John leaned forward to the man in the corner. ‘You’d better understand well the situation regarding sanctuary. You’ve managed to evade arrest by getting in here. The fact that you ran away and sought refuge will be damning evidence against you when the matter comes to trial – which, I assure you, will be before the King’s judges, not the sheriff’s court.’
De Bonneville seemed to recover some of his former defiance now that the sheriff and the episcopal contingent had left. ‘Don’t try to tell me that flight means guilt, Crowner! The level of justice in this land means that many an innocent man takes to his heels to escape false accusation.’
John wasn’t disposed to argue with him. ‘That’s as maybe, the court will decide that. In any event, you managed to reach sanctuary.’ He fixed the younger man with a steely eye, not concerned to hide his contempt for a killer and a coward. ‘Sanctuary gives you forty days’ respite in here, understand?’ Gervaise crouched transfixed, like a rat mesmerised by a snake. ‘At the end of that time, your food and water ceases, the place is sealed up and you either come out or you die in here.’ He stabbed a finger towards de Bonneville. ‘Anyone helping you after those forty days are up is himself liable for summary execution, so don’t expect any aid.’
Gwyn couldn’t resist adding a brick to the burden. ‘And if you come out after the forty days, anyone is entitled to slay you on the spot – preferably by beheading.’
‘Apart from the formality of a short inquest on the spot,’ added the coroner, anxious to maintain his stake in the process. ‘And my legal obligation to take the severed head to the castle gaol.’
John de Alecon, who as Archdeacon had a little more compassion than the two fighting men, threw a lifeline to the cringing Gervaise. ‘But there is an alternative, as the Crowner will no doubt tell you.’
John settled back in the chair, his black-clad arms folded across his chest. With some reluctance, he spelled out the way in which Gervaise could evade justice, if he so wished. ‘You can abjure the realm of England, leaving these shores never to return during the reign of King Richard. You will forfeit all your property, even down to the clothing you now wear.’
The Archdeacon chipped in again. ‘Of course, your inheritance of Peter Tavy will be lost to you. If you had already been confirmed in it by the King, then the honour would have been forfeit to the Crown.’ His lean, ascetic face was as earnest as that of a schoolmaster instilling lessons into his pupils. ‘As it is, you cannot in natural justice benefit materially from the fruits of murder, so it was not yours in the first place.’
De Alecon has a good grip on secular as well as canon law, John thought.
‘But as you are not so confirmed, then I presume that Martyn will become the new lord of Peter Tavy, as long as he can keep his cousins at arm’s length. But that is no concern of ours.’
Gervaise had listened to all this with mixed emotions. The catalogue of his lost possessions, even down to his undershirt, was offset by the prospect of not swinging from a gibbet. Of course, he knew of the principle of abjuration of the realm but, like most folk, had never before needed to go into the details.
‘I will abjure!’ he exclaimed eagerly. ‘What do I have to do?’
John set out the procedure for this cumbersome sequel to sanctuary. ‘First, you must confess your guilt to me before a jury, in a form which I will tell you.’
‘But I am innocent!’
‘Then you cannot abjure. You can surrender now or you can step out of the door and be killed – or you can rot in here after the forty days expire. The choice is yours.’
Gervaise began to shake with a mixture of fear and fatigue. ‘There is no choice, it seems,’ he muttered in anguish.
John went on relentlessly, ‘You will cast off your own clothing, which will be confiscated and sold. You will be given an ungirdled garment of crude sackcloth and you will be given rough-hewn wood from which you must construct a cross with your own hands.’
Here John de Alecon added, ‘De Bonneville, the cross must be held before you in your hands every inch of the way when you leave here to show people that you are a felon and a sinner, who has been granted mercy by the Holy Church.’
John picked up his official version, which he was obliged to relate to every would-be abjurer. ‘You will tell passers-by what you are on your journey, the direction and length of which will be decided by me.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Do you still wish to abjure or will you surrender?’
De Bonneville had no doubts: the alternative was execution, with or without a trial.
‘I will abjure – as soon as it can be arranged.’
