‘Crowner, one of the Justices has been attacked! And there was another Bible message and they’ve arrested Thomas for it!’ he yelled, his arms flailing like the sails of a windmill.
Ignoring Matilda’s commands for the dishevelled man to get out of her hall, John hurried across, seized Gwyn’s arm and hustled him out into the vestibule and then into the lane. ‘Calm down, man. Tell me what’s happened.’
Gwyn tugged at the coroner’s sleeve, urging him towards the high street and the New Inn. ‘You told Thomas to take the rolls for some of this afternoon’s cases down to Serlo de Vallibus, so that he could look at them before they were presented.’
‘I know that – two of the killings are false allegations, I suspect,’ John said. They were hurrying around the corner into the main street.
‘One of Gabriel’s men came racing up to the gatehouse just now, yelling that an attempt had been made on the life of de Vallibus. He went off to find the sheriff, and I ran like hell down to the New Inn.’
They were trotting now, thrusting aside townsfolk who were standing at stalls or looking into the shop fronts of traders.
‘When I got there, Thomas had been grabbed by the guards, apparently on Sir Peter Peverel’s orders, and marched away to the castle.’
The inn was now a few yards away, and Gwyn had just enough time to finish telling the little he knew. ‘Alan Spere, the landlord, let me through and pointed up the stairs. I dashed up and saw the three other Justices clustered round de Vallibus, who was lying on his pallet, groaning. Then Peverel recognised me and began shouting that I was another of them, whatever that meant. Walter de Ralegh pulled me out of the room and told me to go for you, saying that Thomas had attacked Serlo and left a Gospel message, proving he was the killer.’
Bewildered and incredulous, John reached the doorway of the New Inn just ahead of his officer and skidded into the short passage and up the stairs. Ahead was a narrow stairway with open treads, divided into short two flights with a small landing halfway. At the top, stood one of the men-at-arms and as John thundered up the stairs, he looked uncertain whether or not to challenge him, but John brushed him aside impatiently and Gwyn followed up with a shove that sent the soldier staggering against the wooden wall. A planked door on the left was open and a babble of voices came from inside. As de Wolfe barged in, five heads turned towards him.
‘Here he is, the King’s damned crowner!’ brayed Peter Peverel, ‘Now perhaps he’ll see reason about his evil little clerk.’
The others in the room were the three judges, Richard de Revelle and Ralph Morin, with Serlo de Vallibus groaning on his blanket. The left side of his head was partly covered by a damp cloth, whose centre was pink with watery blood.
Gwyn hovered in the doorway, behind his master, who took in the scene at a glance, then fixed Walter de Ralegh with his dark eyes. ‘What happened?’ he said shortly, his incisive manner quelling the ferment of talk.
De Revelle answered for the Justices: ‘Y our accursed clerk attacked our noble judge, that’s what happened. A nd left a trademark that denounces him as this killer.’
The sheriff gloated over the situation, for at last he was giving his brother-in-law grief, instead of receiving it from him.
‘Who saw de Peyne strike the blow?’ snapped John, glaring about him, as whatever had been said, he refused to believe it.
‘Come on, de Wolfe, just accept what you’re told,’ bellowed de Ralegh. ‘The little swine was seen to come into the inn as bold as brass. He went upstairs and then ran out as if the devil was after him, but the man-at-arms grabbed him as he was going out of the door.’
‘Why did he hold him?’ grated John.
‘Because at that moment, Serlo here staggered out of this room and called for help – then fell down the stairs,’ cut in Peter Peverel, with almost malicious glee.
‘I asked if anyone saw him attack de Vallibus,’ de Wolfe repeated. ‘I sent him here with a bundle of rolls, as arranged.’ He looked quickly around the chamber. ‘There they are, on that chest.’ Four or five rolls of parchment lay on an oak box, and a couple had fallen on to the floor.
‘He must have taken the opportunity to try to kill Serlo,’ boomed Gervase de Bosco, the one Justice who so far had stayed silent.
‘Mary, Mother of God, why should he do that?’ burst out de Wolfe, desperately trying keep the alleged truth at arm’s length.
‘Because of this – some warped notion of justice.’
