The Saxon, a surly-looking man in his late twenties, glared up at the coroner through a mane of dirty blond hair that tangled over his face. ‘I admit I was there, but I had no part in the robbery.’
There was a sigh of impatience from the sheriff, who was tapping his heel restlessly with a short silver-topped staff. ‘Stop this mummery and send the damned fellow to be hanged!’ he muttered audibly.
De Wolfe ignored him and glared back at the prisoner. ‘You claim you wish to turn approver. You cannot do that unless you confess your crime to me.’
‘How can I confess to something I didn’t do?’
De Wolfe shrugged. ‘It’s your choice, fellow. You can go back to your cell and await your trial, if you so wish.’
Faced with the near-certainty of conviction and the gallows, Eadric took but a moment to decide. ‘I can confess to my part in the affair, Crowner, but the others were the real villains.’
With Thomas de Peyne at the table behind them, writing as fast as he could, the coroner intoned the ritual formalities of the confession. Then the bedraggled Saxon grudgingly described how he and two fellow villagers had left the fair considerably the worse for drink. While they were stumbling along the main road between Exeter and Alphington, a merchant overtook them on a bay horse and abused them for getting in his way. According to Eadric’s version, the rider struck one of the others with his whip and a brawl ensued. The merchant was pulled from his horse and hit his head on the road, being rendered unconscious. Eadric claimed that he was a mere spectator of this fracas and protested when his companions, afraid that they had killed the merchant, took his purse and horse and vanished into the trees.
The victim had recovered rapidly and denounced Eadric to a party of riders who appeared around a bend in the road.
‘They seized me and beat me, holding me until the bailiff of the Hundred came. He bound me and I was dragged here to prison. But it was the others who did the evil, leaving me behind to take the blame. And I can name them!’ Eadric declared.
‘A likely tale!’ sneered the sheriff. ‘Send the liar back to his cell, John.’
Although, for once, the coroner was inclined to agree with his brother-in-law, he ignored his interruption and concentrated on the prisoner. ‘An approver is supposed to challenge his accomplices to combat to the death. If you win, you can abjure the realm. But you’ll have to fight two men, one after the other.’
Eadric scowled up at de Wolfe. ‘I’ll take my chances, Crowner.’
‘There is another way for you. Instead of combat, which you are likely to lose against two others, you could choose to be tried by a jury of your fellows in the King’s court before his Justices.’
There was a sudden scrape as Richard de Revelle pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. ‘Indeed he cannot! He must appear before this court – my court.’
De Wolfe glared down at the sheriff, who was half a head shorter. ‘By my taking his confession, he has placed himself within the coroner’s jurisdiction. And I have a duty, granted by our king through his Justiciar, to offer the justice of the royal courts to anyone accused of a serious crime, such as this.’
De Revelle’s pointed beard quivered and his normally pallid face flushed with rage. ‘Don’t start all this again, damn you,’ he hissed.
John was unperturbed by the sheriff’s fury. ‘This was a grievous assault, maybe even attempted murder. It should not have been dealt with in the Shire Court in the first place, but presented to the Eyre, as I have suggested.’
De Revelle glared around the hall, and saw the clerks’ ears were flapping, and the few spectators waiting hopefully for a first-class row between the two most senior law officers in the county. ‘I’ll not bandy words with you in public, John,’ he snarled. ‘We’ll thrash this out later in my chamber.’ Abruptly, he turned and, with his smart green cloak flying behind him, hurried to the step at the end of the platform and vanished in the direction of the keep.
Sergeant Gabriel, trying to keep the grin off his face, prodded the Saxon towards the archway. ‘I’ll send him back to Stigand’s tender care, Crowner, while he makes up his mind.’ Stigand was the brutish oaf who tended the dreadful castle gaol.
There were no other cases and the participants broke up to go their various ways. De Wolfe found himself walking back towards the gatehouse with Brother Rufus, who held Masses for the castle inhabitants in the tiny chapel of St Mary across the other side of the inner ward. His black Benedictine habit bulged around his tubby body and his shaven head shone in the morning sun as if it had been wax-polished.