The ritual was to take place the next day, as soon as a jury could be summoned, a sackcloth robe sewn and two pieces of rough wood found in the refuse lying around the cathedral Close for Gervaise to lash together to make a crude cross.
Later that day, after he had examined an alleged rape and another non-fatal assault, John walked wearily down to the the Bush in the twilight, before going home to Matilda and his dinner. It was too early for the inn to be busy, so Nesta sat with him behind the same wattle screen that had concealed the eavesdroppers from the Peter Tavy conspirators. ‘Looks as if the fellow will escape retribution, after all.’ John glowered as he sat with one hand on the comforting plumpness of the innkeeper’s thigh.
The auburn-haired woman seemed relieved. ‘Then I’m glad there’ll be no need for us to appear as witnesses before the court. Especially as people would snigger at the coroner’s mistress being so deeply involved. And it would do your relations with your wife no good at all, Sir Crowner!’ As usual, she saw the sensible and practical side.
Old Edwin came across with refills for their mugs. He looked ten years younger after the stimulation of his part in the previous night’s excitement. ‘You settled that fellow properly, Captain,’ he wheezed gleefully. ‘I’d a’ come out myself with the firewood axe to help you, if I’d known it was going on so near.’ He stumped away, chortling to himself, as Nesta leaned closer to John, both enjoying the warmth of the log fire before them.
‘This abjuration – where does he have to go?’ she asked.
‘Depends where I choose to send him. I’ve heard that some coroners – for there were a few in some counties even before September – are perverse enough to make them walk the length of the country.’
‘And what are you going to do?’ she persisted.
‘I’ve not made my mind up yet. But the further they have to travel, the greater the chance that they get killed on the way.’
‘I thought you’d be happy to see his throat slit,’ she said.
John blew a long sigh through his beard. ‘I hate to see him escape the noose, but the law is the law. Few abjurers arrive at their destination – many throw away their cross around the first bend in the road and vanish into the forest to become an outlaw. And many others are set upon by the families of their victims in revenge.’
‘Are they allowed to do that?’ she asked, sipping his ale.
‘Not if the abjurer sticks to the road as he is instructed. But who’s to say what happens once they are out of sight? In the Palatine of Durham, I’m told the Bishop sends an escort to see the man safe out of his territory – but I can’t imagine our dear sheriff going to that trouble or expense.’
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
‘Can I come to see what happens at this abjuration affair tomorrow?’ she asked.
He gave one of his rare grins. ‘Why not? The rest of the town will be there, I’ll bet.’
At noon the next day, the cathedral bell boomed out its message to the town as a large crowd gathered in the Close. It was Wednesday, so there was no rival attraction at the gallows and several hundred of Exeter’s five thousand population were clustered around the West Front of the great building to see the entertainment.
Nesta was there and John had been surprised to receive Matilda’s announcement at their early meal that she intended to watch the procee
dings too. He could not decide whether she wanted to be there from sheer curiosity or to see her own husband the centre of civic attention.
Though the de Bonnevilles were not well known in the city, coming from the distant lands at the other end of Dartmoor, the fact that a Norman gentleman was in such disgrace was an unusual attraction to pull in the crowds. It was a secular ceremony, even though the concept of sanctuary had religious origins, so the clergy were keeping a fairly low profile. The Bishop had decided to keep away but the Archdeacon and the Precentor stood in one of the doorways of the West End to keep a watch on the formalities.
The sheriff was also notable by his absence, the sergeant and a few men-at-arms the only token of the forces of law and order, apart from the coroner. John, with the abjurer, was the focal point of the ritual.
As the bell tolled midday, the Coroner led a drab figure out of the north tower and down the nave towards the cathedral doors. The great central oaken door was never opened except on high festivals or for the rare visitation of the Archbishop or the King, so one of the lesser flanking doors was used to allow them out into the daylight.