De Ralegh held out a torn scrap of parchment, which even in the turmoil reminded de Wolfe of the message left at the scene of the Jewish moneylender’s death. There was writing on it, but he handed it back straight away. ‘What does it say?’
Archdeacon Gervase took the fragment, which was about the size of his hand. ‘It’s a quotation from the Gospel of St Matthew, though virtually the same one is in St Luke.’
De Wolfe felt a sudden intense sadness that it was not Thomas who was explaining this to him. The last time, Brother Rufus had translated the clue, but now it was a portly archdeacon from Gloucester.
‘Tell me again what it says,’ demanded Walter de Ralegh.
Gervase held out the vellum at arm’s length better to see the penned words. ‘ “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” ’ he intoned.
Suddenly a voice came from the bed, wavering yet clear. ‘The full quotation goes on, “For with what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged. And with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” ’
They all turned to look down at the bed, where the previously inert Serlo now appeared wide awake. Before they could speak, he continued, ‘Luke adds, “Condemn not and ye shall not be condemned”, but I’m unaware why someone should have taken such a dislike to the many judgements I must have handed down since I became a King’s Justice.’
The others now crowded around him, solicitously asking after his welfare, offering the services of an apothecary or to take him to St John’s infirmary nearby. Serlo shook his head, which made him wince, then struggled to a sitting position on the bed. ‘My head is hard, I’ll survive, thank you.’ He touched his scalp gingerly. ‘But I think I’ll not sit in court for the rest of the day.’
The others jabbered protests at the idea of his returning to the Shire Hall, and the sheriff was almost bursting with the desire to smooth over this dangerous fiasco, although he still delighted in John’s discomfiture. ‘Did you actually see that it was this evil clerk who tried to kill you?’ he demanded. ‘I have him in chains already and will hang him as soon as possible.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, damn you,’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘He’ll have a fair trial and, if guilty, be condemned on good evidence, not at your whim.’
Walter de Ralegh, whose large size and dominating presence always made him the leading figure in any group, held up his hands. ‘Wait, wait! Of course the fellow will be tried – though a confession would ease the process.’
‘He’ll confess, I’ll guarantee that!’ snarled the sheriff. ‘I have a gaoler who, though he is an imbecile, is a genius at extracting confessions.’
De Ralegh ignored this and spoke again to Serlo, who was now hunched on the mattress, holding his head in both hands. ‘What happened, de Vallibus? Can you help us?’
Unable to shake his head because of the throbbing pain in his cranium, the Chancery clerk murmured his reply: ‘I remember nothing after sitting on this bed for a short sleep after our meal. The next thing I recollect is tumbling down those damned stairs. I must have staggered out of the room after receiving this blow and lost my footing at the top.’
‘You remember nothing about my clerk being here?’ demanded de Wolfe eagerly.
‘Nothing at all. But those rolls of yours were not there before I lost my senses.’
Richard de Revelle gave a triumphant cry. ‘Ha! There is the proof. De Peyne comes with them as an excuse, de Vallibus is attacked, the clerk runs away and is caught by the guard. The complete story!’
The coroner glim
psed the landlord hovering anxiously outside the door. ‘Alan Spere, are these stairs the only way up to these chambers?’
The normally jovial host was as white as sheet, wondering whether it was a capital offence for a King’s Justice to be attacked on his premises. ‘No, Crowner, the passage goes past the other five rooms then down at the back into the stabling yard.’
‘Was there a guard there?’ the coroner demanded of the silent Ralph Morin.
The castle constable was glad of the chance to deflate the sheriff, for whom he had the same lack of regard as de Wolfe. ‘No. The escort was a mark of respect rather than a necessity.’
John shrugged and held up his hands in a Gallic gesture. ‘So whoever made this cowardly attack on Justice Serlo might have come into the yard from the lane alongside the inn and up the back stairs – for the man-at-arms at the front saw no one.’
‘He saw this bastard de Peyne, that’s who he saw!’ objected Peter, Peverel, who sided with the sheriff’s prejudices. The party was already dividing into two factions: those who were ready to hang Thomas out of hand and those who had a more open mind.
