Crowner’s Quest

Chapter Fifteen In which Crowner John uses an old glove

As he was too late to return to Exeter that night, John de Wolfe stayed again with his family at Stoke-in-Teignhead, but wisely returned straight to the city next morning with no diversion into Dawlish. He had a long discussion with his officer about his intentions as far as de Braose was concerned, as the plan might well endanger Gwyn’s future livelihood. However, the Cornishman, though doubtful whether the coroner’s proposition was possible, was happy to go along with it, if it was accepted by the other parties.

As soon as they arrived in Exeter, John lost no time in putting his plan into effect. They rode straight up to Rougemont and collected Thomas from the gatehouse, to act as witness and recorder. Mystified, the little ex-cleric hobbled after the other two, across the inner bailey down into the undercroft.

Gwyn roused the dozing Stigand from his pile of straw and prodded him across to open up the gaol gate. Inside the passage, which stank of damp, mould and human ordure, de Wolfe peered through the door grilles until he found Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford in adjacent cells. The blubbery gaoler, his face still mottled from the bruising he had suffered a few days before, went to unlock Jocelin’s door, but the coroner stopped him. ‘What I want to say can be done from here!’ he grated.

Peering through the bars, he saw the man sitting on the slate slab, hands on knees, staring towards the voices. He was filthy, and a reddish stubble grew on his cheeks inside his rim of beard. As soon as he saw the coroner, he leaped to the door and shook the bars, screaming abuse at him. From the next cell, Giles Fulford also began yelling at his master to know what was going on. Stigand battered with his cudgel on Fulford’s door for quiet, and gradually the pandemonium subsided. The coroner waited patiently until he could speak.

‘Jocelin de Braose, you will certainly be hanged if the due processes of law are applied to you. Your crimes are Pleas of the Crown and the usual course would be to present you before the King’s Justices when the next Eyre of Assize reaches the city. The sheriff wanted to try you in the County Court, as you so foully engineered for me – and that would mean a hanging within a week.’

Jocelin’s foul language had abated as he considered this menu of certain death. Then he said, ‘The sheriff! De Revelle wouldn’t let me be harmed. We have powerful protectors in the country.’

‘Not any longer, young man. The sheriff has seen the error of his ways and is now fully a king’s man. And your patrons in Berry Pomeroy and Totnes will be too anxious to save their own skins to concern themselves with you. They now have a rebellion that is as flat as a griddle cake on Shrove Tuesday.’

There was silence from inside the cell, but from next door Giles Fulford called out angrily, ‘I heard that, Jocelin! It’s a trick, don’t believe them.’

De Wolfe walked a few steps further up the passage and glowered through the next grille. Another grimy face beneath tousled fair hair glared out at him. ‘I should keep a still tongue in your head, Master Fulford,’ said the coroner evenly. ‘It was that same tongue that condemned your master, with a little lubrication from some cold water.’

‘It was a lie! You forced me under duress. None of it was true.’

‘Tell that to the hangman! Maybe he’ll believe you, for I won’t,’ snapped de Wolfe. He moved back to de Braose’s cell. ‘But there is a third way for you – for both of you.’

De Braose looked suspiciously at the coroner, his round face scowling. A prison louse was crawling down a hank of red hair hanging near his left ear but he ignored it, though his neck and hands were spotted with bug bites from the infested straw.

‘What new trick is this, Crowner? If we’re going to be hanged, then leave us in peace. Don’t come gloating and tormenting us.’

For reply, de Wolfe fished in the inner pocket of his riding cloak and pulled out a glove. It was an old one he had brought from home for the purpose. Reaching through the bars, he lightly smacked Jocelin’s face, dislodging the louse, then he dropped the old glove at his feet. ‘I challenge you, Jocelin de Braose, to trial by combat to the death. If you win, you and your squire may go free.’

The auburn-haired man stared at him through the square aperture. ‘They all said you were a madman and they were right! How, in the name of Mary Mother of God, can a crowner challenge a prisoner to trial by battle?’

Fulford yelled from next door to know what was going on, and de Braose answered, at the top of his voice, ‘This crazed man wants to fight me to the death!’