‘Why the harsh words between you and the sheriff?’ asked the priest, always ready for some gossip.
‘Come up to my chamber for a jar of ale, Father, and I’ll tell you.’
Thomas was still writing up his rolls in the court and Gwyn had gone down to the town to look for the Jew’s daughter, so John was glad of some company at his morning libation.
After the rotund monk had puffed up the steep stairs in the gatehouse, they sat at the table with a mug each, filled from Gwyn’s pitcher.
‘I came to Exeter from Bristol only a month ago, so I’m not yet familiar with the local politics,’ Rufus confessed. The garrison church of St Mary was given to three prebendaries who had brought him in to administer it after the death of his predecessor.
De Wolfe cleared his throat noisily. He had taken a liking to the new chaplain and felt he might make another ally in the castle, in addition to Ralph Morin, who covertly disliked the sheriff as much as John himself.
‘De Revelle and I have a long-standing disagreement,’ he began, markedly understating the situation. ‘Last autumn I was appointed as county coroner. The sheriff agreed to this – perhaps because my wife is his sister – but he wanted someone he could control, and here I have grievously disappointed him.’
‘I heard tell of this new coroner idea in Bristol. Was it not to raise more money for the Lionheart’s ransom and his costly wars?’
‘Partly that – but the King also wanted to curb the sheriffs, who have become more powerful and more corrupt of late. Some of them – one not far from here – supported Prince John in his treacherous attempt to usurp King Richard when he was imprisoned in Germany.’
‘But what has this to do with you two sparring with each other in the Shire Hall this morning?’
De Wolfe sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Brother. When William the Bastard conquered England, he inherited such a complicated legal system from the Saxons, that all his successors have been trying to reform it ever since, especially the second Henry of glorious memory. Now Richard – or, rather, his Justiciar – is offering everyone royal justice, rather than the confusion of lower courts we have now.’
The fat monk took a pull at his pot and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his habit. ‘That sounds very reasonable, so why are you at loggerheads with your brother-in-law?’
‘That’s an even longer story! The sheriff covets unchallenged power in his county and the chance to scoop as much profit as he can into his own purse. He sees the royal courts as a threat to his interests – and as the coroner is responsible for presenting as many cases as possible to the King’s justices, he sees me as an interfering busybody, intent on thwarting his schemes.’ The priest seemed genuinely interested and listened closely to de Wolfe’s explanation of the varied functions he was expected to carry out.
‘There were supposed to be three of us in Devon,’ de Wolfe concluded, ‘but one fell from his horse and killed himself in the first fortnight and the other was a drunken fool who lasted only a few weeks. I’ve been trying to deal with everything – though, praise be to God, a decent knight from Barnstaple is willing to take on the north before long.’
With the lubrication of another pot of ale each, de Wolfe and the monks chatted for some time, John explaining the multitude of tasks that a coroner was expected to perform, from taking the confessions of those abjuring the realm, to investigating house fires, burglaries and catches of the
royal fish – whales and sturgeon – to witnessing Ordeals, viewing corpses, and enquiring into rapes and assaults.
The garrison chaplain proved to be an intelligent and astute fellow, asking sensible questions at intervals during the coroner’s explanation, but eventually they were interrupted by heavy feet clumping up the stone stairs and Gwyn thrust his huge frame through the sacking that hung over the doorway. ‘The Jews are waiting outside, Crowner,’ he growled, looking askance at the fat monk who sat drinking his own ale.
De Wolfe downed the rest of his pot and stood up. ‘Come with me, Brother. Perhaps you can advise me as this is a matter of religion – though a different one from yours.’
