The Grim Reaper

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Can you not petition the King or the Justiciar or someone?’ wailed Nesta.

  ‘The Lionheart is in France, God knows where Hubert Walter is, but it would take a week or more to reach him and another to get back here. It’s hopeless, even if they would listen to a plea for clemency.’

  ‘The only miracle that would save him would be another Gospel killing before he’s hanged,’ said Nesta sadly. ‘And though we’ve had a string of attacks these past few days, the swine who’s doing them will now no doubt lie low, just to avoid obliging us.’

  When he came home to Martin’s Lane, de Wolfe went straight to bed, despondent about the morrow. Though Matilda was still awake, he could not bring himself to tell her what had happened, as she was likely to crow over the disaster that had befallen Thomas. After a restless night, when sleep came only fitfully between bouts of anxious worry, de Wolfe reluctantly made his way up to the castle. Before the court began its session, he made a last attempt to influence Richard de Revelle, even threatening to revoke his promise to keep quiet about his involvement in the brothel fire, but the sheriff called his bluff: ‘You gave me your word, John, that you would stay silent. As a knight, you know you will disgrace yourself if you go back on that – and it would be futile, as you undoubtedly know.’

  Then John tried to talk the judges into a more reasonable attitude. Indeed, Gervase de Bosco was not pressing for a conviction and Serlo de Vallibus, even though he was the injured party, honestly admitted that he had no recollection of Thomas being his assailant. But the other two were adamant and, with a heavy heart, de Wolfe sat in a corner of the dais when the case was called halfway through the morning. Once again, he had ordered Gwyn to stay out of the castle and even managed to get Sergeant Gabriel to stay with him at an ale-house, to make sure that he did nothing foolish.

  Twelve jurors representing the city of Exeter were already empanelled for other cases and were dragooned into hearing this interposed indictment.

  The proceedings were short and predictable.

  Thomas de Peyne was led into the Shire Hall in chains, amid hisses, shouts of abuse and a few vegetables hurled from the crowd. Bedraggled and pathetic, he stood with his head bowed before Walter de Ralegh and the other judges. A clerk – one he knew well – read out the charges of murder. The sheriff made an abrasive speech, detailing each foul homicide and laid them all at Thomas’s door, as well as the arson in Waterbeer Lane and the assault on Serlo de Vallibus.

  Both Peverel and de Ralegh weighed in with their own vituperative opinions about a literate ex-priest, haranguing the bemused jurors about Thomas’s proficiency in writing and expert knowledge of the scriptures. They ended with an embellished account of the attack on de Vallibus that sounded as if they themselves had witnessed the whole incident.

  At the end of this, there was no opportunity for any defence to be offered, apart from a harsh invitation for the accused to speak up – which Thomas ignored, continuing to stare at the earthen floor. De Wolfe had pleaded with the Justices to be allowed to speak in his clerk’s defence, but they had vetoed this on the grounds that he had no right to do so and, furthermore, was obviously highly prejudiced – an argument which he cynically thought was sheer hypocrisy, coming from a pair who had decided on guilt well before the case came before them.

  The jury were then virtually commanded to return a verdict of guilty, which they did without hesitation. De Ralegh, as the senior justice, then snarled a sentence of death and commanded that this be carried out next day. Without looking up, Thomas meekly followed two men-at-arms back to the prison in the undercroft and the whole sad episode was over.

  For the rest of the day, de Wolfe went about his duties as if he was in a nightmare. He would liked to have saddled up Odin and gone alone into the countryside, to be away from everyone and suffer his resentment and anger in solitude. But he was required in the court as if nothing had happened, for without his presentment of the cases in which he was involved none could be dealt with. The clerk who tried to carry out Thomas’s functions with the rolls was a shadow of the little man’s efficiency and his clumsy efforts only reminded de Wolfe the more of what he had lost.

  By the time of the midday meal, Matilda had heard of the conviction and John expected her to rub his nose in it, but to his surprise she was muted in her comments and he soon sensed that she realised this was a topic so sensitive that she might get the worst of it if she crossed him. Instead, almost as if she was trying to divert his troubled mind from such a painful subject, she launched into some gossip about her favourite topic: the clergy of Exeter.