‘It’s better than hanging,’ shouted Fulford.

De Braose glared at the coroner and waved a hand dismissively, turning to go back to his stone slab. ‘Go away, leave us in peace.’

De Wolfe explained calmly, ‘I have just challenged you, not as crowner or even as a law officer of any kind. I did it in my role as champion for an aggrieved party who has laid an Appeal against you.’

De Braose came back to the door. ‘A champion! How in hell can you be a champion? For whom?’

‘A minor who, because of his tender age, can’t prosecute his Appeal in person. You must know as well as I that it’s normal practice for women, the infirm and those under age to appoint a champion.’

‘I know that, Crowner! But whom do you claim has made this ridiculous gesture?’

‘Robert Fitzhamon – for you foully murdered his father and he wants both justice and revenge.’

There was momentary silence. ‘I deny it, there’s no proof at all of that. My squire’s so-called confession was made under duress.’

‘Then you can prove that in combat. Fight me and win, and you demonstrate your innocence by my death – it’s a common procedure. Forget that I’m coroner, just think of me as an old Crusader, slow in the mind and weak in the sword-arm!’

Jocelin was thinking of the fight near Dunsford church a few days before and had no illusions about de Wolfe’s prowess with a broadsword.

‘I will allow you to use Fulford as your squire. My officer Gwyn of Polruan will be mine.’

‘Are you really serious about this, de Wolfe?’

‘You killed an inoffensive old priest after beating him up for the sake of treasure and then made a young lad fatherless to suit your scheming masters. I can’t fight them at the moment, so I’ll make do with you.’

De Braose was scornful. ‘You’d not catch me by surprise again as you did in Dunsford. I’d kill you, Crowner.’

De Wolfe was philosophical. ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Let’s see, shall we?’

‘How is this to be played, then? The challenged has the choice of weapons.’

‘Choose what you will – but lance and shield are usual. If we’re unhorsed, then let the sword decide it.’

‘That suits me, Crowner, if you let me use my own horse. I’ll kill you on the spot.’ He raised his voice. ‘D’you hear that, Giles? We’re going to be free, thanks to the crowner’s wish to commit suicide.’

The reply was an exultant stream of foul language, but held a note of sudden optimism, natural from a man whose only expectation five minutes before was of having his neck stretched on the communal gallows.

As they climbed the steps out of the undercroft, de Wolfe muttered to his two retainers, ‘Now to convince Richard de Revelle that it’s legal – not that he’s any expert on legality.’

Matilda was still holding out at her cousin’s house and de Wolfe made his usual pilgrimage to the Bush tavern that evening. The news of the trial by combat had not yet leaked out, though he knew that by tomorrow the whole of Exeter would be agog with the prospect of their coroner fighting a man accused of two murders.

Nesta was distraught at the thought of her lover putting his life in danger. ‘He’s so much younger than you, John! From what I saw of him in the Shire Hall, I’d not put him above twenty-five years.’

They sat as usual at his table by the side of the hearth. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. ‘Are you convinced that I’m senile and past it, my love?’

She looked up at him with her big hazel eyes, worry creasing her smooth face. ‘You could be killed, John. What would I do then?’

‘I could be killed every day of my life, Nesta. A fall from a horse, a sudden ambush by a dozen outlaws – even stabbed by a jealous husband!’

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Stop it, John! But be serious. Though you’ve been a fighting man for twenty years, this de Braose is young and fast. And what about Gwyn? He’s not so nimble as he was – and getting too fat.’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Gwyn’s not fighting Fulford. They are to be our squires, looking after the arrangements – and picking up the dead bodies.’

‘What happens to Fulford if de Braose is defeated?’

‘It means that they were guilty, so he’ll hang.’

Nesta sighed. These violent Norman traditions were so different from the Welsh laws, where restitution was the object, not revenge and death. ‘I won’t sleep until all this is over, John. When and where will it happen?’

‘Three days from now, at the tourney ground on Bull Mead. De Braose will be given a chance to ride his horse and get familiar with the lists on the day before. It wouldn’t be fair to take him stiff and cramped from a cell and put him straight on the back of his steed without some loosening up.’