Two figures were standing just below the drawbridge of the castle, as the sentry under the gate-arch was unwilling to let them enter the bailey. One was a thin young man with a full black beard, his curly hair capped by a bowl-shaped helmet of embroidered felt. A long black tunic like a cassock enveloped him and a pack strapped to his shoulders gave an impression of a hunchback. He held the hand of a frail woman of about his own age, whose smooth olive face had the look of a sad angel. A Saxon-style coverchief was wrapped around her head, secured by a band across her forehead, the white cloth flowing down her back over a plain brown dress. In the background, a mule and a donkey with a side-saddle were being held by three men, their garb and appearance marking them as Jewish, presumably from Exeter itself.
Gwyn stepped forward and, in a strangely gentle voice, announced that the young woman was Ruth, Aaron’s daughter, and the man her husband David.
De Wolfe explained to the silent and impassive pair what had happened. ‘Had he any enemies that you know of?’ he asked the daughter.
Ruth’s brown eyes lifted to meet the coroner’s. ‘Almost everyone is our enemy, sir. Since my mother and brother were slain in York, we live in constant fear. But I know of no particular person who would wish to kill my father.’
‘We saw him but rarely,’ added David. ‘Though Honiton is not far off, travelling is hazardous, especially for such as we Jews. Everyone thinks we carry great sacks of gold with us,’ he added bitterly.
‘Are you in the same way of business?’ asked the monk.
‘There is little else for us now. Since the Crusades began, we have lost our chance to trade in commodities from the East. We are only allowed to be usurers, which is forbidden to Christians – though some seem to manage it. We are but sponges to soak up money from the people, then we are squeezed flat to return it into the royal coffers.’
De Wolfe did not wish the conversation to move into seditious paths so raised the matter of the burial. ‘Your father was buried yesterday with dignity outside the city walls in the plot reserved for Jews. We understood that you prefer there to be as little delay as possible. I understand that several of your faith from the city were there to offer whatever last rites you use. You are free either to leave him there or to remove him elsewhere.’
David looked at his wife then turned back to the coroner. ‘We thank you for your concern, sir. It is seldom that anyone accords us such consideration. We have decided to leave Aaron where he is, as we have nowhere better to take him.’
Brother Rufus laid a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Do you need any further requiem to be said over the grave? Have you anyone who can help you in this matter?’
David nodded sadly. ‘If we could be shown where the body lies, we can say our own few words over it. Then, later, we can bring some of our own elders from Southampton to join with the local Jews to carry out the proper ceremony.’
They thanked de Wolfe gravely once more and took their leave. John and the chaplain stood watching the pathetic little group walk down the hill from the castle gate, the woman perched on her donkey, the man leading his mule behind her as they vanished into the high street. ‘He’s right. Every man’s hand is against them,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘We use them badly in this country but they are far worse off in others. They are forbidden to engage in trade, and when they lend money, they are reviled by everyone, even though their customers are only too glad to use their services.’
‘Did the wife say her mother died at York?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes, in that madness of ’eighty-nine, when most of England rose up in hysteria against them. Just because some well-meaning Jews in London wished to give presents to the new King at his coronation, a riot started that spread right across England. She must have been one of those hundred and fifty who died besieged in York castle – many by their own hand or by those of their menfolk, rather than be captured.’
The cathedral bell rang dolefully in the distance and reminded de Wolfe that he had another task to perform before he could ride to Sidbury. ‘I have to attend an Ordeal now, Brother. I must collect my clerk to record the result.’
The portly monk turned back with the coroner to cross the drawbridge. ‘I am summoned as priest too, so I’ll walk with you. I hear that Rome is becoming more discontented with our attendance at these ancient rituals, saying they smack of necromancy, not justice. I suspect that before long the Holy Father will ban our participation in them.’fn1
‘The sooner the better,’ grunted John. ‘They are complete nonsense, sheer black magic! Whenever I can, I try to persuade appealers to go for jury trial in the King’s courts. It makes more sense and it’s better for the Exchequer.’
