His anger-reddened face now pale, de Revelle drooped under his dun-coloured blanket. ‘Do you expect me to believe this?’ he whispered hoarsely.
The coroner shrugged. ‘If you do not, then I’ll take my testimony elsewhere. The chief justiciar visits Exeter in a week or so – a man I know and respect from fighting under him in the Holy Land.’ The sheriff’s confidence began to return. ‘He will side with the Bishop, a patron of the de Bonnevilles,’ he said.
‘Patron of the dead Arnulph, you mean, whose true heir has been killed by his brother’s squire. Will Bishop Marshall condone that in the face of solid evidence?’ The sheriff could find no words before John went on, ‘I’ll go to Winchester and London with my witnesses, if I have to – even follow the King in Normandy and the Vexin. I’ll not let this rest, be assured of that!’
The sheriff, conscious of the undignified figure he cut in his blanket, pulled himself erect. ‘All this fantasy depends on these damned confessions you claim to have. I’d not put it past you to fabricate all of this.’
‘I was given a job to do in the King’s name and, by God, I’ll do it, in spite of all the bishops and sheriffs in Christendom!’
However high-sounding the words, their sincerity was like a blast of icy wind around de Revelle’s ears. ‘Who are these people you claim to produce?’ he growled.
‘They include my own officer, the inn-keeper of the Bush and her servant Edwin.’
Instantly revitalised, the sheriff gave a howl of derision. ‘What! Your own creature, that hairy Cornishman! A crippled potman, and your own poxy mistress, you adulterous knave! Who do you think will listen to one word from that lying crew?’
John would have dearly loved to knock his brother-in-law to the floor, but he restrained himself to deliver his coup de grâce.
‘And your own good friend Henry Rifford, one of our respected portreeves. I’m sure you’ll accept his testimony as truthful, however reluctant he may be to give it.’
‘You’re lying!’ hissed de Revelle.
‘All four should be downstairs by now. You can question them yourself, though I suggest you first put on some clothes,’ advised the coroner sweetly.
By the time the distraught sheriff had dressed, arranged with his chamberlain to smuggle the painted lady out down the back stairs and interviewed the four witnesses, the night was far advanced. De Revelle did all he could to convince himself that this was a nightmare or that his cursed brother-in-law was playing some devious trick or malignant conspiracy against him. If John’s evidence had merely been that of the three allegedly biased witnesses, he would have defied him and refused to give them any credibility – or even bother to listen to them. But the fact that his own crony Henry Rifford reluctantly corroborated the story made it impossible for him to dismiss the affair as a plot against his own authority.
The four witnesses had trooped into the dimly lit chamber where the sheriff, now hastily dressed in a dull brown tunic, sat behind his table to listen to them. He still felt disoriented, having been pulled from his bed and his woman to be sledgehammered by a story that made a nonsense of the perverse judgement he had perpetrated in his shire court that morning.
Henry Rifford, the waxy-faced merchant who was one of the two leading citizens of Exeter, was given a chair before the sheriff. The others stood ranged behind him, while the coroner hovered in the background, like a chantry-master with a troop of choristers.
The upshot of their evidence was that Edwin, the old tavern servant, had caught the words ‘Widecombe’ and ‘Southampton’ as he passed back and forth near the table where the pair from Peter Tavy were drinking. The other brother, Martyn, was away in his bed in a fit of fatigue and melancholy, leaving Gervaise and Baldwyn with their heads together over their ale.
Following Nesta’s instructions, Edwin had made it his business to eavesdrop on the other side of the wattle screen. What had grabbed his attention at once was Gervaise’s low voice saying, ‘You damned fool, Baldwyn! Whatever happens, Martyn must never know. He’s got no backbone in him, he’s too weak. The boy would go to pieces if he knew what had been done.’
At this point, Edwin had urgently looked about him and had seen Nesta leaning over Gwyn, who sat on a bench nearby, teasing him about the good times he could have now that his wife was away. The old potman had urgently beckoned them over and, as they had come near his side of the screen, had put a warning finger to his lips. They slid on to the bench left empty a few moments earlier when a group of noisy butchers had tipsily left.
