A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The sheriff was being too optimistic when he expected Sir Nicholas de Arundell to arrive by noon. Though the messenger he sent at dawn to the manor near Totnes went as fast as his good rounsey could take him, de Arundell was not at home. He was out supervising his men assarting the edge of the woodlands, and it took an hour to find him and to persuade him to come to Exeter to resume his former duties as a coroner. His reluctance was all the more stubborn when he discovered that he was expected to hold an inquest on the wife of the existing coroner, a man for whom he had the greatest respect, as well as gratitude for past help. Being told that John de Wolfe was also the prime suspect was even worse, but eventually, when his literate steward read out the letter penned by Henry de Furnellis’s clerk, he felt obliged to comply with what was essentially the king’s command, conveyed through the sheriff.

By the time he reached Exeter, it was well past the middle of the afternoon. He met de Furnellis, and they went to the house in Martin’s Lane for his obligatory viewing of the scene and of Matilda’s body, a task for which he had the greatest distaste.

His examination was cursory, just a glance to identify the deceased and a quick confirmation of the bruises on her throat, which by now had become more prominent, as commonly happened after death.

‘What about the viewing by the jury?’ he wanted to know. ‘Surely we cannot make the poor lady suffer the indignity of being pushed up to the castle on a handcart!’

De Furnellis had already pondered on this, as Rougemont was the obvious place for the inquest. The Guildhall was the only other venue large enough, but he had no jurisdiction over the burgesses and portreeves, who jealously guarded their independence.

‘We must use Rougemont, and Matilda can be laid out decently there in the garrison chapel,’ announced Henry. ‘I’ll arrange for a closed wagon to take the body up there straight away.’

To allow time for this and to provide Nicholas de Arundell with some food and drink after his hard ride from Totnes, the sheriff took him to the New Inn in the High Street for the better part of an hour.

When they eventually reached the castle, a considerable crowd had gathered around the gatehouse and quite a number had already pushed their way inside. As an inquest was a public affair, they had every right to be there, but the sheriff drew the line at letting a mob into the hall. He had decided to use the inner ward and had soldiers bring out a chair for the coroner and some benches for the senior officials and clerks.

Gwyn and Thomas de Peyne had come up from the Bush with John de Wolfe, but due to the late arrival of de Arundell they had been cooling their heels in John’s chamber, high in the gatehouse. De Wolfe was in an icy mood, tense and internally seething with anger at the mischief that Richard de Revelle was causing — but he acknowledged the need for an inquest and a proper disposal of his wife’s body. The fact that she was irrevocably dead and gone had still not fully sunk into his mind, and he seemed to be gliding along on some superficial plane of consciousness. However, he was still able to worry about the condition of his brother and whether his family and Hilda had had the message explaining his absence.

When they went down to the inner ward for the impending inquest, Thomas flatly refused to act as clerk in a case where his master was being suggested as the culprit, but he hovered behind one of the sheriff’s clerks to make sure that he wrote down an accurate record.

As the main players assembled, Nicholas de Arundell hastened to de Wolfe’s side, where he stood brooding at the edge of the twenty people marshalled as a jury.

‘Sir John, this is a terrible tragedy,’ he said solicitously. ‘When you aided me in my predicament last year, not only you showed me kindness, but your wife was also very supportive to mine.’

Nicholas was a tall, fair man, an ex-Crusader like John, but some years younger. Now obviously embarrassed by the role he was being forced into playing, he tried to excuse himself to John, but de Wolfe set his mind at rest.

‘I know how difficult this must be for you, but there is no one else to turn to. You at least had a few months’ experience of a coroner’s duties, and I am sure you will act with honour and fairness.’

Reluctantly, the country knight moved to his place before the crowd, fervently wishing himself back at his manor and his agricultural pursuits. He sat in the only chair, which had been placed in the centre facing the jury, and on each side the benches were occupied by Ralph Morin, the castle constable, the two portreeves, Archdeacon John de Alençon and the sheriff himself. As Gwyn had also gruffly declared himself unavailable, his role as coroner’s officer was taken by Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle garrison, who called the inquest to order and declared it in session.

