The Sanctuary Seeker

Chapter Six In which Crowner John meets a mason

The crowd, their passions satisfied, drifted raggedly back to the town gates, the pedlars still trying to sell and the children still darting about in play.

The coroner strode out more robustly, overtaking the straggling throng on the muddy roadway, his small clerk almost running to keep up with him. Once in the town, they climbed the slope of South Gate Street and turned right into Bear Lane, which led towards the cathedral precinct. This part of Exeter was an island of episcopal independence, outside the jurisdiction of the sheriff and portreeves. A narrow entrance – one of six around the precinct – was known as Beargate and carried a door of blackened oak, studded with crude bolt-heads and iron bands. During daylight it lay open and led into the territory of Henry Marshall, Bishop of Exeter, whose diocese stretched from the edge of Somerset to the tip of Cornwall.

Beyond Beargate, there was a stifling clutter of buildings on twisting lanes. Here lived those of the twenty-four canons who were resident in Exeter, the other ranks of the cathedral hierarchy and the servants, families and hangers-on who made up the considerable population of the religious heart of the city. The lanes were as filthy as those in the rest of the town, composed of trodden mud and refuse. The coroner and his hobbling, skipping clerk pushed their way through the ambling pedestrians and walked past the dwellings that clustered against the cloisters to their right. This brought them to the west end of the cathedral and the more open area of the Close.

Between the north side of the cathedral and the jumble of buildings that lined the High Street beyond were several acres of grass, weeds and bare earth. Its saving grace was a number of large trees that provided welcome shade around the edges and along the many trodden paths. The coroner spared it not a single glance – he had been familiar with the Close all his life – but if he had been of a more aesthetic turn of mind, he might have thought it incongruous that such a beautifully crafted house of God should be so closely surrounded by a combination of rubbish-dump, meadow, cemetery, games arena and market place.

Shop stalls lined the outer paths and youths noisily threw and kicked crude leather balls about. Old and fresh graves lay haphazardly across the ground, with piles of red earth thrown up by the pit-makers and old bones from previous burials, which they took to the charnel house near St Mary Major Church on the further side of the Close. A trench ran across the area, carrying sewage from the canons’ houses down towards the distant river. The all-pervading smell of garbage was as constant here as throughout the rest of Exeter. None of this reached John de Wolfe’s consciousness as he marched the last few yards around the end of the cathedral and back to the North Tower, one of the two massive blocks that flanked each side of the nave and chancel.

‘This man was to be here, was he?’ snapped the coroner over his shoulder.

Panting with the effort of keeping up, Thomas nodded. ‘Cenwulf, the sergeant said – a master-mason of Lincoln.’

They came to a halt at the foot of the tower, where a dozen men were working. Some were operating a pulley hoist to the dizzy heights of the parapet, taking blocks of stone to masons working a hundred and forty feet above them. On the ground, others were manhandling new unfinished stones from an ox-cart while yet others shaped blocks in various stages of completion. A few old men stood watching, but as the building process had been going on for most of the century – since 1114, when Bishop William Warelwast began replacing the previous Saxon church – there was little that was new to watch.

John approached the nearest man. ‘Where would I find Cenwulf of Lincoln?’ he demanded.

The craftsman rocked back on to his heels, resting his iron chisel and heavy mallet on the ground. A thick leather apron, scarred by tools and chippings, covered him from neck to knees. ‘Who wants to know?’ He was a middle-aged fellow, his face almost as leathery as his apron but relieved by a pair of bright blue eyes.

‘The King’s coroner,’ said John bluntly.

The mason dropped his tools and rose slowly to his feet. Master masons were never a servile breed, they were sought-after craftsmen, well paid, with a strong guild behind them. But the mention of the King triggered respect and attentiveness.

‘Look no further, Crowner, I’m Cenwulf … and I know what business you have with me.’

John liked his directness, sensing an honesty and a desire to assist that was absent in most folk, who would do all they could to evade any contact with the law. ‘Then tell me what you know of this man who lies dead now in Widecombe,’ he said, settled his backside against a large untrimmed stone block and folded his arms, ready to listen.

‘It’s little enough, sir. But I heard the town crier’s messages this morning, when he paraded the close, wanting news of many things, including a man slain near Widecombe. It may have been the same fellow that I met just twelve days ago at Honiton.’

The coroner nodded encouragingly, his long hair swirling over the neckband of his grey tunic. ‘Why do you think he was that man, mason?’

‘Fair, and about the same age as claimed by the crier, but that is little enough. Yet he had a tanned skin and wore a Mussulman’s sword in a curved sheath on his belt.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘When I saw him, a moleskin rain-cloak, but under that, a green tunic or a surcoat – I couldn’t swear to which. And a red cloth capuchin on his head. He had curious high riding boots, too.’

Thomas, lurking behind his master, whispered in his ear, ‘Certainly sounds like our cadaver.’

Ignoring him, John continued, ‘Where, then, did you see him?’

‘We had harsh words, that fellow and me, a wonder we didn’t come to blows.’

John’s interest quickened. Was this another possible suspect, he wondered. Though it seemed odd that he volunteered in his first few words that there had been bad blood between them, considering that the other man had come to a violent end.

