A Plague of Heretics (43 page)

A thunderous expression came over de Revelle’s face. ‘Impossible! Drag the man out! He is trying to ridicule the law!’

The stout monk advanced on him angrily. ‘You’ll not violate sanctuary in my church, sir! Recall what happened after Thomas Becket!’

Henry de Furnellis now hurried in from the porch. ‘John? Is this true?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You have thought of the consequences?’

De Wolfe nodded. Now that the die had been cast, he felt calm and resolute, knowing that there was only one way forward.

‘I need time to discover who is the true culprit, Henry. These vultures are only intent upon condemning me, without seeking any other explanation.’

The Dorset man was still trying to deny John’s right to sanctuary. ‘You are still part of a coroner’s jury. I command you to come out and take your place in the inquest,’ he protested.

‘I decline your kind invitation,’ answered John sarcastically. ‘I am well aware that the verdict was decided beforehand by you and your cousin’s husband here.’

‘Then I shall have no option but to continue without you,’ huffed Aubrey. ‘That will deny you the opportunity to say anything more in your defence.’

‘Why, is this a trial, then?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘And does anyone think for a moment that anything I say will have the slightest impression on what you have already decided?’

Richard de Revelle, who had just railed against John’s right to sanctuary, suddenly reversed his attitude. ‘Let him stay here, Aubrey,’ he said gaily. ‘It proves his guilt, for why else would he abandon the chance to maintain his innocence? Only the guilty run for sanctuary, so he has condemned himself by his own actions!’

He pulled at de Courtenay’s arm, but as they went to the door Aubrey called over his shoulder. ‘On your own head be it, de Wolfe! I am going to complete the inquest forthwith.’

Henry de Furnellis, John de Alençon and Ralph Morin remained in the chapel with John and the chaplain.

‘Archdeacon, is sanctuary valid in these circumstances?’ asked the sheriff, his drooping features heavy with concern.

De Alençon nodded. ‘I see no reason why it should not be. As de Wolfe has said, there is nothing that prevents it. Sanctuary is denied only to those committing sacrilege against the Church.’

‘But how can you go about proving your innocence when you are cooped up in here, John?’ boomed Ralph Morin.

‘I have forty days to think of something,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘If I stay out there, those bastards will see that I get thrown into some gaol or other to await trial God knows how far in the future!’

‘We had better get back and discover what mischief those two have managed to perpetrate,’ growled de Furnellis, leading the way back out into the inner ward. Aubrey de Courtenay was just finishing haranguing the jury, before ordering them to consider their verdict.

‘The poor woman clearly was strangled in her own home,’ he cried with a flourish of his hand. ‘She was still warm when the hue and cry saw her, and her husband, John de Wolfe, was present in the room, waving a dagger about and claiming he found her dead.’

He stopped and glared from one end of the jury to the other.

‘You have heard that he regularly quarrelled with his wife and that his brother-in-law has heard him threaten to kill her. His next-door neighbour, a physician and his wife, both of impeccable character, told you that they had heard altercations through the shutters. The dead lady’s maid heard voices raised in anger at about the very time that she must have been killed.’

He reached the climax of his damning speech, gesturing with outflung arms. ‘John de Wolfe has not denied those facts – and who else would or could have strangled her? It flies in the face of reason to think otherwise! And now he has sought sanctuary – is that the act of an innocent man?’

He dropped his hands to his sides as his histrionics ceased. ‘Now you must debate among yourselves as to how Matilda de Wolfe came to her death. This is not a trial and you are not judging anyone’s guilt – that is the task of the king’s justices when they next come to this city.’

The outcome was both inevitable and rapid. After a few moments’ muttering, the man appointed foreman, a pastry-man from the High Street, stepped forward, still wearing his flour-dusted apron.

‘We find that the poor lady was murdered and that her husband can be the only man responsible.’