  ‘Our priest at St Olave’s is to leave! He saw the Bishop last evening, so it is said, and tomorrow he is to journey to Sussex to see his Abbot.’

  John managed to drag his attention to her words, as Fulk was one of those who had been fingered by the cathedral as a potential malcontent. Was the fact that he was suddenly leaving in any way significant, he wondered?

  ‘What brought that on?’ he asked his wife.

  ‘I can’t imagine. At the alms-giving yesterday he said nothing about it. I thought he might have mentioned something to me, as one of the staunchest members of his congregation.’ She sniffed in disapproval of the priest’s attitude and John sensed that her infatuation had begun to evaporate.

  ‘When I talked to him the other day, he seemed discontented to be at a small church like St Olave’s,’ de Wolfe mused. ‘He seemed to think he was destined for greater things.’

  For once, Matilda agreed with him. ‘He’s a clever and able man, wasted in a small chapel like that – especially as he could get no advancement in the diocese.’

  The coroner was not interested in Julian Fulk’s ambitions, but Matilda’s next remark was of more interest. ‘That was a strange business with the priests down at All-Hallows and St Mary Steps. They say that Ralph de Capra has gone completely mad now and is locked in the infirmary of St Nicholas.’

  De Wolfe looked up from his bread and cheese. ‘I thought that hell-fire merchant, Adam of Dol had taken him under his wing?’

  ‘He had, but it seems that de Capra ran away and tried to drown himself in the river. They fished him out and took him to the monks at St Nicholas for his own safety.’

  Though it was difficult for John to shake off the depressed torpor that enveloped him, he decided that he had better talk to those three priests again. He was convinced that the true killer was still somewhere in the city, so the search must go on. When he found the culprit, at least he could throw it in the faces of the sheriff and the Justices – though much good that would do his poor clerk.

  In the afternoon, he returned to the Shire Hall and tried to concentrate on the cases, to keep himself from dwelling on Thomas’s fate.

  Near the end of the session Gwyn turned up, surprising de Wolfe by being sober. The Cornishman looked a decade older than he had when de Wolfe had last seen him. Gabriel was behind him and gave a covert shrug towards the coroner, as if to convey that he could do nothing with Gwyn in his present depressed mood. They remained behind when the court emptied, sitting in forlorn silence among the bare tables and benches.

  ‘It is useless appealing again to those men,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘They say that once a jury has pronounced a verdict, they are powerless to alter it.’

  ‘Bloody hypocrites – that jury would have said whatever their lordships decreed,’ snarled Gwyn.

  De Wolfe uncoiled himself wearily from his stool and stepped down on to the floor of the court. ‘I’m going across to see Thomas now. Are you coming?’

  His officer shook his head. ‘I’ll go later – when I’ve gathered the courage to face him.’

  When John descended the few steps into the undercroft, Stigand made no attempt to obstruct him and sullenly waddled across to open the gate into the cells with a clinking bunch of keys. Inside was a short passage with a series of cells on either side and the gaoler opened the first door to admit the coroner.

  Almost fearfully, de Wolfe squelched thro
ugh the blackened, wet straw to stand over his clerk, who sat motionless on the edge of the slate slab. A lion in battle, willing to face any adversary with a sword or lance, de Wolfe cringed in any situation such as this: emotion and compassion confused him. Yet when Thomas looked up, it was almost as if the little ex-priest was the one who was ready to give comfort to him, rather than the reverse. He wore a beatific smile and seemed quite at ease. ‘Don’t fret, master, this is what was ordained by our Creator. At least I can’t make a mess of being hanged tomorrow – my cloak is hardly likely to get hooked on the gallows-tree as it did on the cathedral wall.’

  His calmness and his attempts at humour almost broke John and only by coughing and choking could he keep his emotions in check.

