Crowner’s Quest

Chapter Twelve In which Crowner John goes to the County Court

The intermittent rain had turned to sleet as the wind went round to the east, but the cold and wet did not dissuade scores of people crowding into the Shire Hall before the tenth hour that morning. The large bare room, with its muddy floor, was crammed with spectators and many more pushed and shoved at the archway that was the only entrance. The low platform at one end was the only free space, with its couple of chairs, some benches and stools for the officials.

As the distant cathedral bell marked the hour, two small processions met outside the keep and merged to march the few yards to the courtroom. One came up from the undercroft, with Sergeant Gabriel leading John de Wolfe, followed by two men-at-arms. It tagged behind the other coming down the steps from the keep. Constable Ralph Morin walked before Richard de Revelle, then came Precentor Thomas de Boterellis and the two Portreeves, Henry Rifford – whose daughter had been raped a month ago – and Hugh de Relaga. At the end walked Matilda and Lucille, both heavily cloaked against the bitter weather.

Gabriel’s battleworn face was grim as he escorted a respected friend to what might be a fatal verdict. Though of a much lower station in life, he had been a soldier like de Wolfe, and had shared common experiences both in the Holy Land and nearer home. The old warrior did not believe that Sir John was guilty of anything and strongly suspected some plot of the sheriff, whom he detested. Thankfully, he had not been ordered to shackle the coroner to take him to the Shire Hall, as was the usual practice. He would have refused, even if it meant the most drastic punishment.

As it happened, Ralph Morin had bluntly told the sheriff beforehand that he was not prepared to put de Wolfe in chains and, with his weakening resolve about the whole conspiracy, de Revelle had not pressed the point.

When the procession reached the wide arch of the hall, the chatter of the crowd ceased and a path opened up as the onlookers drew back. The silence was unnatural, as prisoners were usually subjected to jeers and cat-calls, even missiles, and the respectful hush was far more impressive than cheers or shouts of encouragement. As the escort walked into the hall, a few hands went tentatively out from the throng to touch de Wolfe gently as he passed.

Pale-faced, the sheriff led the way on to the dais and stood in the centre, while other dignitaries, clerks and men-at-arms ranged themselves on either side. There was a moment’s confusion as de Revelle invited his sister to the platform, but she shook her head angrily and went to stand with her maid in the front row of the crowd, behind her husband, who was led by Gabriel and another soldier to a point directly below the sheriff.

The crowd packed in even tighter, those around the doorway shoving to get out of the icy rain and to be within earshot. John stood outwardly calm, his black hair dishevelled and bits of straw sticking to his crumpled grey over-tunic, as those on the platform shuffled and muttered among themselves, the two clerks to the court waving parchments at each other. Ralph Morin stood behind the sheriff, a head taller and with a face like thunder. On the opposite side of the hall to the door, Jocelin de Braose, Giles Fulford, Rosamunde of Rye and a furtive man, who was presumably the apothecary, stood uneasily within a ring of Morin’s soldiers, as if they were to be protected against the wrath of the crowd. Not far away, standing with Thomas de Peyne, Edwin and one of the maids from the inn, was Nesta, her face drawn and tearful.

After a few moments, the sheriff sat down on his central chair while the Portreeves and the Precentor subsided on to benches on each side. Then a thin figure in a flowing black robe pushed his way through the crowd at the door. The Archdeacon stepped up, uninvited, to the dais and sat down alongside Hugh de Relaga, his expression suggesting that he would tolerate no challenge to his right to be present.

Richard de Revelle raised a hand to his chief clerk to begin the proceedings. The sheriff was dressed more soberly than usual, as if he wanted to avoid drawing any more attention to himself than necessary. He looked very ill-at-ease and he studiously avoided eye-contact with his sister or her husband as they stood below him. The clerk cleared his throat and held up a parchment roll to read the indictment.

‘Whereas this woman, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, commonly known as Rosamunde of Rye, currently domiciled in the city of Exeter in the county of Devon, has brought her Appeal in the proper form to the Sheriff Court of the said County of Devon. The said Rosamunde alleges that she is aggrieved by the felony of ravishment, committed against the common law by one John de Wolfe, knight of the said county, within his dwelling in Martin’s Lane on the third day of January in the Year of our Lord eleven ninety-five. And that the said Rosamunde prays and appeals for justice for the said hurt against John de Wolfe, in the due manner prescribed by law.’