‘I came by my pony from Salisbury, where my contract on the cathedral there had finished and I had arranged for three months’ work here. On the last morning of the journey, I stopped for ale and meat at an inn in Honiton, some fifteen miles on the east road from Exeter. While I was taking my ease on the benches outside, eating and drinking, this man led his horse from the stable and then mounted. The innkeeper stood out to bid him a good journey, so no doubt he had stayed the night there.’

John scratched the stubble on his dark chin. ‘Why did you dispute with him?’

The mason traced a finger almost lovingly along the huge stone touching the material that was his life’s work. ‘He got up on his steed and prodded its belly with a spur. The beast lunged forwards like an arrow from a bow and raced past me, splashing mud and horse-shit from the yard all over me. The bread I was eating was fouled and my clothing splattered.’

‘It was an accident?’ John prompted.

‘Accident be damned! It was the sheer thoughtlessness of a young man with no respect for his elders.’

‘So what did you do?’ chipped in the coroner’s clerk.

‘I yelled after him and shook my fist. He looked back, wheeled his horse around and came back to me. I thought he was going to apologise … but he started to abuse me for shouting and gesturing at him.’

John was not interested in their quarrel – it seemed hardly likely to lead to a murder. He wanted to know more about the other man. ‘Do you know his name – or where he came from, or where he was bound?’

Cenwulf shook his head. ‘I had no reason to be more curious than anyone sitting in the sun with some ale, watching the world go by, until he covered me with mire.’

There was loud crash nearby: a sandstone block had slipped from its sling on the hoist and fallen to the ground. Fortunately no one was standing underneath or the coroner would have had more work that day. Cenwulf, responsible for this team of workers, yelled an oath at them and muttered even more under his breath. ‘Clumsy fools! Men are not what they were in years past.’

John was not to be distracted from his quest. ‘You say he had a horse?’

‘A grey, medium height, dappled in black. It had a black ring around one eye, not the other … and very muddy hoofs!’ he added cynically.

‘You’re an observant man, Cenwulf,’ said John appreciatively. ‘Can you recall anything else?’

The man’s forehead puckered in thought. ‘I was too angry to take much notice. The man looked as if he might strike me with the bolt of leather he used to whack his horse but, thank God, he thought better of it.’

‘Why was that?’ asked John

‘Because I would pulled him off his horse, gentleman or not, and given him a good hammering,’ said Cenwulf truculently. ‘As it was he muttered something, then turned his grey mare and trotted off. That was the last I saw of him. I asked the landlord who he was, but he had no idea of his name, just said he’d taken a night’s lodging on the way from Southampton, but didn’t say where he was going.’

John scratched the dark stubble on his chin reflectively. ‘You said “gentleman”. What led you to think him that?’

‘Good clothes, though foreign-looking. His voice was not that of a common soldier. Though he spoke English as good as me, there was no doubt that he was a Norman.’

John, a half-breed himself, was unsure whether to take this as a compliment or not.

‘Can you recall anything else?’

‘There were bulging saddlebags and two wicker panniers across his beast’s shoulders, next to the rider’s knees. I remember thinking this must be a man going home after a long absence, with gifts and his worldly goods.’

A few more minutes’ questioning showed that the mason had nothing else to offer, apart from the name of the inn, the Plough at Honiton. He would be in Exeter until the early spring, so John knew where to find him if anything else turned up.

The coroner thanked Cenwulf civilly and left him to his work.

As they walked back to the centre of the Close, John gave firm orders to his clerk. ‘Saddle up your mule, Thomas, and go straight to Honiton. Even that sad animal should get you there by nightfall. Here’s threepence for your board and lodging. Stay at the Plough and learn all you can – and be back here directly tomorrow.’ He felt in the pouch at his belt for the coins.

One look at his master’s face convinced Thomas of the futility of protest, so he took the money, crossed himself and slunk off to his lodging.

This left the coroner with no scribe to record the imminent inquest on the Saracen affray, but he decided to commit to memory the names of those involved and to dictate the proceedings to Thomas the next day.

The cathedral bell boomed once above him and he hastened his steps back towards the castle. He had to go past his own door, as St Martin’s Lane led from the close into the high street. If Matilda was at home, there was no risk that she would see and delay him, as no windows opened on to the street. Her room, the solar, was at the back.

However, as soon as he turned the corner into the high street, he saw two familiar figures planted in his path. They were deep in conversation, but as soon as he approached, they turned to greet him.

‘John de Wolfe, are you well? How are the dead today?’

Hugh de Relaga was a portly man, above middle age and with the benign joviality of a merchant blessed with more than average income. He was a wool merchant, with family in Devon and Brittany, and was one of the two portreeves of Exeter. John had purchased a share in his business with money he had acquired during the Irish campaigns and the income from this kept him in adequate, if not lavish comfort.