He called at the Shire Hall on the way to drag the morose Thomas from his scribing on the empty platform and they made their way to the undercroft of the keep, which housed the castle gaol. It was a damp, squalid chamber, partly below ground level, with a wet earth floor beneath the gloomy arches that supported the building above. It was divided into two halves by a line of rusty bars, one of which housed a row of prison cells beyond a creaking gate. The rest was open, part-storehouse, part-torture chamber, ruled by Stigand, a grossly obese Saxon, who lived in squalor in an alcove formed by one of the arches. This morning, his task was to set up the apparatus for the Ordeal, a test of guilt or innocence that de Wolfe and many other intelligent people thought utter nonsese. But it was hallowed by time and still approved by most of the population, who were usually unwilling to exchange this unChristian soothsaying for the more logical process of a jury trial.
John swung round to the trailing Thomas, who trudged dejectedly behind, his writing pouch slung from the shoulder of his threadbare black tunic. ‘Who did you say was the subject today?’ he barked.
‘A man accused of stealing a sword from the shop of Nicholas Trove, a burgess from North Street, who runs an armourer’s business. Nicholas appealed him to the Shire Court last month, when he was attached with sureties of five marks to appear here today.’
‘At least he didn’t vanish into the forest in the meanwhile, so he must think he has a chance of proving his innocence,’ de Wolfe gruntd to Brother Rufus.
They went down the few steps into the dismal chamber and when their eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, saw a group of people clustered in the centre, below the low ceiling, which dripped turbid water from the slime-covered stones. The gaoler had a charcoal fire burning in a latticed iron brazier, which he was blowing with a pair of bellows. Stigand’s breathing was almost as noisy as his bellows, as he bent over his vast stomach which was covered with a stained leather apron. His piggy features were contorted with the effort of blowing sufficient air into his fire to make the shaped lumps of metal on top glow red-hot.
Watching him with varying degrees of patience were Richard de Revelle, Sergeant Gabriel and two of his men-at-arms, the latter grasping between them the subject of the ghoulish ceremony, a porter from Bretayne by the name of Matthew Bezil. As de Wolfe, Thomas and the monk approached, they were followed by the complainant, Nicholas Trove. He was a red-faced, angry-looking man, short-necked and short-tempered. At that moment, his mood had much in common with the sheriff’s.
‘Stigand, for God’s sake, hurry up!’ snapped de Revelle. ‘I’ve got better things to do than stand here while you pu
ff away at the damned fire. Surely they’re hot enough now?’ He pointed impatiently at the iron ploughshares glowing on top of the brazier.
The gaoler hoisted himself upright with an effort, his bloated face almost purple. ‘They’ll do, Sheriff. I’ll set them out now.’
With a long tongs, he took a glowing ploughshare from the fire and set it over a flat stone embedded in the mud of the floor. A line of nine carefully spaced stones, each a pace apart, ran across the undercroft and as quickly as his shambling gait allowed, Stigand set a series of the triangular lumps of hot iron on each one.
‘Now, before they cool too much, damn you, get moving,’ snarled the sheriff. Everyone present, except the accused, was yawningly familiar with the procedure and wanted the charade over as quickly as possible.
The guards jerked Matthew across to stand immediately before the first ploughshare and released his arms. Brother Rufus made the Sign of Cross in the air and murmured something in Latin as Matthew gritted his teeth and with a yell of defiance, ran as if the devil was behind him, jumping from iron to iron in a gliding, springing movement he had obviously been practising for weeks to make the least possible contact with the smoking metal. His banshee wail lasted the whole nine steps and at the end he stumbled and fell in a heap on the fouled earth.
Stigand had moved to that end, where he had previously left a leather bucket of dirty water, which he promptly threw over Matthew Bezil’s feet – the fellow had paid him twopence in advance for the privilege.
The groups of observers moved towards him, carefully avoiding the sizzling ploughshares. Standing in a circle, they looked down at the man as if they were an audience after a cockfight, critically examining the result of the contest.
Bezil rolled over on to his back and Gabriel hoisted up both legs so that the soles of his feet could be seen. Stigand lit a bundle of rushes soaked in pitch at the brazier and held it near to give a better light.
The Grim Reaper Page 7