‘Listen to this!’ Edwin whispered, jerking his thumb at the screen. The other bent their heads near the wattles and three pairs of ears strained to hear Gervaise telling his squire that, as long as he kept his nerve, no one need ever know what had happened on the moor seven weeks ago.
The quick-witted Nesta realised immediately that they needed a more heavyweight and reputable witness than themselves, and her eyes roved urgently around the big room until they fell on a party of leather merchants, celebrating a good contract with the Bretons. Prominent among them was Henry Rifford, whose great prosperity depended on the leather trade of which he was the undisputed leader in Exeter.
She hurried over and hissed into his ear, ‘Come at once – it’s a matter of life and death!’ At the same time she had pulled him by the arm and Rifford, though middle-aged and portly, was mystified but flattered to be so suddenly desired by a pretty woman. Like every man in Exeter, he knew the red-headed innkeeper and occasionally had lustful thoughts about her. The intensity in her voice now compelled him to go with her to the table next to the wattle partition.
With a finger to her lips, she indicated that he should listen to the voices on the other side. Now, in front of the sheriff and rather reluctantly, but pleased at being the centre of attention, the portreeve related what he had heard.
‘De Bonneville was telling this Baldwyn that he had been a fool to take that dagger from the body and that he should have buried it in the peat, as he had Aelfgar’s sword.’
‘Wait!’ snapped the sheriff, still desperate to find some way to discredit all this. ‘How do you know it was de Bonneville speaking?’
Henry Rifford looked impatient at having his moment of drama interrupted. ‘Of course I knew, Richard. I saw them at that table earlier, when the younger brother was with them. And afterwards I made it my business to pass near them to go out of the back door, to piss in the yard, so that I could confirm who they were.’
The rest of his tale, confirmed almost verbatim by the other less acceptable witnesses, was that Gervaise, his tongue loosened by the evening’s drink, was impressing on Baldwyn the need for constant vigilance. The squire, who seemed somewhat resentful of his master’s exhortations, replied in mainly monosyllables, but at one point, Rifford heard him say, ‘Sir Gervaise, remember that it was I who helped dispose of your brother. I’m hardly likely to put myself in jeopardy for something that happened when you were half a county away.’
The eavesdropping had ended when the two men on the other side of the screen had got up and walked out, either to drink at another inn or perhaps to seek female company, easily found on the streets leading down to the riverside gates.
When the tale was told, Richard de Revelle sat silent for a moment. ‘Henry, are you absolutely sure of this? You realise what it will mean if proved true?’
The bland-featured merchant looked offended. ‘I am not in the habit of imagining things, Richard. I wish I had never been dragged into this but it can’t be undone now. I am a devout man, and though the Bishop will be mortified, he owes it to the memory of old de Bonneville to see that justice is done.’
The sheriff looked across at John de Wolfe, still in the background. If looks could kill, the coroner would have been felled on the spot, but de Revelle was trapped by the testimony of the portreeve. He was forced to make the best of it and sought to limit the damage. ‘If this is true, which I am still not admitting without further proof, it only shows that Gervaise de Bonnevill
e is trying to protect his squire. Nothing you have said implicates him in these deeds.’
John’s face showed his almost scornful scepticism, but the sheriff was warming to his theme.
‘Gervaise told his man to be careful what he said – he told him he was a fool to steal the dagger. Good counsel, albeit to a murdering rogue – but a nobleman feels a strong sense of duty and protectiveness to his squire, however misplaced.’
John grimaced at his brother-in-law. ‘And what of Baldwyn’s confession to having helped slay Hubert de Bonneville, eh? For what reason and at whose behest?’
De Revelle appealed to his erstwhile ally, Henry Rifford. ‘You heard the rogue say that Gervaise was half a county away, so that absolves him of any implication in the death of his brother. So we have not a shred of evidence to link de Bonneville with either death. He was merely trying to shield his man from his own wicked folly.’