The other person was a different figure, but an equally staunch friend of John. A churchman, he was of lean, ascetic appearance, almost to the point of being haggard. While the plump portreeve was dressed in a brocade tunic and velvet short-cloak fastened at one shoulder with a large gold brooch, John de Alecon, Archdeacon of Exeter, wore a street cassock of dull fawn hessian, girded by a plain rope, a wooden cross hanging from a leather thong around his neck. His thin grey hair was combed forward to a ragged fringe across his lined forehead. As with Cenwulf the mason, though, the appearance of this sombre priest was relieved by a pair of darting bright eyes, this time of a darker, almost violet blue, a legacy of the Viking ancestors of the Normans. ‘How many customers today, John?’ he inquired. ‘Is the corpse trade flourishing?’

Though his face was not built for much smiling, John grinned good-humouredly. These were his friends and he needed such in Exeter as enemies were to be had in plenty.

‘Come with me now, if you want to see the crowner at work,’ he responded. ‘I’m on my way this minute to hold an inquest at Rougemont.’

Hugh de Relaga smacked him on the shoulder. ‘I think I will, friend, to see how Hubert Walter’s latest bright idea is working. What about you, priest? Will you join us?’

John de Alecon shook his head wryly. ‘Some of us have duties to attend, Portreeve. Not all of us have time on our hands, like you burgesses.’

With a gesture of benediction, he moved off towards the cathedral close while de Relaga and the coroner set off up the slope towards the castle. They talked about the price of wool and the loss of a shipload going from Exmouth to Flanders. They passed through the gate in the curved embankment that cut off the north-eastern corner of the town and formed an outer ward to the castle, part quarry, part living space for soldiers and their families, who had erected huts against the walls.

‘Is this about the killing in the Saracen last night, John?’ asked the portreeve, as they climbed the steep incline and then the drawbridge into the castle gatehouse.

‘It is indeed – and a wounding where the fellow may die.’

De Relaga puffed a little at the exercise, his short legs not matching the long stride of the coroner. ‘This used to be sheriff’s business. How does he take your meddling in his functions?’

John made a sour face. ‘Not happily, but he has to put up with it. He’s torn between dislike of me and my appointment and the wishes of his sister, my dear Matilda, who likes the idea of a law officer for a husband.’

De Relaga shook his head sadly. ‘Be careful of Richard de Revelle, John. He can be a devious, spiteful man, as I know to my cost.’

‘I’ll watch him, never fear,’ John replied grimly. ‘He’ll not get the better of me – since the Holy Land campaigns I have some powerful friends.’

‘But they are not in Exeter, John.’

By now they had entered the busy inner ward and passed the little chapel of Mary on the right of the gatehouse. Straight ahead was the Shire Hall, a plain building with a roof of stone slates. It had one large room with shuttered window openings each side and two wide doors. There was nothing inside except a wooden dais at one end, on which were a few stools. Here the sheriff held his county court every two weeks. The borough court of the burgesses, under the portreeves, was held in the Guild Hall in the high street, and the ecclesiastical court was held in the old wooden chapter house of the cathedral, signalling the jealously guarded divisions that held sway in the town.

Inside the bare hall, people were already milling around. Gwyn of Polruan was marshalling them as best he could, with a voice that could shatter a clay pot at twenty yards. He had assembled all those who had been within sight of the Saracen the previous evening, together with half a dozen men and boys from each of the four quarters of the town. Several burgesses had also turned up, partly out of curiosity and partly from a sense of civic duty. One was the other portreeve, Henry Rifford. He was a large, red-faced, self-important fellow, with a town house and a large manor out at Clyst St Mary, on the Exmouth road. A crony of the sheriff, Rifford had been hostile to John’s appointment and the coroner was as wary of him as he was of the Bishop, another of de Revelle’s men. In fact, as far as John was concerned both town and cathedral seniors were split down the middle.

The crowd parted as two soldiers trundled a two-wheeled cart through the door, on which was a body, covered with bloody canvas. This was for the numerous jurymen to view, according to the new legal procedure.

John stepped onto the platform and the two portreeves, though they had no official function, followed him and sat on two stools to observe the proceedings.

Through the other door, four soldiers, wearing conical iron helmets with nose-guards, dragged the two miscreants, hands bound securely behind their backs. To ribald jeers from the jury, they frogmarched them to stand below the centre of the dais.

Just as John was about to begin, there was a blast outside from a horn and two sergeants strode in, followed by Richard de Revelle and another two soldiers as a ceremonial rearguard. Just behind the Sheriff walked Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont, appointed by the King. He was a large man, with a mane of grey hair and a flowing beard to match. John had fought alongside him in Ireland and knew him to be fair and impartial.

The sheriff, though not in armour, wore his bright armorial surcoat, white linen with a crimson griffin front and back. He climbed onto the platform and stood centre stage, almost pushing the coroner aside.

The crowd fell silent. The sheriff was by no means a popular figure, neither for his office nor his personality. He represented authority as a tax collector, a harsh judge and the fount of fiscal and capital punishment.

Richard de Revelle looked at his brother-in-law and smirked, his thin, handsome face conveying a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘Pray carry on, Sir Crowner!’

John scowled at him, but said nothing. The sheriff had the right to be present if he so wished, although his attendance was not necessary to the proceedings.

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 Sidwell’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 Revelle, 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.