The Awful Secret

Chapter Eight In which Crowner John hears some awful news

Next morning, Thursday the seventeenth day of March, was cold and blustery. Yesterday’s promise of spring had been a mockery, typical of the western parts of the Isles of Britain.

Odin was having his hoofs checked in the farrier’s forge, so after an early bowl of hot broth with bread, de Wolfe went up to the castle on foot. A gusting west wind whipped at his worn cloak and threw occasional spots of rain at his face as he loped up to Rougemont. The covers over the street stalls rattled against their frames, the pedlars and tradesmen huddling inside their mantles and capes as they waited for their customers to brave the elements.

As he walked, he welcomed the absence of complaint from his leg, which now seemed virtually back to normal, both in strength and lack of the nagging ache that had been there for so many weeks. He ruminated on the previous evening, when he had spent a dull, but uncontroversial few hours with his wife, in front of their hearth. For once, she had no religious devotions to attend and they ate their supper in relative peace. He had no desire to go down to the Bush as he knew that Nesta was attending some meeting of Exeter inn-keepers at the Guildhall, to discuss the rising cost of barley and its effect on their ale prices. Since the poor harvest of the previous year, and the huge demand for grain made by the king to supply his army in France, the price of many staple foods was increasing. This added to the disgruntlement of the already overtaxed population, which de Wolfe feared might encourage Prince John to start plotting again against his absentee royal brother.

The rising cost of living was one of the topics of a rather stilted conversation between Matilda and himself, as they sat in front of the fire after their meal. He opened a jar of wine and, under its influence, they relaxed a little – lately, Matilda had seemed increasingly partial to a few drinks. The talk inevitably turned to Gilbert de Ridefort and John had told his wife of the discoveries of Thomas about Abbot Cosimo and the arrival of the three Templars the previous day. She appeared genuinely concerned for the knight’s safety and had admitted grudgingly that de Wolfe had been right in hiding him away down in Stoke-in-Teignhead. Not only that, but she added some information of her own, gleaned that day from the inquisitive parishioners of St Olave’s, which was within a few hundred paces of the priory of St Nicholas.

‘You say that one of the knights was Brian de Falaise,’ she said, ‘and I was told that the others are called Godfrey Capra and Roland de Ver.’

John had never heard of this last knight, but he had a slight recollection of Godfrey Capra, who had been at the big meeting in Gisors. This was the so-called ‘Splitting of the Elm’, which seemed to have had some profound effect on the organisation of the Templars and at which Gilbert de Ridefort had also been present, something John could not now believe was a mere coincidence.

Now, as he walked up the last few yards to the gatehouse of Rougemont, de Wolfe sighed as he failed to put all these diverse bits of information into some sort of pattern. It was clear that he would have to make a frontal attack on these Templars, to try to discover what had really brought them to Exeter. He turned into the guardroom, but instead of tempting fate with another assault on the winding staircase, he put his head into the lower entrance and yelled up to attract Gwyn’s attention. There was an answering bellow from above and his officer came clumping down, followed by Thomas de Peyne.

‘We have to attend this week’s mutilations at the eighth hour,’ he told them. ‘Thomas, did the sheriff’s clerk give you a list?’

The bent little clerk scrabbled in his shapeless satchel and pulled out a scrap of parchment, which he consulted. ‘There are three, Crowner, and you have to take a confession from one.’

De Wolfe frowned. ‘A confession? Why?’

‘It seems he also wants to turn approver, to save his neck, if not his right hand.’ An approver was a criminal who wished to save his life by informing on his accomplices, when he might be allowed to avoid the death sentence, perhaps abjure the realm or even be set free altogether.

The coroner grunted and led the way across the inner ward towards the basement of the keep, which was half below ground. This dark, damp undercroft was part-prison, part-storehouse and part-torture-chamber, ruled by Stigand, a grotesquely fat gaoler with the intelligence of a woodlouse. Half the crypt was divided off by a stone wall, in which a rusted iron gate led into a passage lined with filthy cells. The rest was open space, dimly lit by the light from the small doorway and a few rush-lights on the walls. It was floored by wet earth and in one corner, Stigand lived in an alcove, sleeping on a straw mattress. Outside this was a fire-pit, which served both for his primitive cooking and for heating branding irons and other instruments of torture. At the moment, an iron pot of wood-tar, obtained from charcoal-burning, was bubbling ominously on the logs.