The crowd, which now numbered at least a hundred, fell silent. The whole assembly made a strange tableau in the inner ward, surrounded by high castellated walls of red sandstone, which gave Rougemont its name. Uneasily, Nicholas de Arundell got to his feet and began the preamble, confirming that they were there to enquire into the death of Lady Matilda de Wolfe. He was just starting to charge the jury with their duty to discover ‘where, when and by what means’ the lady came to her death, when there was a disturbance at the gatehouse end of the courtyard. A crowd of more timid onlookers was scattered as four horsemen clattered through the entrance arch, the leader shouting as he came.

‘Stop these proceedings!’ he yelled. ‘They are outwith the law!’

He reined in at the edge of the crowd and slid from his saddle, one of his companions doing the same. He stalked forward, pushing through the onlookers, and advanced to face the row of benches. The sheriff leaped to his feet, his old face red with anger.

‘De Revelle! What in Christ’s name do you think you’re doing? Get out of the way, blast you!’

Nicholas, who had been another adversary of Richard in the past, also advanced on him.

‘Have you not already caused enough trouble in this county?’ he demanded angrily. ‘What mischief have you dreamed up this time?’

De Revelle, his dandified clothes dusty from hard riding, stood his ground. ‘This so-called inquest is invalid! You are not a coroner, you cannot officiate here!’

‘He is here at my invitation and, indeed, my direction, as I am the king’s representative,’ yelled the sheriff.

‘He is no longer a coroner and does not now hold the king’s writ,’ retorted Richard. ‘Nor has his appointment been ratified by the county court, as is necessary.’

His voice had the smug satisfaction of one who knows he has the weight of the law behind his argument.

‘So what do you suggest we do?’ snapped de Furnellis angrily. ‘Just bury the poor lady without any enquiry?’

For answer, Richard stood aside and with a sweep of his hand indicated the man who had accompanied him. ‘This is a genuine coroner, Aubrey de Courtenay, appointed by the king and confirmed by a county court. He holds the jurisdiction of West Dorset and will officiate at this inquest!’

De Courtenay stepped forward and saluted the sheriff with a hand across his breast. He was a short, pigeon-chested man with a florid face and a big nose. Under his heavy riding cloak, a dull brown surcoat could be seen and on his head was a woollen cap with a large tassel hanging at one side.

‘Sir Richard has summoned me from my home at Lyme for this purpose. He is correct in saying that in these circumstances only another coroner can officiate.’

A few yards away, John de Wolfe viewed this interruption with consternation. It now came back to him that this de Courtenay was a distant relative of Richard’s wife Eleanor, who was connected to the powerful Courtenay family. The former sheriff had obviously seized the opportunity to obtain someone who might be persuaded to be partisan in this affair.

Henry de Furnellis began to argue with de Revelle and the new arrival, denying both the need and the legitimacy of changing coroners in midstream, but they would have none of it.

‘Everyone here is biased in favour of John de Wolfe,’ shouted Richard, sweeping an arm around to encompass the seated worthies. ‘If you insist on continuing with this farce, I will take this matter to the royal judges, the Justiciar and the king himself!’

Aubrey de Courtenay also weighed in with his own insistence on taking over the proceedings, on pain of bringing everyone before the king’s justices at the earliest opportunity. Their demands might have been rejected, but Nicholas de Arundell suddenly capitulated.

‘I cannot continue in these circumstances,’ he announced in a tone that allowed no argument. ‘It is quite true that I am no longer a coroner. Neither am I sufficiently versed in the law and the practice of that office to stand in the way of an accredited man.’ Suiting his words with his actions, he walked to the end of the line and stood alongside John de Wolfe, muttering his apologies to him.

Henry de Furnellis made one last stand against this conspiracy. ‘Why have you thought fit to interfere in this matter, de Revelle?’ he snapped. ‘What business is it of yours how justice is administered in this county? You took little interest in it during the short time you were sheriff — from which post we all know you were dismissed for malpractice!’

Richard’s skin was as thick as one of Hannibal’s elephants and he ignored the jibe. ‘Because it is my only sister who lies so brutally murdered!’ he retorted. ‘And I will not stand idly by while the killer is standing there, absolved by all of you, who are John de Wolfe’s friends!’

