While Gwyn carefully scooped up all the treasure and replaced it in the jars, de Wolfe ordered a celebratory jug of ale for the team before they returned to Exeter. The Archdeacon promised the village priest of Dunsford that if any of the value came back to the diocese, he would not be forgotten – not least for having to fill in two large excavations in his wood, which belonged to the Church.
‘At least that avoids one complication,’ said the coroner. ‘It was found on Church land, not that belonging to the manor, so we don’t have to negotiate with the Fulfords over this.’
Ironically, the manorial lord of Dunsford was related to Jocelin de Braose’s squire, Giles, but John was sure that they would not wish to associate themselves with their notorious kinsman.
With the jars safely strapped to the packhorse, the procession made its way back the seven miles to Exeter. De Wolfe’s mind jumped between treasure trove, Matilda’s intentions and his developing plans for dealing with de Braose.
That night, there was no sign of his wife in Martin’s Lane, and though he spent the evening at the Bush he came home to sleep, feeling strangely lonely on the big mattress in the solar. Huddled under sheepskins with a wide bear fur over the top, he missed the snorts and grunts that previously had been a source of nagging irritation. He was under no illusions that he had developed a fount of affection for Matilda since the crises of recent days. It was just that, since returning from Palestine two years before, he had become too dependent on the stability of a well-accustomed routine. He tossed and turned in the cold chamber, wishing now that he had stayed with Nesta – and his mind strayed occasionally to the blonde Hilda, who was forbidden fruit for at least a month or two.
Finally, before sleep eventually claimed him, he looked ahead with interest to the morning, when he would hold the inquest on Saewulf’s treasure. In the four months since he had become coroner, he had never before had cause to enquire into such a hoard. The instructions as to coroners’ duties and rules were so scanty that he had considerable latitude as to how to conduct the inquisition. He wondered if he should just record all the facts and let the King’s Justices deal with it in the future – but no, to the devil with them, he thought. I’m the coroner, I’ll make my own decisions.
In the morning, he used the Shire Hall for these deliberations. The sheriff kept well out of the way, as he had no obligation to be present, but the castle constable was there. The persons present at the excavations yesterday were all called as a jury, even the priests. For once, the inquest was a fairly private affair, and took place on the platform of the hall where Gwyn had placed a trestle table purloined from the castle kitchens. The two Portreeves had heard of the find and were there, as were a few of the other canons. Some off-duty soldiers and a handful of townsfolk were standing at the foot of the dais, gawking at the glint of gold and silver, but for once yesterday’s expedition had been kept fairly quiet.
Before the inquest, John and his clerk had sorted all the coins into groups by metal and value, and had laid out the jewellery separately. Then Thomas had laboriously recorded the numbers of coins and descriptions of all the brooches, rings and pins. Some of the brooches were large, circular hoops several inches across, used for securing a cloak at the shoulder by pulling the corner of the cloth through the ring. The weight of gold in some of these was considerable and scales had been borrowed from an apothecary to weigh each item. The value of the pieces with gemstones would remain unknown until a craftsman could examine them.
The inquest was simple, mainly because de Wolfe had no idea what needed to be said, except to decide upon the disposition of the hoard. ‘The value will have to be assessed by coiners, goldsmiths and silversmiths,’ he said, after the usual preliminaries were over. ‘We have no idea of the purity of the precious metals here, or of the value of the jewels. The whole treasure may have to be taken to London for this to be proved, even though the equivalent value, or part of it, may return to Exeter.’ He looked without avarice at the fortune gleaming on the table.
‘Now, though Saewulf intended this treasure to be given to his family if he died – as indeed he did – he did not abandon it or lose it. He left instructions that if the hoard could not reach his descendants, it should be given to the Church.’
John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, spoke up. He was an open-faced man of fifty, with iron grey hair. ‘Does that not constitute the testament of Saewulf, which still pertains today? I don’t see that the passage of a century makes what he willed any the less valid.’
De Wolfe thought about this for a moment. ‘I agree that maybe Saewulf’s intentions remain the same. But, remember, they were made under a different race of kings, and a different system of law was introduced after the battle of Hastings. We have no reason to abide by what Saxons intended before they were conquered.’