‘This is getting us nowhere, unless de Vallibus’s memory returns,’ said de Ralegh reasonably.
‘And we need to hear what my clerk has to say on the matter,’ snapped de Wolfe.
Ralph Morin agreed to send a soldier to St John’s to fetch Brother Saulf to attend to Serlo’s head and prescribe some salve, while the other three Justices returned to the court to carry on the afternoon session. With a couple of extra men-at-arms guarding them, the sheriff, constable and coroner walked behind them to the inner ward and the Shire Hall. De Wolfe kept silent during the five-minute walk, ignoring the smirk of triumph that lurked on the sheriff’s face.
When they reached the wide entrance to the Shire Hall, de Wolfe stopped. ‘I’m going to see Thomas first,’ he announced.
‘The fellow is in my custody, I’ll not have you interfering,’ retorted de Revelle, rejoicing in this unexpected return of his supremacy.
‘Go to the devil, Richard! A coroner is empowered – indeed, obliged – to investigate all serious crimes in his jurisdiction. Not only murders, but also assaults. So I am going to investigate this one, whether you like it or not.’
The sheriff became red in face and began to huff and puff about his absolute powers in the county.
‘Talk all you like, Sheriff, I’m going to the undercroft to see him now.’
As he stalked off, de Revelle hissed after him, ‘You dare to interfere or try to engineer his release and I’ll have the full force of the Justices on you. They’re not taking kindly to one of their own number being half killed, so don’t expect any aid from them!’ With that, he turned on his elegant heel and strode into the Shire Hall.
About an hour later on this tumultuous Wednesday afternoon, another drama was being played out in the lower part of Exeter. A small crowd, which increased by the minute, had gathered in the narrow street between the West Gate and the church of All-Hallows-on-the Wall. A cluster of street traders, porters, good-wives, children and beggars were pointing and gesticulating at a figure parading agitatedly along the narrow walkway that topped the city wall, twenty feet above the street. He was barefoot and dressed in a shapeless, ragged garment of what looked at that distance to be of sacking. In his hand, he grasped a rough wooden cross made of two thin sticks tied together.
‘Is it an absconder from sanctuary?’ asked one onlooker of her neighbour, for the figure’s garb was that of someone abjuring the realm after seeking refuge in a church.
The crowd was soon joined by Osric, attracted by the rising hubbub in the street. Shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun, the constable stared up and asked the nearest man, a crippled pedlar with a tray of dusty pies hung around his neck, ‘Who is it up there? And what’s he think he’s doing?’
‘Gone raving mad, whoever it is,’ answered the pedlar, exposing broken, yellowed teeth as he squinted up at the top of the wall.
Osric watched for a moment, uncertain as to what to do. He was responsible for keeping order in the streets of Exeter, but it was hard to decide whether a man prancing about on the city wall, shaking his cross at the sky, was a hazard to the citizens. The fellow seemed to be chanting and wailing alternately, his face upturned towards the heavens, as he capered about. Suddenly, he turned and faced the crowd below, teetering on the edge of the parapet as if gathering the courage to jump. The crowd fell silent at his dangerous pose, then voices began to shout: ‘It’s the priest! It’s Ralph de Capra – it’s the father from All-Hallows!’
Now that he faced them, they could see that de Capra’s face had a wild, haunted look, and his head was plastered with wet ashes.
‘I’d better get up there to fetch him down,’ muttered the constable, and made for a flight of steps built into the back of the wall, almost against the pine end of the little church.
Before he could reach the bottom stair, there was a pounding of feet behind him and he was pushed aside. Adam of Dol was climbing up ahead of him to the parapet. He was well known to Osric as the priest of St Mary Steps, just along the street. He had heard the tumult of the crowd as he came out of his church and had hurried down the lane to see what was amiss.
Hoisting up his black cassock in both hands, the cleric mounted the steps surprisingly fast for such a burly man. At the top, he turned right and, followed by the constable, slowed down as he approached the wild figure of the All-Hallows priest as he rocked on his bare toes at the very edge of the stone precipice.
‘Ralph! Ralph, come to me, good man!’
