The Sanctuary Seeker (12 page)

As Gwyn finished bellowing his introduction, the coroner and sheriff subsided on to stools, mainly to mark their status as everyone below the dais had to stand. Ralph Morin waited unobtrusively at the back of the platform, his eyes missing nothing.

As at Widecombe, the multitude of the jury had to view the corpse. They jostled and stumbled past the cart, where one of the guards had whipped off the canvas from the body, displaying the mangled remains of the head. Though late in the season, a few opportunist bluebottles had already yellowed the eyes and mouth with clusters of eggs.

John stood up and briefly set out the events of the previous night. The injured man, Eadred of Dawlish, was too ill to be brought to the castle even on a litter, so the coroner described his injuries. Gwyn had previously picked one man from each of four town wards to act as spokesmen for the large jury and had taken them to the Saracen to inspect the wounded man. They had reported what they had seen to the rest of the jury.

Two men from St Si dwell’s, a cluster of houses beyond the East Gate, swore that the corpse was that of their brother Osric, a carter who had lived in an alley off Rock Lane, near the Watergate. The whole family was obviously Saxon and thus no question of a murdrum fine arose. Then several witnesses gave their account of the affray, and Gwyn gave the deposition of the injured Eadred that the hairy one had struck the deceased to rob him.

Within minutes, the jury had given their unanimous verdict that Osric the carter had been slain against the King’s peace by Tostig, the fellow now in front of them.

John summed up. ‘There is no doubt that he was killed by a mace blow to the head, and equally little doubt that this Tostig is the culprit.’ He pointed down at the hairy rogue gripped by the two soldiers. The man struggled, swore and spat defiantly towards the dais, and received a crack on the head from one guard’s spear shaft for his insolence.

‘However, it will be the King’s judges who finally decide on his guilt and his fate at the next Eyre.

until then, I will commit Tostig to the gaol in the safe keeping of the town.’

Before he could continue, Richard de Revelle rose to his feet. ‘Crowner, this is unnecessary. The Eyre was here only three months ago and may not return for a year or two - perhaps more. Why on earth should we waste money on keeping this - this creature, in my gaol for that length of time?’

John stared at his brother-in-law angrily. ‘The new law says that the coroner must keep the Pleas of the Crown, which means that he must document and then present malefactors before the King’s justices.

Would you just take him out now and hang him?’

The sheriff brushed imaginary dust from the red griffin on his breast. ‘It would be far more efficient, given his obvious guilt. But no, I am a just man. I would have him brought before my shire court in this hall next week - and then hang him.’

There were a few muffled guffaws from the crowd, which were silenced by a glare from the coroner, who then addressed the sheriff again. ‘By the King’s command, relayed by the chief justiciar through the justices in Eyre, such cases recorded by the coroners must be brought before the royal judges.’

Henry Rifford rose from his stool. ‘I agree with the sheriff. It is ridiculous to commit every common thief and murderer to the castle gaol, which would be full within a month. It costs almost a ha’penny a day to feed these vermin, a drain on the finances of the town.’

Before John could open his mouth, de Revelle chimed in again. ‘It is a matter of chance as to who seizes these criminals first. If my sergeants and their men came across a fatal affray and arrested the wrongdoers, they would come before my court and be dealt with speedily. Even the manorial courts and, of course, your burgage courts, Portreeve, have the power to try and hang felons. So why should we be plagued by the cost and delay you coroners claim is the new law?’

Rifford, face flushed with righteous indignation, nodded vigorously, but John refused to be swayed.

‘Because the new law is the law. We are here to carry it out, not to bend it as suits our convenience. If there’s a death, then, Sir Sheriff, your men must not usurp the coroner’s function. It must be reported to me and I will take the steps laid down by the King. They may be new, they may be inconvenient - but they are the law.’

Richard de Revelle made a gesture of impatient dismissal, but Hugh de Relaga joined in to back up the coroner. ‘I agree with Sir John. Progress may be unfamiliar and sometimes irritating, but better brains than ours in Winchester have devised this new system and it is up to us to carry it out.’

The sheriff threw up his hands in despair. ‘Very well, we shall see. The Shire Hall is no place for us to debate politics. In any event, this dog must be thrown into the gaol until somebody hangs him!’ He motioned to the guards to take away the hairy man, stepped from the platform and marched away towards his castle quarters, followed by the silent constable and Henry Rifford, who made it plain that he had no wish to remain with his dissident colleague or the coroner.

