An hour passed and John began to fidget over his parchments, wishing that the noon bell of the cathedral would ring to release him and allow him to go home for his dinner, even though this meant facing Matilda in her present strange mood following her drunken episode. Just as his wandering attention settled on speculation as to what Mary might have cooked for the day's main meal, footsteps again sounded on the staircase outside. This time, there was no soldier to announce the visitor, as the face that poked through the sacking screen was that of a servant from the close. It was a pimply boy who worked as the bottler's assistant in the house of Canon John de Alençon, and he brought a message to the effect that his master the archdeacon would be obliged if the coroner could call upon him at his earliest convenience.
'Give him my compliments and tell him I will be with him very shortly!' commanded John, and as the boy scuttled away down the steps he rose to roll up his parchments with a sigh of relief and take his grey cape from a peg on the wall.
Outside, the October day had turned colder and grey clouds and wind warned of a grim autumn. The wet summer of that year had already provided a very poor harvest, and if winter turned out to be a hard one he feared that starvation would claim many before the next spring.
He walked briskly down Castle Hill to High Street and turned into Martin's Lane. He passed his own front door but refrained from going in, for fear that domestic problems would detain him from meeting his good friend the archdeacon. It was unusual for de Alençon, to send for him, and even the lure of Mary's cooking failed to divert him.
When he arrived at the tall house in Canon's Row, the continuation of Martin's Lane past the north side of the cathedral, a servant showed him straight into the spartan room that the canon used as his study. A table carrying several books, two stools and a large plain cross on the wall were the only furnishings that this austere priest allowed, a marked contrast to the lavish luxury enjoyed by many senior members of the cathedral establishment. But John de Alençon's face was anything but austere today, for he advanced on the Coroner with a beatific smile and sat him on one side of the table while he took the other stool. Almost immediately, his bottler, a skinny old man with a bulbous nose, entered with two glass goblets and a glazed pottery jar whose seal told de Wolfe that it was the very best quality Anjou wine.
'Why the celebration, John?' he asked his namesake. 'Is it your birthday or have they at last made you a bishop?'
'Neither, my friend, but I have some good news,' replied the archdeacon, his blue eyes twinkling in his thin face. 'Your clerk - my nephew - has at last been granted readmission to the clergy! I had a message from the chapter clerk of Winchester today, anouncing that Thomas de Peyne is to present himself there in seven weeks' time!'
The stolid coroner was incapable of tears, but he felt an unaccustomed prickling in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the joy that this would bring to his woebegone clerk. It was through de Alençon's intervention that the near-starving Thomas had been taken on by de Wolfe as his clerk, and they both held considerable affection for the little man, whose intellect and devotion more than compensated for his poor body and unprepossessing appearance.
'Does he know of this yet?' John asked, as they raised their goblets in celebration of this long-awaited event.
'It's little more than an hour since I had the message,' replied the archdeacon. 'I've no idea where he might be, which is partly why I sent for you, to discover his whereabouts. '
The matter was soon resolved, as the boy with the pimples was sent off at a trot to the cathedral archives above the chapter house, where the coroner rightly suspected he would be found, in his quest for ink.
Within a few minutes, Thomas appeared, rather apprehensive at the summons, especially when he found his master with his uncle, both of them wearing spuriously grim expressions.
'Oh God!' he gasped, the words being a genuine supplication rather than an oath. 'Please don't tell me that they have changed their minds!'
As he seemed on the point of fainting, the two Johns hurriedly dropped their charade and broke into smiles as they told Thomas the good news. Then he almost fainted again, falling to his knees and bursting into tears, rocking back and forth on the floor, crossing himself and blubbing prayers of thanks between his sobs. His uncle, more used to pastoral emotions than the discomfited coroner, laid a gentle hand on his head. De Wolfe took a spare wine cup from the table and filled it.
'Here, boy, take this and join us!' he said, holding it out. 'I know you dislike ale and cider, but drink this with us in celebration. You're unlikely to have the chance of tasting this quality again!'
Thomas staggered to his feet and gradually his tears subsided as his elfin face became wreathed in smiles. The archdeacon told him' of the need to be in Winchester some weeks hence and they discussed the practicalities of the journey and the need for someone to accompany him on the lonely and dangerous roads.
'I'll send Gwyn with you, to make sure you get there in one piece,' promised de Wolfe. 'How I'll manage without either my clerk or my officer, I don't know, but we'll worry about that when the time comes.'
Thomas's euphoria suddenly evaporated, as a look of desperate concern appeared on his face.
'I'll not leave you, master! Even when I am taken back into the bosom of Mother Church, I will remain your clerk until you have no further need of me.'
John fidgeted with his wine cup. 'Don't concern yourself with that now, Thomas,' he muttered gruffly. 'You enjoy this moment and the prospect of what your heart has desired for so long.'
After a few more minutes of discussion about this great event, Thomas became agitated again and pleaded to be excused.
'I need to spend the rest of the day on my knees before the high altar, giving thanks to God for my deliverance.' He made his escape as soon as he could and the two older men watched him go with benign smiles on their faces.