He stood back and rolled up his document, looking across at the sheriff for the next stage of the proceedings. With increasing reluctance, now that the awful consequences of his ambition were almost upon him, de Revelle rose to his feet and was about to open his mouth, when a familiar deep voice boomed from below him.

‘Before we even start this nonsensical charade, let it be known that these proceedings are invalid and above the law! The alleged crime of rape is now one against the King’s peace and is a Plea of the Crown, to be tried by the King’s Justices. All that could be done here is to record the so-called evidence and present it to them at the next visit of the Eyre of Assize.’ Having delivered his first broadside, de Wolfe fell silent but continued to scourge those on the platform with his deep-set eyes.

The two clerks clucked and shrugged, and looked again at the sheriff for enlightenment. He grasped at this legislative conundrum as a temporary diversion from the looming responsibility of condemning his sister’s husband to the gallows. He hauled himself to his feet to speak. ‘This court still has jurisdiction! Though there is now an alternative through the royal courts, this woman has chosen the ancient and traditional path of Appeal and she has every right to pursue it. Continue with the trial, clerk!’ He sat down again heavily, with his hand nervously plucking at his beard.

No one asked the prisoner whether he pleaded guilty or not and the clerk motioned for the soldiers to bring over the Appealer and the main witnesses, who stood in a line alongside de Wolfe, but with a man-at-arms between them and him in case a free fight developed.

The older clerk, a grey-headed man with a large red nose studded with old abscess scars, took up another parchment. ‘Do you, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, bring your Appeal against this prisoner?’

The woman threw back her hood so that her eye, now blacker than ever, was clearly visible. ‘I do, sir! He ill used me by both assault and ravishment.’ Her voice was strong and bold, but instantly it was matched by another, harsh and just as loud.

‘You lying whore! Repeat that with your hand on the Scriptures and earn everlasting damnation!’

It was no priest speaking but Matilda de Wolfe. There was a buzz of consternation in the hall and the sheriff blanched even further. How could he accuse his own sister of contempt of court or have her ejected? His mouth opened and closed, but as she said no more he decided to ignore the interruption and carry on.

The witnesses were called one by one and lied solemnly and persuasively, apart from the leech, who was a bag of nerves. Neither de Wolfe nor his wife made any disturbance as the fabricated story unfolded. Rosamunde claimed that the previous evening, she had been going about her lawful occasions in the city, returning from devotions in the cathedral to the high street. If necessary, she declared, she could even call a priest as witness to prove that she had been kneeling at the altar of St Edmund at about the ninth hour. In the cathedral Close, she had heard footsteps behind her and, when passing through the narrow Martin’s Lane, a man called out to her. Knowing him for Sir John de Wolfe, the county coroner, she had no apprehension, even when he urgently asked her to step into his house nearby, on a matter of great importance to do with her friend, Giles Fulford. Worried and unsuspecting, she did so and as soon as they were inside, he fell upon her, kissing and groping at her bodice. She resisted fiercely and tried to scream, but he struck her in the face several times and forced her to the floor, tearing her upper clothing and scratching her neck.

Rosamunde sobbed dramatically before the court as she went on to describe how he had abused her bosom and then lifted her kirtle to ravish her forcibly against her will. She had kept up her screaming as best she could and was saved from further rapine and possibly death by her friends hearing her cries for help and bursting into the house.

Then Giles Fulford, who described himself as Rosamunde’s ‘protector’, and his master Jocelin de Braose, gave a melodramatic account of how they had arranged to meet the woman at the corner of High Street and Martin’s Lane, but she had failed to appear at the appointed hour marked by the bells. Then they heard violent screams from a nearby dwelling and entered to find de Wolfe in the act of ravishing the girl. Finally, the weedy, shifty-eyed apothecary falteringly described how the other witnesses had brought Rosamunde to his apothecary’s shop in Curre Street[3] for her bruises and scratches to be bathed and anointed. He catalogued these and said also that, as they demanded, he examined her nether regions and confirmed rough usage and bleeding. He even produced a crumpled piece of cloth with small bloodstains, which he said he had used to clean her thighs, as the law on rape required physical evidence of venereal injury. There was a murmuring in the Shire Hall when the evidence was finished, some impressed with this lucid tale of lust, the majority regarding it as a transparent fabrication.