When the murmurings of the jury and onlookers at this high-level bickering had settled, the fair young man was dragged by his guards to stand before John.

The coroner described Eadred’s injuries and called on the jury foreman to confirm that they had seen the wound in his chest. He told them that the injured man had, while in fear and solemn expectation of imminent death, accused his assailant of the dagger thrust.

No verdict was required in this case, but John addressed the young man sternly.

‘First, the mace and knife are declared deodand, as they caused the death and injuries. I therefore confiscate them and they will be sold for the benefit of the family of Eadred. Secondy, there is no doubt you harmed Eadred of Dawlish with intent to rob, even though you gained nothing from it. He may die, he may not. If he does not survive for a year and a day, you will be brought back before me and committed for murder, just as your accomplice was a few moments ago. If he lives, you will be brought back and charged with wounding, but may escape the gallows.’ He pointed a long finger at the young man.

“I therefore commit Eadred into your care and the care of your family, as being the best way of providing him with a chance to survive. I attach you and your kin in the sum of five marks to appear at the next General Eyre - and if Eadred dies I have little doubt that the sheriff will delight in throwing you back into Rougemont gaol.’

Shaking with relief, the young man was released by his guards and returned to an anxious group of his relatives at the back of the hall. They were pleased at the survival of their lad, yet appalled at the enormous sum of money they would have to find if he ran away to become an outlaw in the forest.

As the jury and spectators melted away, Hugh de Relaga came across to John. ‘There’s trouble brewing over this new law,’ he said. ‘The sheriff has been used to seizing the property of felons, confiscating the deodands and raking in the amercements and attachments. Though much of that found its way to the county treasure chest, I’ll wager some got lost in his purse.’

As they walked back across the castle ward towards the gatehouse, John agreed with him. ‘It’s why he wanted a tame creature appointed, like Giles de Mandeville, whom he could easily manipulate.’

De Mandeville had been the favoured nominee of de Uevelle, the Bishop and Henry Rifford, and they had been exasperated when John de Wolfe’s connections with the chief justiciar and the King himself had foiled their plans.

At the gatehouse, John took leave of his friend, anxious to join Gwyn in his chamber for beer, bread and cheese.

‘Look out for yourself, John. Avoid dark alleys at night, in case our rivals are lurking there!’ A mischeivous grin spread over the portreeve’s chubby face as he strolled down the drawbridge to the town.

John watched him go with some affection, then turned to climb the steps to his gloomy office.

In which Thomas de Peyne rides to Honiton The mule was a game little animal, which kept up a steady trot. Though punishing to the clerk’s backside, it covered four miles each hour. This respectable speed was helped by a good road, as Thomas’s route took him along the main track to the east, the most frequented out of Exeter.

A day without rain had dried up all but the largest puddles, so the bare surface was, for once, neither a morass nor a dust bowl. Part of the road was still paved, as it followed the old Roman road, still in use after almost a thousand years.

Well before the November daylight faded, the former priest had reached Honiton, where the road branched to the old Roman towns of Ilchester and Dorchester. Accustomed to travellers, the village had several inns, which provided food and lodging for those who journeyed between Exeter, Cornwall, Southampton and the flesh pots of Winchester and London. One of these was the Plough, in a dip of the road near the centre of the village. It was a single storeyed, wide building with a high thatched roof, an untidy ramble of stables and huts lying on each side and at the rear. A crude model of a wooden plough hung on a bracket over the central front door.

The clerk jogged on his steed to the inn yard and slid off. He handed the bridle to a ten-year-old stable boy, then took his saddlebag inside and negotiated a penny bed for the night, which included a meal.

By the time he had finished some fat mutton, bread and cheese and was sitting by the fire with a pot of cider, his earlier annoyance at having been sent out of Exeter had subsided. As his master had, at the Bush the previous evening, Thomas sank into a warm reverie, full of food and cider. With luck, he thought, if he avoided the cost of breaking his fast next morning, he might be twopence better off, thanks to Sir John’s unthinking generosity. For the moment, he forgot this errand, preferring to sit on his corner of the bench and enjoy his drink and the atmosphere around him.