Gwyn made one of his threatening noises in his throat, but no one took any notice as his Celtic aversion to the Norman conquest was as well known as his dislike of organised religion.
‘I could therefore decide that this hoard be declared treasure trove, found in the soil of England, all of which soil belongs to King Richard, in which case the entire value would go to the Crown.’
There was a silence as every ear strained to catch his next words.
‘However, given the will of Saewulf and the fact that the hoard has lain in Church ground ever since its concealment, I feel the most equitable course would be to divide the value into two equal parts, one to go to the King, the other to the diocese of Devon and Cornwall for them to use as they see fit. That is my verdict.’
‘Just like the bloody sturgeon last week,’ muttered Gwyn, but everyone else seemed satisfied with this compromise. De Wolfe gave the treasure into the keeping of Ralph Morin, to be locked up in the strong box of Rougemont, which was kept in the sheriff’s chamber. Though he did not expect de Revelle to get up to any more bad behaviour for a considerable time, de Wolfe made a mental note to check the treasure at intervals against Thomas’s detailed list, until it was sent to London for valuation.
As he left the Shire Hall, the coroner looked across the inner ward to the entrance to the undercroft of the keep, where Jocelin de Braose languished. His next priority was to do something drastic about that evil man, and within the hour he was on Bran’s back, riding with Gwyn to Dartington to see the bereaved family of William Fitzhamon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In which Crowner John uses an old glove
As he was too late to return to Exeter that night, John de Wolfe stayed again with his family at Stoke-in-Teignhead, but wisely returned straight to the city next morning with no diversion into Dawlish. He had a long discussion with his officer about his intentions as far as de Braose was concerned, as the plan might well endanger Gwyn’s future livelihood. However, the Cornishman, though doubtful whether the coroner’s proposition was possible, was happy to go along with it, if it was accepted by the other parties.
As soon as they arrived in Exeter, John lost no time in putting his plan into effect. They rode straight up to Rougemont and collected Thomas from the gatehouse, to act as witness and recorder. Mystified, the little ex-cleric hobbled after the other two, across the inner bailey down into the undercroft.
Gwyn roused the dozing Stigand from his pile of straw and prodded him across to open up the gaol gate. Inside the passage, which stank of damp, mould and human ordure, de Wolfe peered through the door grilles until he found Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford in adjacent cells. The blubbery gaoler, his face still mottled from the bruising he had suffered a few days before, went to unlock Jocelin’s door, but the coroner stopped him. ‘What I want to say can be done from here!’ he grated.
Peering through the bars, he saw the man sitting on the slate slab, hands on knees, staring towards the voices. He was filthy, and a reddish stubble grew on his cheeks inside his rim of beard. As soon as he saw the coroner, he leaped to the door and shook the bars, screaming abuse at him. From the next cell, Giles Fulford also began yel
ling at his master to know what was going on. Stigand battered with his cudgel on Fulford’s door for quiet, and gradually the pandemonium subsided. The coroner waited patiently until he could speak.
‘Jocelin de Braose, you will certainly be hanged if the due processes of law are applied to you. Your crimes are Pleas of the Crown and the usual course would be to present you before the King’s Justices when the next Eyre of Assize reaches the city. The sheriff wanted to try you in the County Court, as you so foully engineered for me – and that would mean a hanging within a week.’
Jocelin’s foul language had abated as he considered this menu of certain death. Then he said, ‘The sheriff! De Revelle wouldn’t let me be harmed. We have powerful protectors in the country.’
‘Not any longer, young man. The sheriff has seen the error of his ways and is now fully a king’s man. And your patrons in Berry Pomeroy and Totnes will be too anxious to save their own skins to concern themselves with you. They now have a rebellion that is as flat as a griddle cake on Shrove Tuesday.’
There was silence from inside the cell, but from next door Giles Fulford called out angrily, ‘I heard that, Jocelin! It’s a trick, don’t believe them.’
