The Poisoned Chalice (34 page)

An hour or so after Godfrey had died, John de Wolfe, his brother-in-law Richard de Revelle and Ralph Morin stood over the body, with Gwyn, Thomas and several soldiers in the background. ‘He confessed, you say?' asked the sheriff, greatly relieved that Fitzosbern had solved several of his problems by dying. He no longer had to try to protect the leading guild-master and the pressure from the Ferrars and de Courcy was now off, as their prime suspect had been satisfactorily dispatched.

‘He made sufficient agreement to my questions, in the presence of witnesses and in the knowledge that he was beyond hope of recovery, so that makes it a valid dying declaration,' said John carefully.

De Revelle frowned as he sensed the coroner's caution. ‘The questions were what?'

‘Was he the father of Adele's child and did he insist on the abortion. He agreed to both.'

The sharp eyes of the sheriff locked with John's. ‘What else?'

‘He denied raping Christina Rifford.'

De Revelle thought for a moment, then shrugged. That was a lesser worry to him, as Henry Rifford, though he was a Portreeve, was not in the same power class as those campaigning over Adele's death.

‘You will hold your inquest on him, I suppose?' he asked loftily.

‘Later this afternoon. The jury will almost all be vicars, choristers and servants from the canons' houses. We know we have a Norman corpse, so no presentment is involved.'

The sheriff had a sudden thought. ‘The death was not on Church ground, was it?'

‘No. Although the water conduit belongs to the Chapter, the land is just outside the cathedral precinct, so belongs to the town.' Neither man was sure whether to be relieved or sorry that, if any culprit were found, the case would not be handled under ecclesiastical law.

Richard de Revelle left them to their examination of the corpse and returned to Rougemont with his soldiers. Gwyn undressed the body, so that they could better see his wounds. ‘He has a crushed face, for a start,' said the Cornishman, feeling the crackle of shattered bone under the left cheek, the skin of which was purple and swollen. ‘The left ear is torn and there are are lacerations and bruises all across the left side of the scalp.'

When they stripped off the tunic and undershirt, they found the chest covered in bruises, mostly of a long rectangular shape. ‘These marks with sharp edges look like blows from a post or stake,' mused John. ‘Some of those on the head have the same shape, about an inch and a half wide.'

Gwyn pressed the left side of the chest with his big hand. The ribs indented along a line running up to the front of the armpit and blood stained froth issued from the dead lips. ‘His chest is stove in, as if someone has stamped on him.'

Thomas, squeamish about such bloody matters, had gone to the bag that had been alongside the body and was searching inside it. ‘Money, both silver and gold – and some solid silver cups and ornaments,' he reported, marvelling at the wealth that lay under his fingers. At twopence a day salary, this was more than he would earn in several lifetimes.

John looked over at the valuables his clerk was displaying. ‘Make a full inventory of that, Thomas. An inquest will have to decide later on whether it is forfeit to the Crown because of his possible felony in conspiring to procure a fatal miscarriage or whether it should go to his relatives. Mabel is still his wife.'

Gywn looked at the Fitzosbern treasure with indifference. ‘All it does is prove that the attack on him wasn't robbery. That narrows the field quite a bit.'

They turned the body over and saw a number of shallow parallel scratches over the shoulders and on the buttocks. There were further similar red lines on the backs of the thighs and calves, all running in the long axis of the body.

‘Let's see those garments again,' growled John.

Gywn took them from the pile on the floor and they spread them out on the floor of the front shop, where the light was better.

‘Yes, there's dirt and tearing in the same direction on the back of the tunic,' the coroner pointed out. ‘Especially on the breeches and hose.'

Gwyn threw the clothing back into a heap. ‘So he's been dragged over rough ground?'

John nodded. ‘That's what he meant when he said, “Not here”. Though he lost his memory after being struck on the head, he knew he'd never been in the pipe passage, so the attack must have been elsewhere.'

Thomas had been listening in fascination, eager to be a part of the big men's discussion. His nimble brain thought of something. ‘Would he have bled from those wounds?' he asked.

Gwyn looked at him as if a cat had suddenly developed speech. ‘Of course, you fool! Cuts on the scalp ooze blood like the very devil.'