Aubrey de Courtenay nodded his approval. ‘Then I so pronounce my verdict,’ he said pompously. ‘That Matilda, wife of John de Wolfe, was killed with malice aforethought on the twelfth day of November in the seventh year of the reign of our sovereign lord, King Richard. And the jury name the said John de Wolfe as the perpetrator.’

He drew a deep breath, as he had never done this before to a knight of the realm and a king’s coroner.

‘I therefore use my power as a coroner to commit him for trial before the royal justices and command that he be kept in close custody until that time.’

There was an urgent murmuring among the crowd, broken by a stentorian voice from Henry de Furnellis, Sheriff of Devon. ‘How can you commit him, when he is in sanctuary?’ he demanded.

De Courtenay shrugged. ‘That is now your problem, sheriff! My jurisdiction ceases at the end of an inquest. He either emerges from that chapel and is arrested, or he stays there for forty days and is then starved to death – unless he confesses his crime and abjures the realm, in which case you will need me to come back to take his confession.’

He walked away from his chair as if distancing himself from any further involvement, but Richard de Revelle hurried towards him and began to speak urgently into his ear. The Dorset coroner stopped and beckoned to the sheriff, who from the look on his face would like to strangle Aubrey himself.

‘What is it now?’ he growled.

‘I have been reminded of your close friendship with the accused. I demand that you will not let your personal feelings allow him to escape from sanctuary – nor from your prison, if and when he emerges to be arrested.’

‘If he shows his head outside that chapel door, you are entitled – indeed, obliged – to hack it from his shoulders!’ added Richard de Revelle with obvious delight.

Henry glowered at the two men. ‘I need no reminding of my duties, thank you!’ he snarled.

De Courtenay wagged an insolent finger at him. ‘I’m sure you don’t, but I shall be kept well informed of any mishaps and I will see to it, through my noble family if needs be, that the Curia Regis be immediately made aware of any failure to keep this man in custody!’

With this last threat, he walked away with Richard de Revelle to fetch their horses. Then they rode away to Richard’s house to stay the night before his return to Lyme next morning.

‘Bastards!’ was Henry’s succinct comment as he watched them vanish through the gatehouse arch.

‘Can you not look the other way when John takes a walk one night?’ suggested Ralph Morin, who admired de Wolfe as much as he detested de Revelle.

The sheriff sighed. ‘I dare not. Richard will be watching like a bloody hawk! I’ll wager he’ll station one of his servants here in the bailey during the daytime, to check that John is still here.’ He spat on the ground, livid that de Revelle seemed to have got the better of them at last. ‘As the king’s officer in this county, I have sworn on oath to uphold his peace. Even for such a good man as de Wolfe, I could not break that obligation – and I know that John would not wish me to.’

‘I suppose something will turn up,’ said Ralph with an optimism that he did not really feel.

That evening was a very strange one for John de Wolfe. As the early dusk approached, the castle bailey lost its daytime bustle and an eerie quiet fell over Rougemont. The gawking crowd from the inquest had dispersed, as John was no longer on show, and soon he was left alone in the empty chapel.

Brother Rufus had brought him a fresh loaf, some cheese and a jug of ale, then went about his business. Gwyn and Thomas had stayed with him for a while, then the Cornishman went off to the Bush, promising to bring up a decent supper when Martha had finished cooking. Both men seemed somewhat ill at ease, unsure how to react to this new situation where their master was virtually a prisoner and accused of murder. The possibility of him being guilty never crossed either of their minds, but they needed time to adjust and to work out how they might best help him prove his innocence.

It was indeed a bizarre situation, locked in a stone box with only his murdered wife’s corpse for company. He wandered over to the bier, a wooden stretcher with four legs, normally kept hanging by ropes from the rafters at the back of St Martin’s Church, from where it had been borrowed.

‘Matilda, what’s to become of me?’ he murmured, getting the same lack of response that he usually received when she was alive. ‘I never wished this upon you, even when you were at your most obnoxious. We have our fathers to blame for this, God rest their interfering souls!’