The sheriff, who had been chewing the inside of his lip to shreds during this recital, dared to drop his eyes to meet the brooding gaze of John de Wolfe. ‘You have the right of reply to this charge,’ he croaked.

The coroner drew a deep breath, ready to blast his brother-in-law from the platform with an overwhelming denunciation of his witnesses and his loyalty. Even though it might not be believed at first, it would sow the seeds of doubt about the sheriff’s integrity and help to delay matters until Gwyn could mobilise support for the Lionheart from the county. He refused even to countenance the possibility of being summarily convicted and hanged. But he was about to receive one of the greatest surprises of his life, as the nervous de Revelle repeated his question. ‘What do you say to this serious charge?’

‘He need say nothing – I will say it for him!’ The grating voice of Matilda rose high-pitched above the murmuring as she thrust aside a man-at-arms with her burly shoulder and, dragging Lucille behind her, stood alongside her husband. ‘This harlot and these so-called witnesses are audacious liars and must be punished for flagrant perjury!’

Richard de Revelle felt as if an iron band was squeezing his head. What was he going to say to his own sister, who only yesterday had left her husband because of his adultery and was now trying to excuse his rapine?

He struggled to get his mouth working. ‘I realise that it is only natural that a faithful wife should attempt to–’

‘Shut up, brother, or you will hear more than you desire! I say now that this is a foul conspiracy and that all these people are lying. There never was any ravishment of this strumpet. She insinuated herself into our house by deception while her accomplices lurked outside to bear false witness.’

There was a general clamour in the court, which the castle constable quelled by the powerful use of his lungs, aided by some of his men who laid about them with staves. When relative quiet had been restored, a furious Jocelin de Braose shouted at the bench, ‘She should be thrown outside! What value is the braying of a wife about her husband’s innocence? What does she know about it? She was not there.’

Matilda de Wolfe turned majestically upon the angry speaker, her square face jutting like the prow of a ship. ‘Indeed I was there, you evil man! You chose the wrong night to perform your tricks – and the wrong house. Had you but known it, there is a window-slit high up on the wall between hall and solar. And I was in that solar and heard all that passed – and saw much of it, too.’

A buzz of consternation rippled through the crowded hall.

‘The woman insinuated herself into my house on some pretext about this de Braose swine assaulting her,’ continued Matilda, in a voice like a rusty nail being drawn across slate. ‘She wanted my husband to obtain justice for her, and began to show him her fabricated injuries. He was too gullible to see what she was about until it was too late. The harlot pulled down her clothing, which she had already torn, and fell to the floor shouting, ‘Rape!’ Her accomplices must have been waiting at the door for her signal, as they entered within the space of a few heartbeats!’

Again a wave of gasps and murmuring passed across the hall like a squall at sea, but soon subsided so that they could hear the next act in this drama.

De Braose was sneeringly dismissive. ‘A likely tale! The desperate gamble of a woman who tries to save her husband from a hanging. Why do you waste our time listening to this, Sheriff?’

That was too much even for de Revelle, though he was a creature of those who employed de Braose. ‘Be silent, sir! That is my sister of whom you speak in such a rude manner! Though I agree that the testimony of a wife in these circumstances, though laudable, cannot be accepted without good proof.’

‘I will give you proof, brother Sheriff,’ snapped Matilda, with quivering passion. ‘First, let the Archdeacon or Precentor, as senior men of God here, make me and these villains all swear an oath on the Testament that what we say is true. It may well be that hell-fire holds no terrors for them, unredeemable sinners as they are – but have you ever known me break a vow to Christ?’

There were more mutterings and contemptuous noises from Fulford and his master, but Matilda had more up her wide sleeve. ‘Take also the testimony of my handmaiden Lucille. She was at my side in the solar and can vouch for every word I say. And, lastly, I challenge you to test me by seeking my description of the clothing these three wore last night – none of which they now display.’ She glared up at her brother triumphantly. ‘Neither my maid nor I have ever seen these scum before – nor have we seen them since last night. Yet if you seize the clothing they wore then – especially the green silk that that harlot was wearing – you will find that it tallies in every particular with a description I can now give, for Lucille and I anticipated that we would not be believed.’