After an hour or so, he moved reluctantly from the roaring log fire and went to the back of the main room.

Here the innkeeper was knocking the plug out of a new barrel of beer, then pushing in a wooden spigot before more than a few cupfuls gushed away into the leather bucket held underneath. Thinking it best not to reveal his official interest, the clerk began to ask about the dead man, as if he had been a friend.

It was in vain, as the burly landlord, more intent on not spilling his ale, seemed to have no recollection of his former guest. ‘This is the busiest inn between Exeter and Bridport. I can’t recall a quarter of the folk who call here,’ he replied, with conviction.

‘Not even a man with a curious Saracen sword, curved within its sheath? And a dappled grey horse with a black ring around its eye?’

The man thought for a moment, holding the barrel firmly on its chocks. Then he shook his head. ‘No, I’ve seen a few like that in my time, swords and horses, but can’t recollect one lately. Best ask the lads in the stables - they see more of the guests and their beasts than I do.’

With that, Thomas had to be content. With a sigh, and resisting the urge to cross himself, he went to the door and stood on the threshold. It was pitch dark, and though there were no cathedral bells here to toll the hours, he guessed it must be a few hours before midnight. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could make out a flickering glow around the right-hand corner of the building, from a bundle of tarred rushes burning in a bracket in the stable-yard.

He decided to take the innkeeper’s advice and set off for the yard.

Other men would have been more wary of walking alone around highroad inns at night, but the years of sheltered life in a cathedral close had left Thomas oblivious of the risks. The moment he turned the corner, an arm came from nowhere to hook itself around his neck and simultaneously he suffered such a punch into the belly that most of the cider and his dinner shot from his mouth like an arrow from a bow.

Though dazed, shocked and terrified, he realised from the cursing that his stomach contents had scored a direct hit on one of his assailants, but any triumph was shortlived.

‘You dirty little bastard,’ snarled a voice in English, and retribution came swiftly by way of a punch in the face, which split Thomas’s lip and made his nose gush blood like the innkeeper’s spigot.

Disoriented, but aware that he was about to be killed, the little clerk would have slumped to the ground but for the arm that was still half throttling him. Then he felt another hand tearing away the scrip at his belt, which held several quills, a lucky stone and all his worldly wealth, which amounted to three whole pence and several clipped halves and quarters. The man tipped the contents of the scrip into his palm and squinted at it in the poor light of the flaming torch across the yard. He gave Thomas another buffet, this time across the side of the head.

‘Three bloody pence! Why d’you always pick paupers to rob, you great fool?’ he yelled at his accomplice.

Before the villain who held Thomas could reply, the situation suddenly and dramatically changed.

There was a roar from a different voice and through the haze of pain and fear, the clerk heard the metallic scrape of a sword being pulled from a scabbard and a vague flash as the blade shone in the dim light. Then there was a howl of pain from the robber with his purse, the arm around his neck was abruptly removed and Thomas slid to the ground.

‘Stand and fight, you scabs!’ came a harsh bellow from the wielder of the sword, but the footpads had vanished into the night.

As his sight and hearing slowly returned, Thomas was aware of a large shadow standing over him.

Another scrape told him that the sword had been slammed back into its sheath.

‘Bloodied one of the swine, at least. If he’d stayed, I’d have cut his head off!’ said the shadow, with some regret. He bent down and pulled Thomas none too gently to his feet. ‘Let’s have a look at you - nothing broken or missing by the looks of it. But we’ll get you into the better light inside. We could both do with a pot of something to drink.’

A quarter of an hour later, when the clerk’s teeth had stopped chattering with fright and he had swilled the blood and filth from his face, he sat at a rough table opposite his saviour, who was unconcernedly champing his way through a meal. He was a broad, muscular man of about thirty, tanned from the Levantine sun. A rim of brown beard surrounded his face, surmounted by a thick moustache like Gwyn’s. He wore a conical leather cap with earflaps and a thick leather cuirass, the outfit midway between ordinary clothing and armour. A huge broadsword clanked at his belt, as Well as a formidable dagger. On his feet, Thomas was intrigued to see, were a pair of patterned boots similar to those on the mysterious Widecombe corpse. As he watched the other man eat, he was puzzled by the nonchalant way in which he had dismissed the violent robbery.