  They spoke together for some time, though Thomas did most of the talking. He told his master of his childhood and his long, lonely schooling in Winchester, of the death of his mother from the same phthisis that had crippled his own back and hip, and of the good days when he had taught at his old school, until his downfall over the girl, who had trapped him into making an innocent advance then alleged that he had ravished her. He told de Wolfe that there was nothing he wanted as his uncle the Archdeacon had already brought him his precious Vulgate. He clasped it in his hands as he spoke. Eventually, there was nothing left to say and, with a promise to see him again on the fateful morrow, John left with a heavy heart, telling Thomas that Gwyn had promised to visit him later that evening.

  As he trudged home, he wondered if his officer had some notion of a last-minute rescue. Part of him hoped Gwyn would make some attempt, but common sense told him it would be a futile, disastrous act. The gaol was inside a locked compound, itself in the undercroft, guarded by the gaoler and often a man-at-arms too. The inner ward was impregnable, with a guardroom and sentries always on duty at the gatehouse. The whole castle – indeed, the whole city – knew of Thomas’s conviction, and no trickery or brute force on Gwyn’s part could get them both out of Rougemont then through the city gates. If they did, both would immediately be outlawed, legitimate prey to anyone who wished to kill them and claim a bounty for their heads. And Gwyn had a wife and sons to support, so even the affection he had for the little clerk was surely not worth that sacrifice.

  It was early evening and he went home for a subdued meal with Matilda, who again was unusually docile, stealing puzzled glances at him from under her heavy brows as she sensed his distress. Although they spent most of their life together in mutual antagonism, when serious matters oppressed them, they were somehow drawn together, albeit temporarily. When John had broken his leg in combat some months previously, Matilda had nursed him with a fierce solicitude, and when she had suffered acute distress over her brother’s misdeeds, he had pledged and delivered his absolute support.

  After the meal he paced the hall restlessly, then announced that he was going to talk to Adam of Dol and possibly the unhinged Ralph de Capra, if he could get into the sickroom of St Nicholas Priory. He also wanted to talk yet again to Julian Fulk about his sudden desire to leave Exeter, but knowing of Matilda’s interest in that particular priest, he avoided mentioning his intention.

  The sun was going down as he reached St Mary Steps. The church was deserted once again, so he went round to the living quarters. The incumbent lived in a small house tacked on to the back wall of the church, its door opening on to the terraced cobbles of the hill. It was little more than a single room, with a box-like bed forming one wall. A lean-to shed at the other side provided space for cooking, which was done by an old man who also cleaned the church and rang the bell for devotions.

  De Wolfe rapped on the upper half of the split door, which opened to reveal the truculent features of Father Adam. ‘What do you want, Crowner?’

  ‘To speak to you about de Capra.’

  ‘What business is it of yours? You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.’

  De Wolfe took no umbrage at his manner, accepting that this strange man was incapable of civility. ‘As coroner, I have a duty to inquire into unlawful events. And it seems Ralph de Capra has twice attempted to kill himself, which is a felo de se.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it – arrest him? Your own clerk tried to kill himself too, but he wasn’t thrown into prison – though he’s ended up there just the same,’ he added sarcastically. It seemed that he had no intention of letting de Wolfe inside his dwelling, so the coroner had to continue his questioning from the street.

  ‘What drove de Capra to this desperate state?’

  Adam leaned on the door and thrust his florid face almost against John’s nose. ‘None of your concern, Crowner. What passes between two priests by way of confession is not for the ears of you or anyone else on earth. Only God the Father knows what was said.’

  ‘Was it truly a confession – or just the outpouring of a troubled mind? For I have heard that he had suffered a crisis of faith.’

  The priest slammed his big hands on to the door top in temper. ‘Ha! Almost every so-called priest in this pestilent land is suffering from a crisis of faith! A lack of faith in what religion should mean. The failure to tell sinners what lies in store if they fail to repent. These milk-sops are not proper priests, but weak-kneed time-servers, all of them!’

  John groaned to himself. He had launched this madman on his favourite obsession and was about to get another hell-fire tirade. ‘Then I’ll go to see de Capra up at St Nicholas’s,’ he said hastily, and backed away to leave a puce-faced Adam waving his arms and ranting about the unrepentant and the fires of damnation.