There was turmoil both along the front of the court and on the platform, where everyone seemed to want to shout at everyone else. From the body of the hall, there were yells of ‘Let him free!’, ‘Lock the bastards up!’ and ‘Adjourn, adjourn!’

The soldiers struggled to prevent Jocelin and Rosamunde from bearing down on Matilda and her maid, a scuffle that John de Wolfe tried to enter, but Gabriel and his men managed to keep everyone apart.

The sheriff was left on the edge of the dais, helpless until order was restored, again mainly through the bull-like bellowing of Ralph Morin and the efforts of his men. The Archdeacon and both Portreeves came to speak in de Revelle’s ear and even the constable came across to whisper vehemently at him. Uncertainly, the sheriff shook his head, but Matilda, who had been watching him intently, stepped close to the edge of the platform and spoke up to him in a low voice that could be heard only by those very near them.

‘I can speak of other matters I heard from the solar window, brother, some concerning you and your recent activities. Do you want to hear those in public? For though yesterday you told me matters about my husband that made me hate him, my respect for you has now also turned to contempt.’

At those words, Richard felt as if a pitcher of icy water had been thrown over him. He knew suddenly that he was beaten, and what mattered now was how much he could salvage from the wreck, such as his own career and possibly his neck. The instinct for survival was strong in de Revelle and he threw up his hands and shouted for order, supported again by Morin and others.

‘In view of the controversy that appears to surround this evidence, I have no choice but to adjourn the court.’ He looked down at the accusers. ‘In fact, I strongly recommend to the Appealer and her witnesses to reconsider their plea, which seems to have substantial evidence to the contrary.’ He hesitated, but a glare from Ralph Morin convinced him that he had no alternative. ‘Similarly, the accused is released, though of course the Appeal might be revived in the future.’ At that, there were a few sardonic laughs from the hall, but the sheriff, now desperate to cut short any chance of open exposure of his part in the plot, plunged on, ‘The court will disperse and all parties may take their ease.’

He turned to leave the dais, but de Wolfe’s voice rang out like the crack of a whip ‘No, Sheriff, that’s not good enough!’

Everyone froze and watched, with bated breath, as the two main actors confronted each other again.

‘These two men cannot be allowed to walk free once again. They are accused of the murder of Canon Robert de Hane, of the murder of Sir William Fitzhamon – and the attempted theft of treasure belonging to the King. All these are Pleas of the Crown, and I demand that they be committed to prison to await the King’s Justices.’ He paused and looked to his left, pointing at the accusers. ‘I care nothing for the whore and the leech, they are of no importance, but those two men must be brought to justice!’

De Revelle hesitated again, for he was supposed to be part of this conspiracy, set up by Bernard Cheever. Now he was being asked to arrest his co-conspirators, but a few seconds’ quick thinking told him that they would be better off incarcerated in Stigand’s cells, than allowed to ride off to tell Pomeroy and Cheever of his own duplicity. As he hesitated, Ralph Morin bent near him and snarled in his ear, ‘I’ll not let those men out of the city, say what you will, Sheriff!’

With mutiny threatening on all sides, de Revelle nodded.

There was an immediate struggle in front of the platform, as a delighted Sergeant Gabriel waved his guards on to de Braose and Fulford and submerged them in a welter of arms and legs, from which they emerged bruised and pinioned.

‘Get them out of here!’ screamed the sheriff, terrified of what they might shout about him, now that he had abandoned their cause.

As the guards bundled them out into the inner ward, de Revelle hurried from the platform and vanished, leaving John de Wolfe at the centre of a milling crowd pressing in to congratulate him and to assure him that they never believed the foul slander – though some of the same folk would have happily turned up to watch him dangle from the scaffold if matters had turned out differently.

As soon as he could escape their attentions, he looked for the remarkable Matilda, to thank her for her intervention and to take her home to Martin’s Lane. But she had vanished as rapidly as her brother, along with Lucille, without saying a word to him.

As the crowd jostled their way out of the hall, he saw Thomas and the trio from the Bush hanging back and hurried over to them. Although Nesta was always diplomatic enough not to flaunt their affair away from the tavern, she clutched his hand and, with tears in her eyes, told him of the waking nightmare she had suffered since the news broke at dawn.

‘I’ll come down later and tell you all about it,’ he promised. ‘Now I must find Matilda – I suppose she’s gone home.’