Nesta shook her head wonderingly at the madness of men. ‘You look on this as some kind of game! I can’t understand you, playing with death as if it were some kind of entertainment.’

He looked grim. ‘We can’t take the chance of seeing these two go free again. I still can’t trust the sheriff – but apart from him, there are so many ways of evading justice, especially when months may go by until the king’s judges come.’

She brooded for a while, staring into the fire and imagining life without her man. ‘Did de Revelle agree to this?’

‘He’s in no position to deny it. He put up only a token opposition to my proposal.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He objected that for trial by battle there are supposed to be five summonses in the county court before combat can be accepted. That would take weeks, so I told him I was using my powers as a king’s coroner to abrogate this rule.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘No, not as far as I know! But no one here knows any different, without getting a ruling from the king’s judges – and that can’t happen in time. Anyway, the sheriff has no power to reject an Appeal – and I brought a letter written by Robert Fitzhamon’s priest confirming that the boy wishes to Appeal de Braose and appoint me as his champion due to his minority.’

The inn-keeper clung more tightly to his arm. ‘I fear for you, John, I really do! What about Bran? That great horse is getting old like you. Can he be relied upon?’

‘As long as he can still run in a straight line, that’s all I ask of him.’

With misgivings mounting with every passing moment, Nesta resigned herself to three days and nights of constant worry over this great beanpole of a man, with the black hair and dark jowls, whom she loved so much and was now afraid of losing because of some stupid masculine ritual.

John de Wolfe lost no sleep over the coming joust. Though he was optimistic about winning, he was not complacent about his survival, for the loser would die, that was for sure. He was fatalistic about his chances, as he had learned to be over a score of years when Irish, French, Moorish and even English adversaries had brought him near to death on many occasions.

He made sensible preparations for the event, but did not let them interfere with his daily duties. Indeed, a whole day was occupied with riding to Okehampton and back to inspect and hold an inquest on the body of the victim of a violent robbery on the highway. However, he made time to get to the livery stables to check Bran’s shoes and to purge him of worms with an extract of male fern. Gwyn sharpened all their weapons with a whetstone and checked over the chain-links on John’s hauberk. Then they went down to the tilting-ground at Magdalen Street to watch Jocelin de Braose and his squire practise. True to his word, the coroner had arranged with Ralph Morin to allow the two men several hours’ freedom, under guard, to practise at Bull Mead with their own horses, which had been stabled near the Saracen. He had even sent palatable food to the gaol, in place of the muck that Stigand provided, as he wanted no complaint that he had fought a malnourished, prison-sick opponent.

For an hour, Gwyn and he sat on the two ranks of benches that were fixtures on Bull Mead for the upper-class spectators on tournament days. They watched de Braose as he charged at the quintain, a post carrying a horizontal swivelling arm with a fixed shield hanging from one arm and a heavy bag of sand dangling from a rope on the other. The attacker would ride his horse at the device and strike the shield with his lance, dodging the violent swing of the bag, which could knock him off his horse if he was too slow.

Then Jocelin and Fulford made mock charges at each other down each side of the tilt, a long barrier of hurdles made of woven hazel-withies stretching across the field, the ground on each side beaten into bare earth by the pounding hoofs of the heavy destriers. At practice, they carried the usual flat-topped shields, but only leather armour as they were using long wooden poles with flat ends rather than real lances. After a dozen passes, the clash of pole on leather-covered wood led to two successful unhorsings, both by de Braose against his squire, who picked himself up bruised but unbroken.

A number of spectators watched, including Morin’s guards, some old men dreaming of battles gone by, a few women with urchins running around with toy swords, and several cripples and beggars with nothing better to do. They were silent most of the time, knowing that the two combatants were criminals who would be fighting for their lives in a day or two – though each time Fulford crashed from his mare, there was a low murmur of anticipation of a broken neck or back.

After the quintain and the tilting, the two men practised sword-play for half an hour, until the men-at-arms hustled them off the field and marched them back to Rougemont, past the drying racks for serge cloth that stood in almost every empty space around the city walls.

‘That de Braose is good with a lance. You’ll have to watch him,’ admitted Gwyn grudgingly, as they walked back to the South Gate. ‘And he’s got a powerful swing with a broadsword. I thought they might have tried to escape when they had horses under them.’