His explanation was met with stony silence from the faces ranged in front of him. He gave up for the moment and appealed to John about more immediate problems. ‘What do you suggest is done about this? It is long past midnight. Should it not be left until morning?’
The coroner looked across at his own officer. ‘Do you know where they are now, Gwyn?’
The Cornishman said that the men had not returned to the Bush by the time he had left to come to the castle.
Nesta, looking decorous under a swathe of heavy shawl over her head and shoulders, said, ‘They paid in advance for a bed each in my inn and the younger brother is asleep there now. I’m sure the other two will return to bed when they’ve finished drinking and whoring.’
John caught the sheriff’s eye as she spoke the last few words and de Revelle dropped his gaze, wondering if his brother-in-law would use his own indiscretion against him. But John kept to the issue in hand. ‘It would be easier to deal with this in daylight. There’s nowhere they can go until the city gates open at dawn.’
‘And I don’t want broken furniture and blood all over my tavern, if there’s to be a fight,’ put in the ever-practical Nesta.
‘So we arrest them at first light?’ confirmed the coroner.
De Revelle was still attempting a feeble protest. ‘We take them in for questioning to see what they say to these unlikely allegations,’ he countered.
‘For God’s sake, Richard! Do you think they’ll roll over and admit it?’ roared John. ‘They’ll lie through their teeth to save their necks. It will be the evidence of my four witnesses – and the business of the Justices in Eyre to deal with their guilt. This is one trial that I’m sure you’ll be happy to leave to the King’s judges, Sheriff!’
As they left, John noticed his brother-in-law give urgent instructions to his chamberlain, who hurried away through an inner door, following the route that the lady of the town had taken to vanish discreetly from the scene.
Outside, they walked back through the moonlit night to the gatehouse and the city streets. John had arranged with the reluctant sheriff to meet at the Bush an hour before dawn, with a sergeant and four men to seize the Peter Tavy trio in their beds. ‘You had better keep out of the way, Nesta. Hopefully there’ll be no trouble, if we catch them in their undershirts, but I don’t want you involved – or you, Edwin. We need you kept safe as witnesses.’
With that back-handed concern for their safety, the two from the inn made their way back to Idle Lane, with Gwyn as bodyguard, while John strolled home to spend a few hours lying alongside Matilda, playing the faithful husband. None had seen a furtive figure slipping through the streets well ahead of them, also bound for the Bush.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In which Crowner John uses his sword
Sir John’s attempt at warming the matrimonial bed was shortlived. The cathedral bell had rung for the second hour by the time he was under the blanket and he had hardly dozed off when he felt himself shaken by the arm. It was Mary, wrapped in a shawl, trying to get him up without waking his wife.
She bent to hiss in his ear. ‘Gwyn is outside! You must come, he says it’s urgent.’
Unfortunately, it was Matilda who sat up first and saw the woman silhouetted in the moonlight streaming through the open door. ‘Mary! What are doing with my husband? John, are you up to your tricks again?’
‘No, mistress, really. It’s Gwyn of Polruan, wanting the master. He says you must come to raise the hue-and-cry. Some felons have made a run for it.’
The coroner, struggling out of his dreams, gave a yell of despair. ‘What? They’ve gone? By Christ, that can’t be!’
He leaped from the low bed and scrabbled for his breeches and tunic in the silvery light. Mary disappeared down the outside steps, leaving her master to give a hasty account to his wife of the unmasking of the Peter Tavy villain.
He tumbled down the stairs from the solar, yelling to Mary for his boots, helmet and sword. Within minutes, he was striding alongside Gwyn down the high street, dressed for trouble in a basin-shaped iron helmet, whose dents bore witness to service in many a campaign. Under this he wore his aventail, a chain-link balaclava, to protect his neck, tucked into a thick leather cuirass over his chest with mailed plates on the shoulders. A massive broadsword clanked at his waist and he had pulled on thick gauntlets, the backs covered in chain-mail.
