomas pattered off into the busy city streets. An insignificant figure in his threadbare cassock, he pushed his way through the morning crowds of wives doing their shopping, stallholders and hawkers yelling the merits of their goods, porters pushing barrows and others humping great bales of wool. Calling in at the constable’s hut, he confirmed that Osric and his colleague were collecting all those who had been present at the scene in Waterbeer Street and making sure they would be at the inquest. From previous experience, the constables were well aware of the coroner’s wrath if the arrangements failed to run smoothly and Thomas was confident that the jury would be assembled on time.
    Then he set off again to reach Carfoix, the central crossing of the main roads from each of the four gates, the street plan not having altered since Roman times. Crossing to South Gate Street, he averted his head from the daily scene in the Shambles, where cattle and sheep were being slaughtered in the street, blood and offal clogging the central gutter. He hurried on and turned through several lanes to reach Milk Street, to find Gwyn in the large plot behind his sister-in-law’s cottage. He was milking a large red cow, who was munching away unconcernedly from a bag of hay hung from her tethering post. A small calf stood nearby, looking indignantly at this large red-headed man who was pouring half her dinner into a wooden bucket.
    Thomas delivered his message about the inquest and Gwyn nodded resignedly. ‘I thought this would happen, the bloody sheriff won’t miss a chance like this.’ He pulled his head away from the cow’s flank and calledacross to Helen, who was sitting on a stool near the back door, plucking a chicken, several more dead fowls lay at her feet.
    â€˜I’ll finish milking the other two beasts, then I’ll kill that goose for you,’ he shouted, before putting his hands back to the udder.
    â€˜How is your wife?’ asked Thomas solicitously.
    â€˜Agnes is just the same, thank you,’ said Gwyn. ‘She’s not lost the babe so far, though she is still bleeding a little. The good-wife who attends her says that she must lie still for some days, if she is to keep it.’
    â€˜And the boys?’
    â€˜They’re no worse, but are listless and can’t stand daylight in their eyes. Neither have any appetite, which proves they are unwell, as they are usually as hungry as dogs!’
    Thomas, a kindly man who always sympathized with the misfortunes of others, did his best to cheer his friend from his obvious gloom. ‘I can do little for you but pray, Gwyn, but if there is anything else…’
    â€˜Thank you, Thomas! I seem to be cursed with ill luck these past few days. If what I fear will happen, I’ll need all the prayers you can muster, so keep in practise!’
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    â€˜Oyez, oyez, all those who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance.’
    Opening the inquest, Thomas’s reedy voice contrasted markedly with the stentorian bellow that Gwyn used when he officiated, but it was sufficient to quieten the score of men who were shuffling into a half-circle before the small shed that acted as the mortuary. Behind them, a small crowd of onlookers, some of them women, craned their necks to follow the proceedings. They were all in the dusty yard behind StPancras’s Church in the middle of the city, but most of the jury wished