‘Ralph had that in mind – that’s why he had twenty soldiers there, half a dozen of them mounted. But they could hardly fight through them with only a long broom-handle for a lance and deliberately blunted swords.’

‘A pity they didn’t try, then maybe you wouldn’t have this risky business to contend with,’ grunted Gwyn, who was secretly worried about the coroner’s chances in the coming combat.

De Wolfe slapped his massive back cheerfully. ‘Come on, Gwyn! We’ve beaten much better men than these many a time in the past. I’m not ready to hang up my arms and sit by the fire yet.’

The day of the trial began wet with a fine drizzle, but by mid-morning it had stopped, though it was misty and miserable. ‘At least the ground will be soft, for those who fall from their mounts,’ said John. ‘Hitting frozen mud can kill you, without needing a lance in your guts.’

He and Gwyn were at the tourney ground in one of the arming chambers, a grand name for two rickety thatched sheds that were built at each end of the double tier of viewing benches. Thomas de Peyne was lurking nervously in the background, frequently making the sign of the Cross and saying prayers for the preservation of his master’s life – and for his soul, if he lost. Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford were under guard in the other shelter, going through the same routine as John and his officer. The constable of Rougemont had sent down a couple of soldiers with a handcart to carry the armour and weapons for the two combatants. De Wolfe, of course, was using his own, tried and tested in many a conflict, while de Braose had been loaned accoutrements from the castle armoury, his own being in Berry Pomeroy.

As Gwyn helped his master into his fighting kit, they could hear the increasing clamour of the crowd outside. Everyone in Exeter and some of the surrounding villages knew of the contest and as many who could get away from their labours were there. Some merchants and craftsmen had even given their workers a couple of hours’ freedom to come to the Magdalen Street arena.

‘Sounds as if half England has turned out to see you kill de Braose,’ observed the Cornishman, as he helped de Wolfe pull his gambeson over his head. This was a long quilted garment, padded with wool, to underly his chain-mail and buffer any impacts.

‘I don’t think they care who gets killed, as long as there’s plenty of blood for a spectacle,’ replied the coroner cynically.

Putting on the heavy hauberk was more difficult, but John’s was an older type with only three-quarter sleeves, making the hundreds of chain-links sewn to the canvas a little lighter than the full version, which had long arms ending in mailed gloves. Neither man mentioned the possibility of defeat, but they had been through this routine many times and each knew the other’s thoughts. De Wolfe wondered what would happen to Matilda if he was killed. He had not seen a sign of her since her outburst in the Shire Hall and then her pleading with him to save her brother’s life and reputation. Presumably, if he survived this, she would eventually return home. He wondered if she would come to see today’s battle – which, with increasing certainty, he had to admit might have been a foolish act of bravado.

‘We’re not wearing the full battledress, are we?’ asked Gwyn, looking at the metal leg greaves that Ralph Morin had included in his cartload of armour.

John shook his head. ‘This isn’t going to be a day-long conflict, Gwyn. A quarter-hour should be more than enough to see one of us vanquished, so I don’t think legs are going to be a target.’

‘That bloody Fulford used them as a target last time – but he hasn’t got a shovel today,’ grunted Gwyn, with an attempt at humour. He hung a sheet-iron oblong over the centre of de Wolfe’s chest on top of the chain-mail and tied the leather laces around his back to hold this heart protector in place. Then de Wolfe pulled on his coif, a thick woollen bonnet, and tied it under his chin, before donning his round helmet, which in recent years had replaced the conical one. It had a larger nasal projection than the earlier models and a chain-mail aventail was suspended from its edge. This hung down like a curtain all around the back and sides of his neck and covered his chin up to his lower lip.

‘What about this?’ asked the Cornishman, holding up a rather creased linen garment. It had once been white, but years of wear and exposure had given it a greyish-yellow tinge.

‘Yes, why not?’ said John. ‘If I’m to win or lose, they may as well see me in my father’s surcoat.’ He slipped it on over his head, and as it fell to cover him from shoulder to knee, a savage wolf’s head was displayed across his chest in black embroidery.