As their parents had pushed them into a marriage which neither desired, it was little wonder that two such different personalities as John and Matilda had never found contentment, let alone loving happiness.

He sighed and ambled back to sit on the stone ledge that ran around the walls. Normally, worshippers stood on the packed earth floor, but for the old and infirm there was this comfortless resting place. It gave rise to the expression ‘going to the wall’, to indicate where failures ended up, John thought wryly.

He chewed listlessly at some of the bread and drank an earthenware cup of Rufus’s ale. Sanctuary seekers were entitled to be fed by the parishioners, an obligation that was often resented, especially in times of hardship or famine – which accounted for the number of ‘escapes’ from sanctuary, as the villagers were often eager to look the other way when they were supposed to be guarding the unwelcome inmate of their church. The law was hazy about the right of access to the sanctuary seeker by family and others – in this case, there was little likelihood of anyone challenging it, as apart from Richard de Revelle no one really wanted their Crusader coroner locked up.

As well as Gwyn and Thomas, Henry de Furnellis and Ralph Morin had been in to visit him, followed by John de Alençon. His friend the archdeacon said some prayers over Matilda’s body and told John that she would be moved to the cathedral next morning, to lie before one of the side altars.

‘Whatever her faults, John, she was a genuinely devout woman and will have no problem in finding her place in heaven,’ he said solemnly. ‘Tomorrow I will begin making arrangements for her funeral and have no doubt that you will be able to leave this place for that, even if I have to get a special dispensation from the bishop, who returned today.’

Typically, he did not ask John whether he was guilty or innocent, but offered to take his confession at any time he cared to give it.

‘My only confession would be to having murderous intentions upon whoever did this awful act!’ de Wolfe had replied angrily.

Now, sitting upon the cold stone ledge, his mind roved over all the events of the previous day, since he had discovered his wife’s body in their hall. Who could have done this? This was the question that drummed endlessly in his mind.

Why Matilda, who, though she had been the bane of his life, was never a threat to anyone else? In fact, her public face in church and in the social life of middle-class Exeter was one of devout respectability and even gracious affability.

Over and over, he went through the catalogue of potential suspects. Top of his list was either Reginald Rugge, the fanatical lay brother, or Alan de Bere, the equally malicious monk. Both were crazed religious extremists and had grounds for hating de Wolfe for breaking up their riot and their attempt to hang the heretics, as well as for getting the pair of them arrested afterwards. But why kill Matilda, unless they felt that it was an easier option than trying to harm the formidable coroner himself? He suspected one or both of them had set the fire that killed Algar and his family, but what relevance could that have had to Matilda’s death?

His thoughts moved on to the two proctors’ bailiffs, Herbert Gale and William Blundus. Again they were possible suspects, though God alone knows what possible motive there could have been. Of the two, John disliked Herbert Gale the most, as he sensed that he had a cold, unemotional nature that had little regard for human life.

This led him to once again review the other men who were so violently opposed to the survival of anyone with heretical leanings. The canons themselves, especially Richard fitz Rogo, Robert de Baggetor and Ralph de Hospitali – and possibly the other proctor, William de Swindon – were the motivators of this campaign against the Cathars and the latter-day Pelagians, but try as he may, John could not bring himself to see any of those as murderous arsonists and stranglers.

There was one person left in his catechism of suspects. What about Richard de Revelle? It took a wide leap of the imagination to accept that a man could kill his sister, even in the course of a violent quarrel. But in recent months their relationship had become very strained, as Matilda had become progressively disillusioned about her brother. Formerly, he was the apple of her eye as her successful big brother, who had become rich and been made sheriff of the second-largest county in England. But disclosure of his various scandals had shown her that her idol had feet of clay. His involvement in the treachery of Prince John against the king, his dishonesty in dealing with the county finances and various other sins, including personal cowardice, had turned her against him. This situation had been made worse by the fact that her own husband had been largely instrumental in exposing Richard’s failings.