Gwyn of Polruan followed closely behind the fugitive, his face suggesting that he hoped de Bonneville would make a run for it as soon as they got outside the weaponless zone of the cathedral so that he could cut him in half with his sword. However, as Gervaise was shortly to be released alone on to the high road, there was little point in him escaping anywhere and Gwyn had to be content with a threatening attitude and an occasional prod in the back. Thomas de Peyne trailed along behind, carrying his bag of writing instruments.
Gervaise’s clothing had already been listed for sale, as the abjurer now wore a shapeless tube of hessian, the ragged hem of which came to his ankles. He was barefoot and his long curly hair had vanished – Gwyn had arbitrarily decreed that it be cut off – leaving an irregular stubble over his scalp, which looked worse than if it had been fully shaved. As far as John knew, there was nothing in the rules on abjuration that insisted on shearing the hair, but he was in no mood to deny Gwyn his last chance at humiliating the man.
As they lined up outside the door, there was a chorus of jeers from the crowd and a few rotten vegetables were thrown. As they were as likely to hit the officials as the villain, the sergeant roared at the culprits and smacked a few heads with his mailed hand; he was dressed up to show off for this occasion, in chain-mail hauberk to his knees and a round helmet with the usual nose-guard.
The shouts and catcalls died down and the coroner began the ceremony. Gwyn had dragooned a dozen men to be a jury and they stood in a double semi-circle behind John, to witness Gervaise’s confession. The two cathedral priests also joined the group.
‘On your knees before the King’s coroner,’ yelled Gwyn.
The wretched de Bonneville sank to the ground. His humiliation was all the greater for the contrast with his former station in life – good clothes, horses, money and aristocratic elevation above his fellow men.
‘You will now confess your crimes to me,’ grated John. ‘Unless it is full and genuine, your confession will be invalid.’
At this point the Precentor upstaged the Archdeacon by throwing in a further warning of eternal damnation. ‘And the mercy of the Church and perhaps your eventual absolution also depend on your contrition and truthfulness. Otherwise the fires of hell await you.’
Haltingly and reluctantly, de Bonneville came out with the story.
It had begun many months earlier when a soldier fresh from Outremer had brought the news to Peter Tavy that Hubert hoped to be home before long. ‘We had thought Hubert dead, either in Palestine or on the arduous journey,’ murmured his brother. ‘Many of those who took the Cross never returned home, so my expectations of being heir to my father’s honour had been accepted by all.’ His voice rose in almost petulant defiance. ‘I ran the manors, did all the business when my father was struck with the palsy, it was to have been mine by right. I had earned it through three years of Hubert’s absence.’
Gervaise, who had long resented his brother’s seniority and superior attitude, had seen his hopes of becoming his father’s heir diminish to almost nothing. The only vestige that remained was that Hubert would not survive the homeward journey, as more Crusaders fell prey to disease and other dangers of travel than to the weapons of the Mohammedans. He admitted now that he had often talked to Baldwyn, his squire and confidant, about this possibility. Somehow it developed into an open hope that some fatal accident might befall his elder brother, though there seemed little that they could do to foster the likelihood of this happening.
Then, by sheer chance, Baldwyn had been in Sampford Spiney some eight weeks ago, visiting a woman he knew there, when he heard that a man staying at the tavern was on his way home from the Holy Land. Anxious to know whether this traveller might have more recent news of Hubert de Bonneville, Baldwyn sought him out and was amazed to discover that this Aelfgar was actually his servant-cum-squire. He was on his way to Peter Tavy to announce that his master was in Southampton and would be home in about two weeks.
‘Baldwyn kept his identity secret from the man, then rode home and told me of what he had discovered,’ announced Gervaise, in a flat, hopeless voice.
After a few hours of agonising discussion, they had decided that Aelfgar could never be allowed to deliver his news to their manor. Although Sir Arnulph was incapable of understanding, Martyn, the cousins and all the manor inhabitants would know of Hubert’s imminent return and any plan to usurp him would be frustrated.
By now, Gervaise was purging himself of his misdeeds in an orgy of penitence. Still on his knees in the mud, with the jury and a sizeable part of the townsfolk of Exeter hanging on his every word, he carried on his confession, in a voice that varied from a dull monotone to cracked emotion. ‘We decided to kill Aelfgar and somehow prevent Hubert from coming home, which was far more difficult.’