De Wolfe walked a few steps further up the passage and glowered through the next grille. Another grimy face beneath tousled fair hair glared out at him. ‘I should keep a still tongue in your head, Master Fulford,’ said the coroner evenly. ‘It was that same tongue that condemned your master, with a little lubrication from some cold water.’
‘It was a lie! You forced me under duress. None of it was true.’
‘Tell that to the hangman! Maybe he’ll believe you, for I won’t,’ snapped de Wolfe. He moved back to de Braose’s cell. ‘But there is a third way for you – for both of you.’
De Braose looked suspiciously at the coroner, his round face scowling. A prison louse was crawling down a hank of red hair hanging near his left ear but he ignored it, though his neck and hands were spotted with bug bites from the infested straw.
‘What new trick is this, Crowner? If we’re going to be hanged, then leave us in peace. Don’t come gloating and tormenting us.’
For reply, de Wolfe fished in the inner pocket of his riding cloak and pulled out a glove. It was an old one he had brought from home for the purpose. Reaching through the bars, he lightly smacked Jocelin’s face, dislodging the louse, then he dropped the old glove at his feet. ‘I challenge you, Jocelin de Braose, to trial by combat to the death. If you win, you and your squire may go free.’
The auburn-haired man stared at him through the square aperture. ‘They all said you were a madman and they were right! How, in the name of Mary Mother of God, can a crowner challenge a prisoner to trial by battle?’
Fulford yelled from next door to know what was going on, and de Braose answered, at the top of his voice, ‘This crazed man wants to fight me to the death!’
‘It’s better than hanging,’ shouted Fulford.
De Braose glared at the coroner and waved a hand dismissively, turning to go back to his stone slab. ‘Go away, leave us in peace.’
De Wolfe explained calmly, ‘I have just challenged you, not as crowner or even as a law officer of any kind. I did it in my role as champion for an aggrieved party who has laid an Appeal against you.’
De Braose came back to the door. ‘A champion! How in hell can you be a champion? For whom?’
‘A minor who, because of his tender age, can’t prosecute his Appeal in person. You must know as well as I that it’s normal practice for women, the infirm and those under age to appoint a champion.’
‘I know that, Crowner! But whom do you claim has made this ridiculous gesture?’ ‘Robert Fitzhamon – for you foully murdered his father and he wants both justice and revenge.’
There was momentary silence. ‘I deny it, there’s no proof at all of that. My squire’s so-called confession was made under duress.’
‘Then you can prove that in combat. Fight me and win, and you demonstrate your innocence by my death – it’s a common procedure. Forget that I’m coroner, just think of me as an old Crusader, slow in the mind and weak in the sword-arm!’
Jocelin was thinking of the fight near Dunsford church a few days before and had no illusions about de Wolfe’s prowess with a broadsword.
‘I will allow you to use Fulford as your squire. My officer Gwyn of Polruan will be mine.’
‘Are you really serious about this, de Wolfe?’
‘You killed an inoffensive old priest after beating him up for the sake of treasure and then made a young lad fatherless to suit your scheming masters. I can’t fight them at the moment, so I’ll make do with you.’
De Braose was scornful. ‘You’d not catch me by surprise again as you did in Dunsford. I’d kill you, Crowner.’
De Wolfe was philosophical. ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Let’s see, shall we?’
‘How is this to be played, then? The challenged has the choice of weapons.’
‘Choose what you will – but lance and shield are usual. If we’re unhorsed, then let the sword decide it.’
‘That suits me, Crowner, if you let me use my own horse. I’ll kill you on the spot.’ He raised his voice. ‘D’you hear that, Giles? We’re going to be free, thanks to the crowner’s wish to commit suicide.’
The reply was an exultant stream of foul language, but held a note of sudden optimism, natural from a man whose only expectation five minutes before was of having his neck stretched on the communal gallows.
As they climbed the steps out of the undercroft, de Wolfe muttered to his two retainers, ‘Now to convince Richard de Revelle that it’s legal – not that he’s any expert on legality.’
Matilda was still holding out at her cousin’s house and de Wolfe made his usual pilgrimage to the Bush tavern that evening. The news of the trial by combat had not yet leaked out, though he knew that by tomorrow the whole of Exeter would be agog with the prospect of their coroner fighting a man accused of two murders.