De Capra stared vacantly at his brother priest, then turned and began running away along the battlement walk towards his own church, which came straight out of the wall, the stone-tiled roof sloping up just below the parapet, a small bell-arch level with the walkway.
Seemingly afraid that Ralph was going to go beyond the church and throw himself off to certain injury and perhaps death, the priest of St Mary Steps put on a burst of speed and threw himself at de Capra. The pair overbalanced and fell off the parapet – but only a couple of feet down on to the church roof. De Capra struggled, yelling and wailing, but the burly Adam held him with ease as Osric stepped down carefully on to the roof. Between them, they hauled Ralph back to the city wall, conscious of the ominous cracking of thin stone tiles under their feet.
By now several other spectators had climbed the steps and were staring open-mouthed at the unexpected entertainment, but Adam of Dol roared at them and waved them away furiously. Then he glared at Osric and told him to clear off too: this was a matter between men of God. The constable retreated a few yards, but felt it his duty to stay within earshot: he crouched at the top of the steps, down which the banished townsfolk were retreating.
‘What are you thinking of, you foolish man?’ bellowed Adam at his colleague, his tone as abrasive as when he had yelled at the onlookers. ‘Why the sackcloth and ashes? The devil is fighting for your soul, Ralph, and you must resist him!’
Osric felt this was hardly the way to pacify a deranged man on the point of committing suicide, but he had no intention of clashing with the pugnacious priest, whose reputation for anger was legendary.
Ralph de Capra sagged into submission, his struggles ceasing. His face was gaunt under the streaks of grey ash that had run down from his hair and his hollow-eyed expression was one of abject misery. ‘I have sinned, Adam, sinned most grievously,’ the constable heard him say. ‘There is no hope for me, either in this world or the next – if there is a next, which I often doubt.’
His fellow priest shook him angrily by the shoulders. ‘You must fight back, man! Faith has to be earned. I have said time and again that the great horned devil never sleeps. He waits for such doubts to weaken your armour. And throwing yourself from this wall is no answer – you’d probably break a leg rather than your neck. Preach hell-fire, Ralph! Keep it in the forefront of your mind that failure means eternal agony in the great furnace below. Be like me –
never let your flock forget that the wages of sin are not death but unceasing torture until and beyond the end of time. That way you will keep Lucifer at bay.’
With that, Father Adam hauled his brother priest back along the parapet towards the steps, still cursing the powers of darkness. Osric wisely retreated before them, determined to tell the coroner what he had heard.
John had returned reluctantly to the court but without Thomas to guide him it was far more difficult: he had to borrow one of the junior clerks of Assize to help him with his rolls, and put up with smirks and knowing glances from the sheriff. The scowls of the Justices, especially Peter Peverel, boded ill for Thomas’s future.
His visit to the cells under the keep had been brief and unhelpful. The obese gaoler, Stigand, had tried to prevent him and Gwyn entering Thomas’s cell, until Gwyn pinned him against the wall by his throat and threatened to tear out his tongue by the roots.
Poor Thomas sat in a pathetic heap on the dirty straw inside the almost dark cell. He had been vomiting with fright into the battered bucket that was the only furniture, apart from the slate slab of a bed. All de Wolfe could get out of him was a flat denial of any wrongdoing. He had gone to the New Inn as ordered, taken the bundle of rolls upstairs past the guard on the door, whom he recognised from the gatehouse duty at Rougemont. The door to de Vallibus’s room was open – Thomas had known it from a visit with rolls the evening before – and when he had gone in he had found the Justice groaning on the floor, with a bloody wound on his head. Serlo was just conscious but incoherent. In panic, Thomas had rushed to knock on the other doors upstairs, but found the rooms either locked or empty. Then he heard a crash and saw that de Vallibus had crawled out of the room and fallen down the upper flight of stairs to the half-landing. Even more frantic by now, Thomas had pounded down to the ground floor, looking for help, and run straight into the arms of the soldier, who grabbed him: he had just seen the judge crash on to the landing above. The pandemonium that followed led to the little ex-priest being hauled off to the cells in Rougemont without the chance to explain anything.
The Grim Reaper Page 27