  De Wolfe strode up the uneven steps of the hill and passed both the Saracen and the end of Idle Lane, but resisted the temptation to call in for a pot of ale and the solace of Nesta’s company, though he intended to come back later to the Bush. He crossed Fore Street and wended his way through the mean alleys to St Nicholas Priory, tucked away at the top of Bretayne. The prior, a sour-faced man whose cheeks were pitted with old cow-pox scars, was in the small garden, chastising a young monk for some error in the way he was weeding the vegetable plot.

  When de Wolfe asked to see Ralph de Capra, the prior shook his head. ‘He’s not fit to be spoken to yet. The infirmarian has given him a draught to quieten him, though it seems to have had little effect.’

  ‘I have to talk to him now,’ insisted de Wolfe. ‘It is a matter of the utmost urgency.’ Though the chances were slim, if the deranged priest let slip anything that identified him as the killer, Thomas would be cleared. John could not pass up even the most remote possibility of saving his clerk’s neck from the rope tomorrow.

  The scowling prior pulled up the cowl of his black Benedictine robe against a sudden gust of cool night air. ‘If you must, then be it on your head if he goes berserk again,’ he grumbled. He beckoned to a novice who was washing a pan outside the kitchen of the small priory and told him to take the coroner to the sickroom. Following him, John passed the storeroom where more than once, he had attended dead bodies from this part of town, though mercifully, it was empty tonight.

  The young man led him into a passage with two cells opening off it, in one of which was locked the priest from All-Hallows. Nervously, he pulled a wooden pin from the hasp and stood aside for the coroner to enter. The moment John slipped inside, he heard the pin being hastily shoved back.

  In the tiny room, with only a shuttered slit to admit a little light, he made out a skinny figure crouched on a pallet in a corner. He was stark naked and his tunic lay on the floor, torn into ragged strips. John wondered if he had been trying to make a noose, but there was nothing in the bare cell from which he could hang himself.

  De Capra was shivering like a man with the ague, but not from cold. He gave no sign that he had noticed the coroner’s arrival, and sat staring at the floor.

  ‘Ralph, I am John de Wolfe, the crowner. Do you remember me?’

  There was no response, so he pulled over a milking stool, the only furniture in the cell, and sat directly facing the other man. ‘Ralph, you must ans
wer my questions.’

  Again there was no reaction and John reached out to take the priest’s chin in his hand. He moved the man’s head so that he could stare straight into the vacant eyes. ‘What has happened to afflict you like this? What have you done?’

  Suddenly, the other man was galvanised out of his catatonia. Shocked by the change, John fell backwards off his stool as de Capra leapt up and threw himself against the corner of the cell, standing naked on the straw mattress with his arms outspread against adjacent walls, like a living crucifix. ‘I have sinned, I have sinned!’ he wailed, his eyes rolling up to the wattled ceiling.

  ‘How have you sinned? What have you done? Have you killed, Ralph?’ The coroner was becoming desperate in his quest for a confession.

  ‘Killed? I have sent a legion of souls into purgatory!’

  De Wolfe’s spirit leapt for a moment, in glorious hope that he had at last found his man.

  ‘What do you mean? Were they murdered in the city?’

  De Capra thumped his lean body back and forth into the angle of the wall, his nails scrabbling at the plaster. ‘I stopped believing! Satan stole my mind! With no faith I shrove many, I betrayed them! I baptised babes with no belief in what I was doing! I shrove the dying without the true grace of God! They are lost! I betrayed them!’ He slid down the wall on to the pallet and sat in a crumpled heap, weeping disconsolately.

  With a sinking heart, John made one last attempt. ‘But have you killed, Ralph? The old Jew, the priest at All-Hallows, the sodomite, the whore?’

  There was no reply and the sobbing continued.

  The door opened and the fearful face of the novice appeared, followed by that of the prior. ‘This cannot be!’ he hissed. ‘You must leave, Crowner. This man is sick in his mind.’

  Acknowledging defeat, de Wolfe nodded and, with a last compassionate look at the wreck of a man on the mattress, he followed the monks out of the room. As they left the passageway, Ralph de Capra began to scream, the high-pitched, repetitive wail of a soul in torment. It was the signal that de Wolfe’s last chance of saving Thomas had failed.