‘Then would not the assailant himself be blood-soiled?' suggested the clerk.

Gwyn looked at his master. ‘Maybe, I suppose. Or maybe not.'

The hawk face of the coroner looked dubious. ‘These wounds have been made by some kind of club, even if it be a fence-post or a length of firewood. If held at arm's length, the splashing of blood might not be sufficient to reach the attacker.'

Thomas was not yet ready to abandon his theory. ‘But if he then had to manhandle and drag the victim a long way, he might well get bloodstained.'

Gwyn reached out grabbed the priest by the neck of his brown smock and shook him. ‘Well done, little scribbler! Now all you have to do is to go around Devon and find someone who has blood on their clothing. Maybe you should try in the Shambles, to see if a slaughterman is the culprit!'

Deflated, Thomas went back to the treasure bag in a sulk.

John was not quite so dismissive as his officer. ‘If this is not robbery with violence, then we have only about five suspects who would wish to see Fitzosbern dead. So perhaps we need not look at the whole of Devon to see if we can find bloodstains.'

Thomas came back with a rush, eager to justify his suggestion. ‘I'll seek out servants in each household, Sir John. I can get into places unobserved, as no one cares about me. I can see if there is any suspicion of blood at each place.'

John gave one of his rare, rationed smiles at the clerk's enthusiasm. ‘Very well, Thomas, you do that – but only after you've listed those valuables and after you've recorded the inquest on your rolls.'

The gaol in Rougemont was full, the filthy cells all occupied. The gross custodian, Stigand, was panting more than usual, as he staggered up and down the arched passage under the keep, doling out stale bread and water and collecting the stinking leather buckets that were the only sanitation.

In the early afternoon, there was a diversion, as the castle constable came down with the sheriff, the coroner and a priest from the cathedral to put the two silversmiths to the test. Torture was an accepted way of extracting confessions, just as a conviction for a crime led either to hanging, combat or the Ordeal.

Gwyn of Polruan and Thomas came with John de Wolfe, the former merely as a spectator but the clerk was there to record the event for the coroner's rolls, in case the matter ever came before the King's Justices.

The two suspects were dragged out of their cells by two men-at-arms, as the wheezing Stigand would have been hard-pressed to drag out even a sheep. Dirty and dishevelled, they were a pathetic sight, though the younger Garth had a certain sullen defiance about him that was in marked contrast to Alfred's abject terror.

Rusty shackles rattled at their wrists and ankles, far different from the elegant silver bracelets they were capable of making. They were hauled across the muddy floor, their reluctant feet skidding in theslime.

‘Which one do we do first, sir?' whined the gaoler, hardened by years of service into a callous indifference to the suffering he witnessed or inflicted almost every day.

Richard de Revelle flicked a bored finger towards the older workman. ‘To save my time, take him. He'll break far faster.' Babbling with fear, Alfred fell to the ground, in attempted supplication to the sheriff, who pointedly turned his back on the man as the soldiers dragged him across to an alcove on the further wall.

‘It's obvious that poor Godfrey Fitzosbern's denial of this ravishment was true, so it must be one of these knaves,' he declaimed to John.

His brother-in-law scowled at the lack of logic in Richard's words. ‘Why “poor” Godfrey, all of a sudden?' he demanded. ‘He confessed to conspiring to a fatal miscarriage.'

The sheriff clucked his tongue reprovingly. ‘Is that such a crime, eh? Who of us can honestly deny a little adultery now and then? Not you for sure, John. And what might you do if your pretty innkeeper got with child – or that comely merchant's wife down in Dawlish?'

The coroner's face darkened at this: although his liaison with Nesta was almost public property, he thought that he had been more discreet about his occasional dalliance with Hilda down at the coast. How the hell did Richard know of it? Though John could easily even up the score, as only last month he had caught the sheriff in bed with a whore.

The screaming behind them reached a crescendo and they turned to watch Alfred being laid out for the
peine forte et dure
. This took place in a shallow bay in the stone wall, arched over by vaulting. The alcove was about eight feet wide and a stout hook was embedded just above floor level into the supporting pillar at each end.