Gwyn, wearing no protection apart from his ragged hide jacket, explained the situation as they hurried along. ‘I went back to the Bush with Nesta and old Edwin. We had a dish of stew to warm us up, then Nesta went to her bed and I climbed up to the dormitory, just to make sure the birds hadn’t flown … but they had!’
‘All of them?’
‘Martyn was still there. There were seven or eight people staying the night. I tiptoed among them and found the young brother sleeping like a baby – but two pallets were empty and there was no sign of the other brother or that Baldwyn.’
‘They must have been warned. How else could this have happened?’ snarled the coroner. ‘It must be de Revelle. He’s trying to save his reputation over that farce of a trial yesterday by letting them go. They’ll end up in France if we don’t bottle them up in the city.’
‘You think that Gervaise is party to these killings, then?’
The coroner snorted as they hurried along. ‘I’ll be damned surprised if he’s not. What reason would the squire have for being involved in the deaths? He has nothing to gain.’
Gwyn pondered on how they had been tipped off. ‘Someone could easily have come into the inn. There were still a few drunks snoring on the floor downstairs and Nesta usually leaves the door open all night.’
They turned into Idle Lane where the tavern stood on a plot of wasteland, starkly visible in the light of the full moon. Edwin was standing in the doorway, a long spear in one hand and an axe in the other.
‘They’ll not pass me, Captain,’ he said bravely, though with his eyesight he could hardly tell friend from foe.
John tapped his shoulder appreciatively. ‘Go up to the castle quickly. Tell the sergeant to get the sheriff and the constable out of bed and bring half a dozen men down here. Say the coroner orders it. The hue-and-cry must be raised at once to find these people.’
Edwin, rejuvenated by the prospect of battle, stumped off as fast as he could, leaving Gwyn and the coroner to decide on the next move.
‘It’ll be a long while before the castle people get here. But it won’t be light until seven, so those two can’t get out of the gates until then.’
Gwyn grunted. ‘What about their horses? They can never hope to slide out of the town on horseback?’
John looked back at the junction of the narrow streets, where Idle Lane and Butcher’s Row joined. ‘The stables for the inn are over there. Make sure their animals are still inside. Knock up the stable-boys and tell them not to let any horses out until we tell them.’
As Gwyn hurried one way, John walked cautiously the other, down towards Rack Lane. Apart from a few nocturnal cats, many scurrying rats and the odd whimpering dog, the streets were silent. The moon’s
bright orb hung in a clear, frosty sky and gave a good light, but there were plenty of shadows to hide two desperate men who had nothing to lose but their lives.
He stopped where the two streets met, unsure of which way to go. De Bonneville and Baldwyn could be anywhere in the city by now – they could have left the inn at least an hour ago.
The city walls should be an impregnable barrier, unless they could bribe a gate-keeper to open up for them – or, thought John cynically, if someone in authority gave orders for them to be let out.
He heard Gwyn coming back from the stable and stepped into the centre of the slushy road so that he could be seen and not attacked by mistake.
‘Their horses are still there, so they will have to escape on foot. Where could they go, not to be overtaken at first light by mounted men?’
John pushed back his helmet a little, as the long nasal guard rubbed his prominent nose. He considered what he would do in the desperate circumstances of the two fugitives.
‘The river!’ he said suddenly.
They were in the south-west quadrant of Exeter, where the Watergate gave access to the quayside and to the ships that came up the Exe from the sea. John pointed down Stripcote Hill towards the inside of the town wall.
‘We may as well go down that way, until the sergeant and his men arrive. The sheriff will be in no hurry to help us, though Ralph Morin might.’
As they strode down the steep slope, Gwyn asked if they should raise a hue-and-cry among the townsfolk. The law required that when a crime was discovered or a body found, the four nearest households should be roused and should chase any suspects or fugitives. But John thought it pointless to start pounding on doors at four in the morning for sleep-fuddled citizens resentfully to stumble around the streets in the dark.
They reached the wall at a point near the West Gate, then came in a few yards to the twin towers of the gate, where they were challenged by an alert watchman.
The Sanctuary Seeker Page 22