Gwyn stood back to examine his handiwork critically, walking around his master to make sure that all was perfect. Spurred leather boots over long stockings with cross-gartering completed the outfit, apart from thick gauntlets with metal plates sewn on to the backs of the hands and fingers. Satisfied, Gwyn hung a heavy leather baldric over the right shoulder, coming down diagonally to support the great sword hanging from a thick leather belt, which he buckled tightly over the wolfish surcoat. ‘You could shave with that edge now,’ commented Gwyn proudly, pointing at the sword, which had also belonged to John’s father, Simon de Wolfe.

‘What about the lance?’ growled the coroner, hefting the eight-foot shaft of seasoned ash. He looked carefully at the shielded hand-grip about a third of the way along and at the iron tip, which had a small crosspiece behind the spear-head, to prevent it going too deeply into the flesh of the target and becoming difficult to withdraw.

‘I’ve ground the point finely,’ said Gwyn. ‘You could impale a bluebottle on that.’

Everything seemed in order, and without any more delay, de Wolfe went out of the shed where Gabriel was standing anxiously by Bran, who was unconcernedly eating some crushed grain from a bucket. They were out of sight of the crowd, who stood in a double line well back from the tilt, which was about two hundred paces in length. The excited talk and shouts merged into one buzz of noise as de Wolfe was helped up into his stallion’s saddle, Gwyn giving him a foothold with two hands, against the extra weight of his hauberk. The destrier had no armour, apart from a token leather facepiece from his ears down to his muzzle, with some iron plates riveted to its front to protect his forehead. Gwyn handed up the lance and then the shield, made of toughened linden wood covered in a double layer of thick boiled leather, again crudely painted with a wolf’s head.

‘All set, Sir John?’ asked Gabriel anxiously, and when de Wolfe nodded, he vanished around the corner of the hut to the front of the bank of benches, placed opposite the half-way mark of the tilting fence. Here, on the second row of planks, were the upper-class spectators, with Richard de Revelle and Ralph Morin in the centre. The two Portreeves were there, Hugh de Relaga looking unhappy at the prospect of his friend and main business partner in jeopardy of his life. Surprisingly, as the Church officially frowned upon jousting and tournaments, several canons and lesser priests were perched on the benches, swathed in black cloaks over their vestments, trying to look inconspicuous. The Archdeacon and the Treasurer, as well as Jordan de Brent, were there. The rest of the benches were taken by various burgesses and guild-masters, and several women were present, looking forward with no apparent horror to seeing mortal wounds.

As de Wolfe walked his horse round the corner to the front of the benches, he scanned the occupants and his eyebrows went up momentarily when he saw Matilda there, sitting wooden-faced next to her brother. She was dressed in black, an unusual colour for her, and he wondered whether this was preparation for widowhood or for entry into a nunnery – or possibly both. Slowly she turned her head towards him and their eyes met. There was no expression in hers, but gradually she raised her hand to him in a salute, the significance of which eluded him – she might have been wishing him good luck or saying farewell.

At each end of the benches, beyond the two arming chambers, a double line of spectators reached in either direction to the ends of the central fence, and on the further side, a similar crowd was lined up, being importuned by hawkers, beggars and soothsayers, all taking the opportunity of a captive crowd to do business.

In the moment he had before the sheriff began the proceedings, de Wolfe’s eyes searched anxiously for Nesta, but he could not pick her out from all the other women in the crowd.

‘I make one last supplication to you,’ came Richard de Revelle’s voice, and de Wolfe jerked his eyes back to the sheriff. From the other end of the seating, Jocelin de Braose had approached the centre, dressed almost identically to himself and seated on a large black gelding, much younger than old Bran. He wore no surcoat over his chain-mail, but Morin had seen to it that the armour and weapons were identical, so that no allegation of favouritism could be made.

The sheriff was standing up to make his speech and John could see that, in spite of his recent humiliation, he was already regaining his old arrogance and conceit. He decided to cut him down to size at once, to emphasise, at least to de Revelle himself, where his limitations of power lay. ‘What supplication can there be, sheriff?’ he boomed. ‘This man has been Appealed for the murder of Robert Fitzhamon’s father, which is only one of his sins. Either you let this legitimate trial by combat go ahead – or he goes back to gaol to await the King’s Justices, who will surely send him to the gallows and commit his body to rot on the gibbet thereafter.’