The men-at-arms held the victim on the ground, wriggling like an eel, while Stigand managed to bend himself enough to drop the ankle shackles over one hook. With much puffing and blowing, he then hooked the wrist chains over the other, so that Alfred was stretched across the mouth of the alcove, lying on his back. The party of observers moved slowly up to the weeping, wailing and terrified man, and stood looking down at him dispassionately.

Privately John thought this process a piece of useless witchcraft, like the Ordeal, but it was approved by Church and State alike. The fact that confessions extracted under the duress of exquisite pain were as often false as they were true seemed no hindrance to their effectiveness in improving the conviction rate.

Richard de Revelle took a step nearer, the hem of his long green tunic almost brushing the craftsman's chest.

The priest from the cathedral chanted something incomprehensible under his breath and made the sign of the Cross in the air. Thomas de Peyne followed suit, three times in rapid succession, almost dropping his precious writing bag into the mud.

‘Alfred, son of Osulf, do you confess to the carnal assault and defilement of Christina Rifford?' asked the sheriff, almost conversationally.

The man stopped his tumble of beseeching, pleading words long enough to deny it. ‘No, sir, of course not, sir! I never so much as touched the good lady, as God is my judge!'

‘He's not your judge here, my man. I am your judge today.'

Both the canon and the Coroner looked sharply at Richard, for different reasons. He was claiming precedence over both the Almighty and the Royal Justices, but they decided to stay silent.

‘I did nothing, sir. How can I confess to something that never happened?' Alfred's voice cracked with hysterical fear, but the sheriff stepped back and motioned for the soldiers to commence.

At the foot of each green-slimed pillar lay a pile of thick metal plates, roughly rectangular in shape and red with rust.

‘If you persist in your innocence, then we must jog your memory,' said de Revelle, nodding at Ralph Morin, whose opinion of this process was similar to John's. Many fighting men were uneasy with these cold-blooded antics in hidden dungeons. However, he had no choice but to motion to one of his soldiers, who bent and lifted one of the iron slabs, weighing about fifteen pounds.

‘Place the first one on his breast,' commanded the sheriff. The plate was lowered on to Alfred's chest, resting from his collarbones down to his belly. Though uncomfortable, there was no perceptible effect and the older man kept up his noisy protestations of innocence and his entreaties for mercy.

‘Another!' ordered de Revelle, and the other man-at-arms moved to obey.

‘If this fellow confesses, what will you do with the other?' asked John, with a trace of sarcasm.

‘Give him the same treatment, of course,' snapped the sheriff. ‘No doubt they were both in it together.'

When the second iron was lowered on to his chest, the skinny Saxon gasped and his exhortations stopped as he made the effort to breathe against the weight of thirty pounds pressing down on his breastbone. As the third slab was balanced on the others, he became dark in the face and his lips had a bluish tinge as he wheezily tried to get air into his lungs.

Stigand, his drooping belly hanging down over his wide belt, stood with hands on hips, watching the process with an expert eye. ‘This one will not last a quarter of the hour, sheriff,' he said critically. ‘He's skinny and his ribs will crack under the next plate, mark my words.'

Ralph Morin held up his hand to stop the next slab being laid. ‘Best get him to confess while he's still conscious or you'll just have a corpse and nothing to write on the crowner's rolls,' he advised.

Richard stood at the head of the failing Alfred. ‘Well, man? Are you ready to confess?'

Spots of blood were breaking out in the whites of the man's eyes and his purplish tongue was swelling between blackening lips. Unable to speak for lack of breath, he nodded feebly.

Triumphantly, the sheriff turned to his brother-in-law. ‘See? He admits it! This method is far better than all your snooping and poking about with your poxy parchments, John.'

There was a sudden jangling of chains behind them as a scuffle began between the remaining guard and Garth, who was as massively built as Ralph Morin.

They swung round to see the younger smith dragging the man-at-arms towards the alcove. The other soldiers ran to seize him, but he shouted, ‘Let the old man up! He did nothing. It was me! Let my friend go – it was me, I tell you.' His big face was deadly pale, as pale as it would be at the end of the rope that he must know would now be his inevitable fate.