The sheriff still struggled manfully against the inevitable. ‘You have no right to prejudge the issue before a single word of testimony is heard!’ he shouted. ‘De Wolfe has every right to challenge you for defaming him!’

‘Then he may have to do it from inside a prison cell while he awaits the gallows!’ screeched Richard, by now so carried away that he was careless of what slander he uttered.

The stocky coroner from Dorset became impatient. ‘Am I or am I not going to hold this inquest?’ he asked plaintively. He stepped forward and sat himself in the chair that Nicholas had vacated so abruptly. ‘Let us hear what the jury has to say on the matter.’

Though juries in the countryside were supposed to be composed of all the adult men from the four nearest villages, this was often patently impossible, and in towns even less practicable, so anything from a dozen to a score were usually empanelled.

The idea was to include all those who might know something useful about the event, so in addition to being the jurymen who delivered a verdict, they were also the actual witnesses.

Somewhat to his surprise, John realised that he was also one of the jury, being the person who had first found the body.

The new coroner called for evidence of identity, but before John de Wolfe could step forward, Richard had virtually hopped in front of him.

‘She is my sister, Matilda, a lady of good Norman stock, in her forty-sixth year,’ he exclaimed.

By the time he had uttered the words, John had marched across from where he stood on the end of the line and pushed his brother-in-law out of the way with a thrust of his shoulder. There was a gasp from the crowd, as many half-expected him to strike de Revelle a hammer blow with his fist.

‘I am Sir John de Wolfe, and Matilda was my wife,’ he glowered. ‘A husband undoubtedly takes precedence over a mere relative when it comes to identification. Yes, she was of Norman blood, so there is no question of presenting Englishry.’

De Courtenay nodded his agreement. ‘Let the clerk so record that fact. I will leave the matter of a murdrum fine to the royal judges when the case is presented to them in due course.’

‘I am also the First Finder,’ continued de Wolfe. ‘I will give evidence as to the situation when I arrived at the scene.’

The locum coroner looked irritated at having his role being anticipated for him by one of the witnesses, but nodded for John to continue.

‘There is little to tell. I returned home some time in the evening, went into my hall and found my wife lying dead on the floor. She had bruises on her throat indicating that she had been throttled by some unknown assailant.’

‘So you no doubt raised the hue and cry?’ asked de Courtenay.

‘I had no opportunity. As I stood there, I heard the hall door opening and feared it was the killer returning. But it was just this man, my brother-in-law, arriving at a suspiciously opportune moment!’

He managed to inject a note of sheer contempt into his voice as he waved a hand dismissively at Richard, who was still standing nearby.

‘That is only half the truth!’ shrilled de Revelle. ‘I came to visit my sister and found this evil man standing over her, while she was still warm! He pulled a knife on me and made to attack me. I was afraid for my life!’

‘Attack you be damned!’ snarled John. ‘I wouldn’t need a knife for that! Just shouting “Boo!” at you would be sufficient, you craven coward!’

‘So you failed to raise the hue and cry?’ persisted de Courtenay.

‘This interfering rascal did it for me!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Before I could gather my wits, the house was swarming with people he had dragged in from all around — the stable-keeper, the physician, neighbours, God knows who!’

Laboriously, the new coroner called all those who had responded to Richard’s raising of the hue and cry. They all told much the same story, some embellished, but basically confirming that Matilda was dead on the floor, John de Wolfe was present and that there was a dagger dropped nearby.

The evidence of Clement of Salisbury amounted to considerably more in John’s disfavour. After repeating the bare facts of being called by de Revelle as part of the hue and cry, de Courtenay asked him if he knew of any reason why Matilda might have been the victim of such violence.

With a sorrowful expression, Clement admitted that he knew there was friction between John de Wolfe and his wife, for he had several times heard violent arguments going on in their hall. This aroused a murmur of interest among the crowd, and many heads turned to stare at John.

‘You actually heard such disputes?’ demanded de Courtenay. ‘How could that be?’