Thank God for that, and I have never meant it so sincerely,' commented the archdeacon. 'I think my poor nephew would eventually have pined away and died, had this never come about.'
'Even I will go down on my knees beside my bed tonight and offer up my thanks for it,' grunted de Wolfe. 'But before that, we must have a celebration at the Bush this evening and try to get the little fellow drunk for the first time in his life!'
There was much of the day left before any such celebration could take place. First John had to get back to his house to make muttered excuses for his late appearance at dinner. Matilda looked very rough; her eyes were red rimmed and her face even more sallow than usual. For once she had no caustic comment to make on his tardiness at coming to table and sat silently with downcast eyes, chewing without enthusiasm the salt fish followed by boiled mutton that Mary had prepared. Afterwards the cook-maid brought them apples, which were now in season and, though small, were smooth and round, unlike the wrinkled fruit that they would get in the winter.
John made a few attempts at conversation, including the news that Thomas was to be readmitted to the Church. He had hoped that his wife's partiality to things ecclesiastical would allow her to be pleased at the return of a priest to the fold, but her dislike of Thomas prevented her from showing any interest, and he relapsed into silence again.
When Mary came into the hall to collect the remains of the trenchers and the platters, she dropped a wooden tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter. Matilda winced and screwed up her eyes as if a dagger had been plunged into her ear, and John realised that she was still suffering badly from the effects of her drinking the night before. She was still managing to swallow a respectable quantity of the less expensive wine that remained after her excesses, however, and they sat in uncompanionable silence while they emptied their cups. John once again tried to strike up some conversation to ease the strain between them, and this time he had more success when he tapped the snobbish, rather than dote religious, vein in his wife's nature. He told her of the unexpected visit of Sir Reginald de Charterai that morning, and her eyes, though still ble
ary, showed a spark of interest at the mention of an aristocrat from across the Channel.
'He is very well known, John, as well as a charming and handsome man,' she grunted. 'You would do well to cultivate his friendship.'
Surprised, John enquired how she came to know him.
'I saw him at the feast where he had that altercation with that evil Peverel fellow,' she replied. 'And I have seen him once or twice at tournaments in past years - usually when I went with my brother, as you were absent for most of my life!'
Even in her present low state, she could not resist jabbing her husband with her barbed tongue.
'It seems that he is enamoured of Lady Avelina, the widow of William Peverel,' he informed her, somewhat spitefully, as he suspected that Matilda was harbouring a distant admiration for the august Reginald, a man who seemed the type to appeal to ladies of a certain age. This news appeared to double her interest and she was almost animated as she enquired about the Frenchman's visits to Sampford Peverel. John could almost hear the gossip mill grinding away outside St Olave's church next Sunday.
'It seems odd that he is paying court to the wife of a man at whose violent death he was present and who now, months later, he alleges was murdered!' observed John. 'One might even wonder if he is raising a smokescreen to divert suspicion from himself.'
He himself did not for a moment believe this, but cussedly prodded Matilda's obvious partiality for the Frenchman. His wife immediately rose to the bait.
'What nonsense you do come out with, John! Sometimes I despair of your common sense. Sir Reginald is a knight of impeccable character - and why should he now raise the issue of foul play if he himself was involved?' She glared scornfully at her husband and downed the last of her wine. 'Look elsewhere for your culprit and be glad that this man's sense of honour brought him to you with information that might prove useful.'
De Wolfe sighed, chastened by his wife's fondness for de Charterai. She would deem him innocent even if he were found clutching a bloody knife. Even worse, she was almost certainly right.
The third interruption of the day came in midafternoon, when de Wolfe was in the sheriff's chamber, checking the names of those who were to be hanged the next day. Henry de Furnellis had inherited his sheriff's clerk from Richard de Revelle, a wizened, miserable cleric in minor orders, by the name of Elias Pulein. Though he was probably not yet forty, he looked and acted like a man twenty years older. No one could ever recall seeing him smile, and his attitude was one of martyred resignation at having to serve a succession of high-born idiots. His one saving grace was an ability to read and write almost as well as Thomas de Peyne, and a pedantic attention to detail and routine that kept the somewhat haphazard administration of justice in Devonshire in some sort of order.
Now he stood at the sheriff's elbow with a sheaf of parchments, comparing one list with another.
'Edwin of Cullompton died of a fever in the South Gate gaol last week and Robert de Combe had his throat cut by another prisoner, so we can cross them off our list.' He spoke in a tired, dispassionate voice, as if he were cancelling invitations to a guild dinner, rather than an appointment with the gallows-tree.
'So how many are there left?' asked John irritably.
'Five, including one woman ... the girl who poisoned her husband for beating her.'
John had to attend the hangings on Magdalen Street, the high road to the east outside the city walls, to see that the executions were correctly recorded for presention to the King's justices when they eventually came to hold the General Eyre. This was the major inquiry into the administration of the county and might not occur for several years, but all legal events had to be catalogued for their perusal. In addition to the more frequent Eyres of Assize, there were the courts of 'Gaol Delivery', held by commissioners who could be either judges or senior officials from Winchester or London, and who came to clear the congested gaols of prisoners awaiting trial. These gaols were not places of punishment after conviction, as no such penalty existed - they merely held those awaiting trial until they were acquitted, fined or hanged. In actual fact, a significant proportion of those on remand never reached the courts, as they either died, were murdered or escaped, the latter through widespread bribery of the gaolers or the connivance of the local inhabitants in small towns and villages, where the cost of guarding and feeding miscreants for long periods was unwelcome.