As the coroner’s trio came down the few steps from the level of the inner bailey, a dismal procession emerged from the iron gate of the gaol. Led by Gabriel and a man-at-arms, three prisoners, dressed in rags and wearing heavy wrist and ankle fetters, stumbled across the uneven floor, prodded along by two more soldiers. Stigand locked the gate behind them, then waddled across to his fire, where a low bench held a selection of implements. Already in the centre of the cellar stood a small group of observers, including a priest from the garrison chapel of St Mary, in case one of the prisoners should die during the proceedings. The others were Ralph Morin, the castle constable, Henry Rifford, one of Exeter’s two portreeves, and Sheriff Richard de Revelle, with one of his clerks from the County Court, which had convicted the miscreants.

The soldiers pushed and dragged the three men into a line facing the officials, so that the clerk, a portly man with over-inflated ideas of his own importance, could begin reading out the details of the sentences.

‘Firstly, Robert Thebaud, butcher from this city, you are convicted of repeatedly and perversely giving short weight and of having manifestly tampered with your weighing scales to your own advantage.’ He turned over a leaf of parchment and referred to some earlier record. ‘You were fined ten marks by the burgess court of this city on the eighth day of June last year. And you were warned then that a second offence would lead to hanging or mutilation.’

The sheriff, resplendent in a short cloak in his favourite green thrown carelessly over one shoulder, waved a glove at the clerk. ‘Is anything else known about this villain?’

Rifford, a paunchy, middle-aged man with a short neck and prominent eyes, was the portreeve representing the burgesses and guilds. He pointed an accusing finger at the wretched Robert, a burly man with a normally florid face that was now pale with fear. ‘He was warned by the Butchers’ Guild last year that if he transgressed again he would be ejected and no longer able to continue his trade in this city. That will happen now, though in any case, he’ll be in no condition to fell cattle and chop meat with one hand!’

Thebaud fell to his knees and began to blubber for mercy, but no one took any notice of him: they were too familiar with such supplications from the condemned.

The clerk moved on to the second case, a sullen young Saxon with yellow hair hanging down his back. ‘Britric of Totnes, you were apprehended in the Serge Market trying to pass off clipped short-cross pennies. In your lodgings, the city bailiff found a bag of clippings and iron shears for trimming the coins.’

The irregular silver pennies were of many types as some had been in circulation for a century or more from different mints around the country. Clipping the edges and melting down the silver for its value was a common but serious crime. Most coins had a cross on one side, and in later mintings, the arms of the cross were made longer, reaching to the edge in an effort to make clipping more obvious. Counterfeiting money was a hanging offence, but passing clipped coins was almost as heinous.

Britric seemed unmoved by this accusation and the clerk moved on to the last culprit, a shifty-looking youth with crooked, projecting teeth. ‘William Pagnell, you were convicted of associating with known thieves who haunted the fair of St Jude two weeks ago. Three other men made off with goods to at least the value of five marks from various booths, but you were the only one caught. As the stolen goods, a candlestick found on your person, was of the value of only ninepence, you have avoided hanging on that charge.’

The clerk’s droning voice was interrupted by the coroner. ‘Is this the fellow who wants to turn approver?’

‘Yes, Crowner. If the others are caught and confirm that this Pagnell was equally one of them, then they may all hang, whether he has his hand struck off now or not.’

Pagnell joined his fellow prisoner on his knees in the damp earth, his chains rattling as he wagged his clasped hands in supplication to de Wolfe. ‘Sir Crowner, I wish to confess my small guilt and earn your mercy by confessing the names of these other men who led me astray,’ he whined.

The distant bell of the cathedral tolled faintly in the distance and Richard de Revelle slapped his gloves in impatience. ‘Come on, clerk, get on with it. I have more important work to do.’

The pompous official turned to the coroner with a questioning look. ‘Will you accept him as an approver, Crowner?’

‘Yes, if it means that by his confession we can catch the greater thieves,’ he grunted.