‘Their house stands immediately on to the lane, sir. The window shutters allow the sound of voices to escape.’ He looked crestfallen, but assumed an air of righteous honesty. ‘On one occasion my own wife was present with me and can confirm what I say.’

‘Perhaps we should hear from her later,’ said the acting coroner. ‘But for now, did you hear what was said?’

‘I cannot recall the words, but it was of an angry, threatening nature,’ replied Clement.

Richard de Revelle was moving restlessly from foot to foot, desperate to have his say, and now he saw his opportunity.

‘I can confirm what the good doctor has testified,’ he declared, moving to the centre, directly in front of de Courtenay. ‘I repeat what I said just now — I called to see my sister last evening and found him standing over the body. As I entered the hall, he turned upon me and drew a dagger!’

‘Did he attack you with it?’

‘He was very threatening, but I remonstrated with him and he threw it on the floor.’

‘You bloody liar, Richard!’ called de Wolfe from the side, but the coroner held up a restraining hand as de Revelle continued his tale.

‘As Clement of Salisbury has said, my brother-in-law has repeatedly threatened his wife and quite recently, in my presence, I heard him promise to kill her! I am sure that their servants will confirm this.’

This provoked a loud ripple of muttering across the audience, which was strengthened when Lucille, Mary and Cecilia were called to be questioned.

Cecilia did her best to be non-committal, but when directly asked by Aubrey de Courtenay if she backed up her husband’s allegation, she reluctantly agreed that on one occasion, when passing their next-door neighbour’s window, she had heard a noisy altercation between Sir John and his wife.

‘But I am sure it was no more than the frequent raising of voices that occurs between man and wife,’ she added, trying to mitigate the damage that was being caused.

Mary the cook-maid was similarly reticent and gave evidence so grudgingly that the coroner had to warn her that she might be in trouble if she told less than the truth. Under this duress, Mary was forced to admit that her master and mistress sometimes had differences of opinion that developed into raised voices, but that she never heard Sir John ever seriously threaten his wife. It was Lucille who did the most damage, in that her evidence related to the time of the killing.

Looking like a frightened rabbit, she stood frail and shivering before the crowd as she related her knowledge of the previous evening.

‘The mistress and I had come home from church and I was folding her outdoor clothing in the solar upstairs,’ she whispered with chattering teeth. When de Courtenay barked at her to speak up, she almost fainted from fright but managed to get out the rest of her story.

‘The mistress was in the hall, taking some wine and cold meats that Mary had left for her, as the cook had gone to visit her cousin. Between the solar and the hall is a small window-slit, high up on the wall. I could hear voices and soon one was raised in anger, but I often heard them arguing or in violent contention, so I took little notice.’

‘Could you hear what was being said?’ demanded the coroner.

Lucille shook her head. ‘No, sire, I was busy packing garments into a chest at the other end of the solar. It was just a distant noise of voices.’

‘Did you recognise who was speaking, then?’ asked de Courtenay irritably.

Lucille managed to shrug her drooping shoulders. ‘I thought it was the master, as they often shouted at one another. Who else would it be, in the hall alone at night with Lady Matilda?’

This time a buzz of excitement gripped the audience, and men and women were turning to stare openly at John de Wolfe. For his part, John listened to the litany of accusers with a sinking heart. Unless he was careful — or fortunate — he was going to be condemned by default of any contrary evidence on his behalf.

‘You wish to deny anything that we have heard, Sir John?’ demanded de Courtenay, in a tone that suggested that he was not really concerned with any disclaimers but was required to go through the tiresome motions.

De Wolfe strode to the front again, flinging his black cloak over one shoulder in a dramatic gesture.

‘Deny? Of course I deny!’ he roared. ‘I have heard some travesties of the truth in my time as coroner, but never such a concoction of nonsense as this!’

‘You are saying that you never had violent disagreements with your wife, the latest last night, as heard by her handmaiden?’ asked de Courtenay in a tone that conveyed his incredulity.

‘That was not me who the stupid girl heard!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘She may well have heard voices through that slit, but they certainly did not include mine. My wife was dead when I arrived.’