After agreeing on the names of the felons to be dispatched on the morrow, Elias Pulein began a litany of cases to be dealt with at the next Shire Court, due the following week. This was mainly the responsibility of Henry de Furnellis, though he seemed content to nod sagely at intervals and let his clerk make all the arrangements. Some of the cases needed some input from the coroner, such as declarations of outlawry, depositions about appeals and the confessions of 'approvers' trying to save their necks by incriminating their accomplices.
The dry voice of the chief clerk droned on and John fancied that he could see the sheriff's eyelids drooping as he slumped behind his table. Indeed, the coroner himself felt drowsy from the combination of a heavy dinner and Elias's boring monologue. Abruptly, they were delivered from this wearisome catalogue by a rapping on the heavy door and the appearance of Sergeant Gabriel's helmeted head.
'Sorry to disturb you, sirs, but what looks like an important visitor has just turned up at the gatehouse, wearing the royal livery. Got two armed escorts and says he comes from London on the King's business.'
John uncoiled himself from the corner of the table where he had been perched and Henry managed to shake himself fully awake and get to his feet.
'Who is it, Sergeant? Where is he now?' asked the sheriff, looking slightly confused.
De Wolfe stalked to the door ahead of him and hurried out into the main hall of the keep. As he made for the door at the top of the wooden staircase, two tall men-at-arms on either side of a shorter, youthful figure appeared in the arch. All wore round iron helmets and leather cuirasses, over which were tabards bearing the three golden lions on a red ground - the royal arms of Richard Coeur-de-Lion. Judging by their dusty and mud-spattered appearance, they had ridden long and hard.
The man in the middle - hardly more than a youth, though he had a knightly bearing - advanced with a smile and offered his right arm in a forearm grasp of greeting.
'I know that you are Sir John de Wolfe. I saw you last year with the King at that short but bloody fight at Nottingham after his release!'
He introduced himself as William de Mora and said he was acting as a herald for Hubert WaIter, the Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury. By this time, Henry de Furnellis had" arrived, puffing, and introduced himself to the newcomer as the sheriff, immediately pressing the herald to eat, drink and rest.
'First I must deliver my message, sirs, which my Lord Hubert emphasises comes from the King himself. Then I will gladly avail myself of your hospitality, though we must set off with your reply tonight, as apparently the matter is of some urgency.'
Henry dispatched Cabriel with the two escorts to see that they were fed and to make sure that their horses were looked after, then led the way back into his chamber off the hall. Elias Pule in was still standing there, looking aggrieved that such a trivial matter as a messenger from King Richard should interrupt his routine.
The young knight was a fresh-faced fellow, obviously from the family of one of the major barons, who had been placed on the fringe of the royal court as a good launching point for his career. Henry fussed over him, divesting him of his riding cloak and getting him seated with a cup of wine pressed into his hand.
'Now, William de Mora, what urgent business can the King have with me? Has he decided to sack me already?' The herald smiled and shook his head deprecatingly - John thought that the lad's easy manner would take him far in the corridors of power.
'I fear my business is not with you, Sheriff, though I may say that your name is spoken of with great respect at court.'
Henry de Furnellis looked uncertain as to whether h
e was being praised or snubbed, but relief at not having new orders to bother him won the day.
'No, I have a message for the coroner,' went on de Mora. 'Dictated from the lips of the Justiciar himself.'
He slewed around on his seat to unlace a pouch at the side of his belt and drew out a parchment package, heavily sealed with tape and red wax. Handing it to de Wolfe, he repeated his plea for an early reply.
John stared at the square of vellum, folded over at either side to make an envelope. The main seal, carrying a mounted rider and a cross, was recognisable as the personal emblem of Hubert Walter:
'Please open it at once, Sir John,' requested the young knight, who could only have earned his spurs very recently. The coroner turned the package over, then back again, before pulling the tapes to crack the brittle wax from the seams of the parchment.
It was a single sheet, carrying a few lines of elegant script and a further seal at the bottom. He stared at the manuscript, but although he recognised his own, name at the top and a few scattered words, the Latin was beyond his simple capabilities, and he cursed under his breath as he remembered that Thomas was on his knees in the cathedral, instead of being at his side to translate.
He looked across at the sheriff, who shrugged helplessly, but at once Elias Pulein came to the rescue and held out his hand for the letter. To be fair to the man, he managed to suppress the supercilious sniff that he could have made to express his disdain for the barbarian's he had to work with.
'Shall I read it out, Crowner?' he asked with a deadpan expression.
John nodded curtly, wondering whether the courtly herald could read and, write and if so, what he thought of these clod-hoppers in Devon.
The sheriff's clerk quickly scanned the message from top to bottom.
Figure of Hate Page 25