Pagnell gabbled his thanks then ventured a little further. ‘And if I confess every syllable I know and make promises in the name of the Holy Mother and every saint never to trangress again, may I keep my limb? Without it, I and my family will starve, for I am a wood-carver. I have had no work for two months and I only took that trinket to buy bread for my children.’

Richard de Revelle gave an exasperated snort. ‘Every evil wretch that comes here spins the same lying excuses and promises to reform, only to steal or slay the moment he is released.’

As much to confound and aggravate his brother-in-law as from any feeling of compassion, de Wolfe gestured at the guards and the gaoler. ‘Take him back to his cell. I’ll hear his confession and then decide on what is to be done with him.’

‘What right have you to interfere with the decision of my County Court, Crowner?’ snapped the sheriff.

‘The duty to take confessions of approvers was laid on me by the Article of Assize last year,’ retorted de Wolfe, glaring across at de Revelle. ‘And maybe you remember that that Article was promulgated by the royal justices – the judges of our lord king!’

With a barely concealed grin at his master’s loss of face, Gabriel gave the order for one of the guards to take the prisoner away and when Stigand had slouched back to stand near his fire, the grisly proceedings went ahead. They were rapid and efficient, with none of the ceremony that attended an execution. Two men-at-arms grabbed the blond Saxon and one unlocked his arm fetters with a crude iron key. The obese gaoler rolled a large log across the floor, stained an ominous ruddy-brown, and set it on end to form a block about two feet high. The victim was forced to his knees, Stigand grabbed his right hand and pulled it across the block. Reaching for a cleaver, he spat upon the blade and sent it whistling down to sever the wrist with one blow.

In spite of his previous impassive mien, Britric gave a high-pitched scream and fainted as the arteries in his arm spurted across the block, the hand falling to the muddy floor. Wheezing with the effort of delivering the blow, the gaoler pulled a rag from the wide pocket of his soiled leather apron and slapped it over the end of the wrist to staunch the haemorrhage temporarily. The Saxon had fallen to the floor, but one of the soldiers held up his arm, whilst Stigand turned to the pot of tar on the fire. He stirred it with a piece of stick, which he then used to lift a large dollop of the sticky brown mess. Pulling away the cloth, he slapped the tar on the raw flesh and bare bone ends, spreading it over the stump, where it rapidly set solid as it cooled. Then he picked up the hand nonchalantly by its thumb and threw it on to his fire where, as it hissed and blackened, the fingers contracted to form one last agonal fist.

The official party watched all this indifferently, with the exception of Thomas de Peyne, who although he had seen it many times since entering the coroner’s service, still felt nauseated at the sight of blood and the severed hand being so casually treated.

Two soldiers dragged Britric back through the iron gate and came back to repeat the performance on the whimpering butcher, Robert Thebaud, who began screaming as his chains were released and did not stop until he was hauled back to his cell.

Anxious to be off to his chamber, Richard de Revelle started for the doorway but, almost as an afterthought, turned to speak to de Wolfe. ‘The expedition to Lundy is arranged for Monday, John. We shall leave at dawn and hope to get to Barnstaple that night.’ With a last flourish of his gloves, he vanished about his business, with his constable following reluctantly behind, leaving the coroner to enter the gaol, where the thief’s confession could hardly be heard above the screams and moans of the two mutilated men.

An hour later, de Wolfe made the climb up to his chamber in the gatehouse and joined Gwyn and Thomas in their customary bread, cheese and cider.

Thomas had nothing new to report about the Italian abbot from his eavesdropping in the cathedral precinct. Cosimo had not visited the bishop again and he had no means of knowing if he had yet returned to St James’s Priory.

‘What about you, Gwyn?’ growled de Wolfe. ‘Did the taverns provide any more news than the cathedral?’

Before replying, his officer peeled a strip of hard green rind from his cheese with his dagger. ‘Not a lot, Crowner. You said your wife already told you the names of these other two Templars. I went to a couple of low alehouses in Bretayne last night and spoke to an ostler and a porter from St Nicholas’s. It seems the leader of the three is this Roland de Ver, who comes from the New Temple in London, though before that he was in Paris. He has reddish hair and beard, says the porter, but little else is known of him.’