‘She said she heard you!’ brayed de Revelle, breaking in from a few feet away.

‘She did not say that! She assumed it was me, because she expected any voice at that time and place to have been mine.’

Aubrey de Courtenay returned to chip away at John’s denials. ‘But your neighbour — and his wife — say they have heard you shouting at your wife in anger, as did your own cook-maid. And Sir Richard here claims you threatened to kill your wife in his presence. Do you say that they are all liars?’

De Wolfe fumed in impotence at being unable to forcefully deny what had been said.

‘They were idle words, uttered in temper, without true meaning! Every husband and wife falls out with each other from time to time; it would be unnatural to do otherwise!’

‘So you admit to often having angry scenes with your wife?’

‘They were not often, as you imply. I will admit that she was a difficult woman and our views on many things were sometimes at variance.’

‘Like your frequent infidelities that drove my poor sister twice into a convent,’ cried Richard.

John rounded angrily on his brother-in-law. ‘If you wish to trade personal insults and evidence of infidelity, I can supply details of seeing you with whores in the sheriff’s chamber — and recall that I once rescued you from a burning brothel!’

Aubrey de Courtenay held up his hands to restrain the two men from coming to blows, and Sergeant Gabriel moved nearer, motioning two of his men-at-arms to close in.

‘Enough of this! It is unseemly to rake up past happenings, except where they are relevant to this inquest,’ exclaimed the Dorset coroner, getting up from his chair and wrapping his dusty cloak around him. ‘It is an appropriate point for us to view the deceased, as the law directs. Both myself and the jury will satisfy ourselves that the cadaver is indeed that of Matilda de Wolfe and that she has injuries upon her consistent with the facts that have been heard.’

He led a procession of the score of jurors across the inner bailey towards the tiny church of St Mary, which stood to the left of the gatehouse. It was little more than a stone box with a small bell-arch at one end of the roof and a simple porch on one of the side walls. Gabriel’s soldiers kept back the rest of the onlookers, but the front row followed the jury, including the sheriff, constable, archdeacon and portreeves. As the acting coroner neared the chapel door, the portly monk Brother Rufus hurried ahead of him to open it, as he was the garrison chaplain and incumbent of St Mary’s.

They all filed in, half-filling the small nave, which was separated from the tiny chancel by only a step up from the earthen floor. In front of the linen-covered table that served as the altar, a bier on four stout legs bore a shape shrouded in a crimson velvet cloth.

Sergeant Gabriel, who was carrying out all the duties that Gwyn normally performed, stepped behind it and folded down the red drape to expose Matilda’s head and neck. The jury solemnly shuffled past, peering at her face, which seemed to repose quite peacefully in death. They gaped at the six blue-black bruises, each half the size of a penny, that lay on the upper part of her throat and under her jawline — and at some crescentic marks alongside them.

‘See the evidence of a strong hand, from a powerful man!’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly. ‘And the scratches nearby, from my poor sister desperately trying to prise her husband’s murderous fingers away!’

Aubrey de Courtenay made no effort to silence the prejudicial ranting, but the sheriff turned on de Revelle.

‘Keep your slanderous remarks to yourself, blast you!’ he hissed. ‘If this were not a church, I would fell you to the ground!’

John de Wolfe stared woodenly at his wife’s face, not approaching closely, as he wanted to say his farewells in private, not with half the town gawping at him. As he stood rigidly at the end of the row, Brother Rufus came up to him and laid a comforting arm about his shoulders and murmured something into his ear. John thought for a moment, then nodded at the burly monk, as Aubrey began leading the way towards the door. The jurors filed out into the pale wintry sunshine, and the more elite audience followed them until only Rufus, de Courtenay and John were left.

Aubrey pointed to the door. ‘It is time to ask for the jury’s verdict, de Wolfe. Go back to your place, please.’

There was a pause, then John shook his head. ‘I’m not going!’ he said.

Aubrey scowled. ‘What d’you mean, you’re not going?’

Calmly, de Wolfe took a step backward into the empty nave. ‘This is a church, a consecrated place. So I claim sanctuary for forty days, as ordained by the state and the Church!’