De Braose looked sharply at John, then back to de Revelle. ‘Much as I revile de Wolfe, I agree with what he has said,’ he cried, in ringing tones. ‘There is no alternative. I have your word, Sheriff, that when I defeat him, I and my squire will go free. What more can a man ask, when he has been unjustly accused of a crime of which he is innocent?’

Richard threw up his hands in resignation. ‘So be it. You may continue this ill-advised course of action.’

Secretly, he was relieved that it had come to this, and he fervently hoped for victory for his brother-in-law, not from any tender feeling towards him but because he suspected he would get hell from Matilda for years if he allowed her husband to be killed – and also it would be useful to get rid of de Braose, who might be a danger to himself, knowing as much as he did of de Revelle’s involvement with the rebels. He spoke his last words with some relief. ‘This is not a tournament nor jousting for sport! This is trial by battle and you may fight as you please to the death.’

He sat down with a bump and Archdeacon John de Alencon could not resist rising to his feet to hold up a hand in solemn benediction and to murmur a prayer for righteousness to triumph – and for the repose of the soul of the defeated. Thomas, standing near the arming shed, was almost in tears as he jerkily crossed himself.

Ralph Morin, as the senior military man present, rose and pointed to de Braose. ‘You will go to the east end, your adversary to the west. When I drop this white kerchief, you may begin,’ he rumbled. ‘You may make as many passes as you wish. If you are unhorsed you may remount, if you can. Otherwise, there are no rules. You will fight, tooth and nail if needs be, until one of you is dead.’ He remained standing until the two horsemen had trotted off to opposite ends of the long wicker fence, their squires running behind them until they all turned to face each other.

The crowd fell silent. They were used to tournaments and jousting where, not infrequently, fatal injuries occurred, but trial by combat, where death was mandatory, was becoming uncommon. Certainly, the sight of their county coroner, a well-known and respected former Crusader, fighting an alleged murderer as champion for a thirteen-year-old boy, was unique, and the city held its breath while they waited for the Constable to make his signal. Even the clouds seemed to stand still while everyone watched for the cloth to drop.

There was a flutter of white and then a pounding of hoofs. The two horsemen hammered along opposite sides of the tilt, lowering their lances as they went. De Braose’s steed was faster than Bran and the point where they met was to the left of the viewing stand.

Both lances met the shields simultaneously with a tearing thwack, as the leather on both was gouged. De Braose attempted to lift his spear-tip at the last second to hit John in the face, but the coroner lifted his shield at an angle to protect his head and caused the lance to slide off sideways. His own caught de Braose’s shield squarely over his breast and the great weight of Bran, with the spear held vice-like in de Wolfe’s muscular arm, jerked the other man back, almost pushing him back over the raised cantle at the rear of the saddle. In a fraction of a second, they had thundered past each other and slowed down towards the further end of the tilt.

The crowd relaxed slightly, some yelling encouragement, others cat-calls, as the more knowledgeable of them knew it was a foul to aim for the face in a tournament – though, admittedly, this was a fight to the death with no holds barred.

As soon as de Wolfe got near the end of the barrier, he turned Bran in a wide circle to avoid losing speed and immediately galloped back down his side of the list. De Braose, who had slowed almost to a stop to turn his horse around, was at a standstill when he saw the coroner pounding down at him from the other end. Caught unawares, he lost a few seconds in cruelly spurring the gelding into action and was not up to speed when de Wolfe bore down on him, again well beyond the centre-line. John’s lance again caught him four-square on the shield and crushed it against his chest, knocking him clean off his horse into the mud. There was a great yell from the crowd and all those on the benches stood up to get a better view.

Bran’s great bulk hurtled on under its own momentum for twenty yards until de Wolfe could pull him round. By that time, de Braose had picked himself from the mire, miraculously without any apparent injury. His well-trained horse had stopped short and wheeled around to canter back to his fallen master. As the black gelding came up to him, Jocelin put a foot in the stirrup and scrambled back into the saddle – no mean feat considering the forty pounds of chain-mail on his back, which spoke well of his youthful fitness. There was a roar of congratulation from the crowd, who even-handedly applauded his remarkable recovery, just as earlier they had condemned his foul.