Nesta shook her head at him. ‘I doubt it, John. It’s not as simple as that.’

She was right. When de Wolfe got back to Martin’s Lane, Mary, who almost alone in the city had known nothing about the drama, told him that there had been no sign of the mistress. Mystified, he wondered whether to go back up to Rougemont to see if she was still with her brother, when John de Alencon and Hugh de Relaga tapped at the door and came in. They discussed the fiasco in the Shire Hall, then settled to work out the significance and what should be done next.

‘You wife certainly turned the tables, John. Whatever the present problems are between you, she proved that the marriage bond is unbreakable,’ said the priest, with a touching faith in the sanctity of an institution that he could never experience.

De Wolfe had a niggling feeling that this explanation was too simple, but let it pass. ‘At least we have the killers of your canon in custody again, though whether the sheriff will do anything about them remains to be seen.’

The Archdeacon had been near de Revelle when his sister had warned him. ‘I think our sheriff is having second thoughts about his attachment to this nascent rebellion. He was always a survivor and I suspect he’s searching for some way to escape his affiliation to Pomeroy and his crew.’

Hugh de Relaga, resplendent as always in a red tunic with a mustard-coloured cape and puffed cap to match, had a shrewd mind, which he turned now to the problem. ‘We may be able to use that to our advantage,’ he offered. ‘It depends on how much you want to see your brother-in-law hanged, John.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked the coroner suspiciously.

‘If de Revelle is keen to save his skin and perhaps even his post as sheriff, he may be willing to co-operate in bringing about the downfall of the traitors in our county. There’s nothing we can do further afield, but surely we can spoke the wheel of Pomeroy and de Nonant.’

De Wolfe saw the way his mind was working. ‘Yes, we should have Ferrars, de Courcy and perhaps Ralegh here today or tomorrow, if Gwyn has done his job. They can muster a large number of men between them – and the rebels have now lost their mercenary leader, this bloody man de Braose.’

De Alencon, a man of peace, looked puzzled. ‘How can the sheriff play a part in this?’

The deceptively amiable de Relaga, though a successful merchant, had always longed to be a man of war and now aired his martial yearnings. ‘If he wants to grovel for a pardon, then he might be used to lure Pomeroy and de Nonant away from their strongholds where they might be seized. We don’t need more castle sieges, like Tickhill and Nottingham last year.’

De Wolfe was dubious and resentful about this proposal. ‘Wait! Why should the swine get away with it? He’s a traitor, he’s been a traitor before and he’s not to be trusted.’

‘He’s your wife’s brother, John,’ said the ever-forgiving Archdeacon.

‘To hell with that! He was all for hanging me an hour ago, now you suggest that I hand him the olive branch.’

‘Turning the other cheek, John,’ de Alencon reminded him mildly.

‘What about the Bishop, Archdeacon?’ asked Hugh. ‘There’s more than a rumour that he has sympathy for Mortaigne.’

‘Like Richard de Revelle, he wants to be with the winners, not the losers. So far, I suspect he’s only put his toe in the water. If he finds it too hot, he’ll back away. But there are more fervent supporters in the cathedral precinct. One was in the Shire Hall today, one who has aspirations to be a bishop himself if Prince John succeeds.’

They all knew he referred to the Precentor but, at the moment, that seemed a low priority.

As they left to go, John promised they would meet again when Lord Ferrars and the others arrived. Then he climbed up to the solar and found it empty of all Matilda’s possessions, clothes, embroidery and crucifix. Baffled, he walked to the slit in the partition wall and found that, by looking down and across, he could just see part of the area where Rosamunde had performed her act the previous night. Mary was clearing ashes from the hearth and he could easily hear her singing softly to herself and talking to Brutus, so Matilda’s claims about eavesdropping were quite feasible.

Feeling filthy from his night in gaol, he broke his twice-weekly rule by going to the backyard and washing in a bucket of lukewarm water, using soap made from goat’s tallow and beech ash to remove the grime, and to have an extra shave with his specially honed knife. Mary found him clean clothes and dropped his prison garb into a cauldron of boiling water to kill the lice and fleas. Then the faithful girl set out some food for him, leaving him feeling clean and well fed, but very uneasy about many things, especially the whereabouts and mood of his wife.

He had the rather mortifying feeling that the spirited defence she had put up for him stemmed from some other cause rather than love of her husband.