Nesta was distraught at the thought of her lover putting his life in danger. ‘He’s so much younger than you, John! From what I saw of him in the Shire Hall, I’d not put him above twenty-five years.’
They sat as usual at his table by the side of the hearth. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. ‘Are you convinced that I’m senile and past it, my love?’
She looked up at him with her big hazel eyes, worry creasing her smooth face. ‘You could be killed, John. What would I do then?’
‘I could be killed every day of my life, Nesta. A fall from a horse, a sudden ambush by a dozen outlaws – even stabbed by a jealous husband!’
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Stop it, John! But be serious. Though you’ve been a fighting man for twenty years, this de Braose is young and fast. And what about Gwyn? He’s not so nimble as he was – and getting too fat.’
De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Gwyn’s not fighting Fulford. They are to be our squires, looking after the arrangements – and picking up the dead bodies.’
‘What happens to Fulford if de Braose is defeated?’
‘It means that they were guilty, so he’ll hang.’
Nesta sighed. These violent Norman traditions were so different from the Welsh laws, where restitution was the object, not revenge and death. ‘I won’t sleep until all this is over, John. When and where will it happen?’
‘Three days from now, at the tourney ground on Bull Mead. De Braose will be given a chance to ride his horse and get familiar with the lists on the day before. It wouldn’t be fair to take him stiff and cramped from a cell and put him straight on the back of his steed without some loosening up.’
Nesta shook her head wonderingly at the madness of men. ‘You look on this as some kind of game! I can’t understand you, playing with death as if it were some kind of entertainment.’
He looked grim. ‘We can’t take the chance of seeing these two go free again. I still can’t trust the sheriff – but apart
from him, there are so many ways of evading justice, especially when months may go by until the king’s judges come.’
She brooded for a while, staring into the fire and imagining life without her man. ‘Did de Revelle agree to this?’
‘He’s in no position to deny it. He put up only a token opposition to my proposal.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He objected that for trial by battle there are supposed to be five summonses in the county court before combat can be accepted. That would take weeks, so I told him I was using my powers as a king’s coroner to abrogate this rule.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘No, not as far as I know! But no one here knows any different, without getting a ruling from the king’s judges – and that can’t happen in time. Anyway, the sheriff has no power to reject an Appeal – and I brought a letter written by Robert Fitzhamon’s priest confirming that the boy wishes to Appeal de Braose and appoint me as his champion due to his minority.’
The inn-keeper clung more tightly to his arm. ‘I fear for you, John, I really do! What about Bran? That great horse is getting old like you. Can he be relied upon?’
‘As long as he can still run in a straight line, that’s all I ask of him.’
With misgivings mounting with every passing moment, Nesta resigned herself to three days and nights of constant worry over this great beanpole of a man, with the black hair and dark jowls, whom she loved so much and was now afraid of losing because of some stupid masculine ritual.
John de Wolfe lost no sleep over the coming joust. Though he was optimistic about winning, he was not complacent about his survival, for the loser would die, that was for sure. He was fatalistic about his chances, as he had learned to be over a score of years when Irish, French, Moorish and even English adversaries had brought him near to death on many occasions.
He made sensible preparations for the event, but did not let them interfere with his daily duties. Indeed, a whole day was occupied with riding to Okehampton and back to inspect and hold an inquest on the body of the victim of a violent robbery on the highway. However, he made time to get to the livery stables to check Bran’s shoes and to purge him of worms with an extract of male fern. Gwyn sharpened all their weapons with a whetstone and checked over the chain-links on John’s hauberk. Then they went down to the tilting-ground at Magdalen Street to watch Jocelin de Braose and his squire practise. True to his word, the coroner had arranged with Ralph Morin to allow the two men several hours’ freedom, under guard, to practise at Bull Mead with their own horses, which had been stabled near the Saracen. He had even sent palatable food to the gaol, in place of the muck that Stigand provided, as he wanted no complaint that he had fought a malnourished, prison-sick opponent.
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