As he remounted, Giles Fulford had raced up the side of the tilt and handed up the fallen lance to his master’s right hand. De Wolfe was now alongside on the other side of the tilt. He made no move against de Braose while he was getting back into the saddle, but suddenly de Braose made a sudden jab with his lance across the hurdles, catching the coroner in the ribs. The attack was futile, as without the force of a galloping horse behind it, the spear was easily blocked by the chain-mail and caused nothing more than a bruise. The crowd booed and hissed at this unsporting violation, again ignoring the fact that anything was acceptable in this mortal combat.

The wolf-emblazoned fighter ignored the jab and cantered away down to his end of the field, again making a swift turn and accelerating back towards Jocelin de Braose. This time, the younger man had learned his lesson and imitated de Wolfe’s manoeuvre, so that they were both up to full speed when they met. Whereas de Braose had raised his lance to John’s face on the first encounter, this time he unexpectedly dropped it, and as he took the impact of the coroner’s weapon on his shield, he deliberately plunged his own spear deep into the neck of de Wolfe’s stallion.

With a dying scream as the iron tip tore into his spine, Bran’s front legs collapsed and he pitched his rider over his head. Landing with a crash, with his great horse almost on top of him, de Wolfe was not as lucky as de Braose had been a few moments earlier. He turned through half a circle in the air and landed with one leg under him. Almost as if everything was happening in slow motion, he heard the bones in his left shin snap as it took most of the impact. Though the fracture saved his head and chest, the pain was agonising for a moment, then faded. His overwhelming feeling was for his horse, his beloved Bran.

‘My horse! You bastard, de Braose, you swine!’ he heard himself rave at the sky above. The crowd seemed to agree with him, as there was a great tumult of abuse from all sides against this unscrupulous act. The fight to the death was between the men, not the horses, and the spectators screamed their hatred at de Braose. In their anger some tried to run across to the tilt, but Morin’s men-at-arms rushed along the line and forced them back.

The great stallion was kicking spasmodically in his death throes, eyes rolled up, showing only the whites, the legs thrashing as the lance still lay embedded in his spinal cord. De Wolfe realised suddenly that the death of his horse might be the prelude to his own demise for, seconds later, he saw de Braose scrambling over the hurdles, sword in hand. There were yells on every hand, mainly from the crowd but also from Gwyn and Giles Fulford, as they raced back from either end. De Wolfe tried to get up, but his leg collapsed under him, bent at an unnatural angle. He got as far as his knees and managed to draw his sword, but de Braose was already upon him.

‘Fight to the death, you said, Crowner!’ he exulted. ‘You’ve had your wish, but it’s you that’s going to do the dying!’

As de Wolfe crouched on his knees, ineffectually holding up his sword towards the redheaded attacker, he thought what an ignominious end he would have, after surviving all those years in so many conflicts. Then, in the split second before Jocelin lifted his weapon to strike, he was suddenly at peace, his only regret being that he would never again lie with Nesta or Hilda. With poor Bran gurgling and jerking alongside him, he prodded upwards feebly and deflected the first slash that de Braose made.

The sneer on the young man’s face was worse than the fear of impending death. ‘Still fighting, Coroner? Then try this one!’ He lifted his blade high above his head and stepped back to make a swing that could cut de Wolfe in half.

John closed his eyes automatically and felt a heavy thud against his arms. Puzzled, he could not understand how that could be his death agony and opened his eyes to find de Braose spitted on his sword, the blade passing up between his thighs, through the slit in his hauberk. The man had fallen forward, his face on John’s shoulder, blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils, his body twitching a little but with nothing like the convulsions that the huge stallion was making alongside them.

Bewildered, de Wolfe pushed at the body, causing ferocious pain in his leg, but he managed to roll de Braose off him on to the ground. John’s sword was still between his opponent’s legs, the pommel level with Jocelin’s knees. A foot of the blade had entered near his genitals, the point being somewhere up in his belly.