Baldwyn knew that the Saxon was coming from Sampford Spiney the next day, after his horse had recovered from lameness. ‘I provided my squire with money and he soon found a rough outlaw begging on the rim of the forest above Tavistock who, for a couple of marks, was willing to help him dispatch the Saxon.’ There was an outraged murmur from the front rank of the crowd.
‘Baldwyn and the ruffian lay in wait for Aelfgar on the road out of Sampford Spiney. The two easily unhorsed him, stabbed him and Baldwyn cut his throat. They threw his body over his horse and took it to that nearby tor, where they hid it in a cleft.’
His voice rose suddenly in plaintive justification. ‘I had no part in it, I was miles away at our other manor. Baldwyn was keen to do this thing. Without me as lord of Peter Tavy, he would never have advancement under Hubert, who disliked him and would have put in his own man as seneschal.’
Crowner John bristled at this. ‘You miserable hog, don’t try to excuse yourself! It was you who gave the money for your man to hire another killer. All you can plead is cowardice, not innocence.’
Gervaise’s head dropped in shame, but he still attempted to excuse himself. ‘This was merely getting rid of some paltry bodyguard, something to delay the news of my brother’s return until we thought of another plan. We had no intention to kill Hubert. I thought perhaps I could arrange for him to be kidnapped and dumped in Ireland or Brittany, where some accident might still befall him.’
John gave him a push with the flat of his boot that sent him tumbling into the ordure on the ground. ‘You’re as big a liar as you are a villain! You meant Hubert’s death from the outset. No other way would grant you your father’s heritage. But then what happened?’
Gervaise used his crude cross to push himself up to a squatting position. He looked so abject in his misery that Nesta almost felt sorry for him, until she reminded herself of his mortal sin of fratricide.
‘That fool Baldwyn couldn’t resist stealing the man’s dagger. Then they took the Saxon’s horse into the wilds of the moor, stripped it of its harness and let it run wild to get rid of it,’ he
mumbled.
‘What happened to this outlaw and his Judas pieces of silver – or is that some other figment of your evil mind?’ snapped the coroner.
De Bonneville shook his head violently. ‘He was real enough – until Baldwyn killed him!’
John raised his arms in despair. Framed in his black cloak, he looked like a huge bat hovering over the culprit.
‘Mother of God, another corpse! Where will we find this one?’
Gervaise was anxious to shift the blame from himself. ‘It shows what manner of evil rogue Baldwyn was!’ he said, in a complete reversal of his former concern for his squire. ‘I knew nothing of it, but he told me later that he felt it wise to get rid of any witnesses.’
‘Where and when?’ demanded the coroner grimly.
The aspiring lord of Peter Tavy shrugged. ‘He never told me other than that he had caught the man unawares and run him through with his sword in some remote spot. He did say that there was no fear of the body being found, as he threw it down the shaft of an old tin mine.’
Gwyn of Polruan was outraged at this endless story of treacherous killings. ‘And I’ll gamble that your fine squire took back his blood money from the corpse’s purse before he dropped it down the hole, the swine!’
‘So how did you later find your brother, wretch?’ demanded John, who was getting angrier as the story unfolded.
The jurymen and those in the crowd who could hear what was being said, or had the proceedings relayed to them by those in front, were also growing restive. Hisses and jeers were frequent, in spite of the men-at-arms’ efforts to keep order. John felt that if he had thrown Gervaise to the mob, they would have torn him limb from limb or hanged him from the nearest tree.
De Bonneville, who now cowered on his knees close to the protection of the coroner, explained what had happened.
‘It was not I who killed my brother!’ he pleaded. ‘I never laid eyes on him. It was Baldwyn who went to Southampton just before the time that Aelfgar had claimed that Hubert would leave that port. He was the one who slew him, on the promise that I would give him advancement and wealth when I achieved my inheritance.’
The Sanctuary Seeker Page 25