In de Wolfe’s muddled mind, all this seemed to have taken hours, yet it could have been only seconds. The next thing to confuse the shocked coroner was the sight of a manic fair-headed man vaulting over the barrier and coming straight at him with a dagger in his hand. With sudden apathy, John’s resignation to suffer a violent death returned and he sank back on to his haunches, the pain in his leg monopolising his senses.

But Giles Fulford never reached him. A hairy whirlwind erupted into the gap between the blond squire and the coroner, as Gwyn arrived from the further end of the tilt. Though Fulford struck out with his dagger, it sliced harmlessly across the Cornishman’s thick leather cuirass. He never had another chance to stab, as Gwyn’s bulk struck him with the force of a runaway horse. He was smashed to the ground with the coroner’s officer on his back and de Wolfe, still half stupefied by his fall and the events of the past half-minute, watched as Gwyn’s huge hands pulled back the blond head until there was sharp snap as the neck broke.

‘That’s what you did to Fitzhamon, you swine!’ he muttered, as he let the dead man’s head drop into the mud. By now there was pandemonium all around. Those on the south side had seen everything that had happened and were running across, swamping the few soldiers who tried to keep order. On the north side, the fence had obscured the last acts of the drama and all the spectators there were now lined along the tilt, peering over the hurdles at the mayhem on the ground. Gwyn ignored everyone, turned to de Wolfe and cradled him in his arms.

‘My leg’s gone, but otherwise I’m all in one piece,’ murmured the coroner, trying to ignore the pain in his calf.

Tenderly, Gwyn picked him up and sat him on the ground so that his legs were now straight out in front, which immediately relieved much of the pain. ‘You’re too heavy even for me to carry, Crowner,’ he said. ‘We’ll get Gabriel to fetch a cart to take you home.’

John looked around him at the two corpses and his dead horse, now lying pathetically still. He reached out and gently touched a hairy foot that lay alongside him. ‘What, in God’s name, happened after that bastard speared my poor Bran? He was just about to skewer me to the ground!’

Another voice came from the ring of people that had appeared around him. ‘It was your stallion that saved you, John,’ came Ralph Morin’s deep tones. ‘Just as that evil fellow was going to strike, the horse gave a last massive spasm with all his legs and kicked the bastard down on to your upraised sword.’

‘I feel sure that the Almighty had a hand in that,’ said John de Alencon, who knelt down solicitously to look at the fractured leg. ‘Who else would have ordered things so that a dying horse would avenge itself upon its killer?’

De Wolfe grunted, his normal frame of mind rapidly returning. ‘I think I was an old fool to so rashly put myself forward as a champion,’ he muttered ruefully. ‘Gwyn, if I ever think of such a thing again, be sure to tie me hand and foot, will you?’

As they waited for Gabriel to organise a cart to take him home, he became aware of a silent figure standing over him. It was Matilda, who in her black cloak and white cover-chief already looked like a nun. ‘Are you in pain, husband?’ she said shortly, her face still devoid of any recognisable emotion. He murmured some dismissive words and watched her uneasily. ‘I will come home and tend to your needs until that leg mends,’ she said grimly. ‘That girl Mary has no idea how to look after an invalid.’ Then she turned away and walked off towards the city gate with her brother, who was inwardly singing with delight at the way matters had turned out.

As the soldiers waved away the crowd, Gwyn and Thomas stayed close to the coroner. ‘If you’re stuck in bed for a month or so, I’ll bring you some decent ale from the Bush every day,’ promised Gwyn. Not to be outdone, his little clerk, who was nearly crying at the thought of how close his master had come to death, offered to give him reading and writing lessons to pass the time.

The handcart came with Gabriel and two men-at-arms to push it, and Gwyn and the sergeant gently lifted de Wolfe aboard, with a couple of gambesons under him for padding. From his elevated position, John could see Richard de Revelle and Matilda vanishing in the distance, and he wondered what married life now held in store for him.

‘I think you ought to look the other way as well!’ grunted Gwyn, pushing the cart round.

Coming from the other end of the field directly towards him were two women, walking hand in hand. One had rich auburn hair, the other was a pale honey-blonde.