‘What of the others? One is that Godfrey Capra, whom we saw at Gisors when the great aggravation took place between Prince Richard and that bastard French king!’

‘I just recall him. He was a thin, dark fellow, with a sour face. He was born in Kent, I was told – he never went to Palestine with us.’ He bit off a chunk of his rock-hard cheese and champed on it. ‘The other one we both know of is this Brian de Falaise. The ostler said he also came from the Templar Commandery in London, though he is really from Normandy.’

Thomas had been listening quietly to this from his stool at the table, where he was writing out a précis of the approver’s confession that John had so recently heard in Stigand’s foul prison. ‘When I was in Winchester, there was a priest in the train of the Bishop of Rouen who had been at Gisors at this meeting in ’eighty-eight that you keep talking about. He told me that though it was mainly a political wrangling between old King Henry and Philip of France, something else went on there that affected the Templars.’

‘Do you know what it was, dwarf?’ grunted the Cornishman.

Thomas’s lazy eye slewed from the coroner to his officer. ‘It seems that when the Templars were founded, they were really controlled by some obscure religious organisation in Jerusalem called the Order of Sion. It was supposed to have been founded by Godfrey de Bouillon several years before he captured the Holy City from the Saracens. He then installed the Order in the abbey of Notre Dame de Mont Sion, just outside the city walls.’

‘What in Hell has this got to do with Gisors?’ demanded Gwyn irreverently.

‘At that meeting there in ’eighty-eight, at which you were present, the Order of Sion fell out with the Grand Master of the Templars so that they each went their own way after that, the Order changing its name to the Priory of Sion.’

The little clerk paused to give emphasis to his dénouement.

‘The point is that the so-called “Splitting of the Elm” is really a cryptic reference to the final schism between the Order and the Templars and is nothing to to do with that silly squabble of whether the English or French sat in the shade of the tree. And what might matter to your current problem with Gilbert de Ridefort is that the meeting at Gisors was only a matter of months after his uncle, Gerard de Ridefort, lost Jerusalem again to the Muhammadans, in what some called treasonable incompetence!’

This was all beyond Gwyn of Polruan, who went back to his bread and cheese in disgust, but de Wolfe pondered Thomas’s words for a while. ‘So in Exeter now we have a priest from Paris associated with the Inquisition, a senior Templar from the Paris Preceptory and a Templar who was at Gisors – all of whom arrived within days of the nephew of a disgraced Grand Master!’

At the coroner’s words, the clerk lifted his humped shoulders and gave his master a leer to show that he believed that these events were inescapably linked.

‘The sooner we get rid of this errant knight, the better!’ growled the coroner. ‘But he won’t go until this other fellow de Blanchefort joins him.’

Gwyn finished his food and took a giant swig from his cider pot. After a gargantuan belch, he wiped his moustache and spoke. ‘At least it’s not crowner’s business,’ he said, with no notion of how soon he was to be proved wrong.

The cathedral bell was tolling for the terce, sext and nones services when de Wolfe got back to Martin’s Lane to see how the farrier was getting on. At the livery stable he found Odin tethered by a head-rope to a ring in the wall. The large stallion was contentedly munching oats from a leather bucket; his hoofs had been trimmed and a few loose nails fixed back into his shoes.

The coroner began a conversation with Andrew, the young farrier, and they were deep in discussion about rival types of battle-harness when a figure hurried across from de Wolfe’s front door. It was Mary, her fair hair flying loose from under her cap, the strings of which were untied in her haste. ‘Sir John, come quickly! The mistress is in a terrible state – Alsi, the steward from Stoke, is here.’

As he followed her hurriedly across the lane, she explained that she had not known he was at the stables and had already sent Simon up to Rougemont to look for him.

Inside the hall, Matilda was sitting in one of the monk’s chairs, bent forward and sobbing uncontrollably, whilst Alsi was hovering over her helplessly.

‘What in the name of God is the matter?’ said John, going to his wife and laying a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Has something befallen my mother?’

Instantly, Matilda stopped her keening and jerked up her head to glare at him. ‘It’s all your fault, you heartless man!’ she yelled, getting up on her stocky legs and beating her hands against his chest.

Her husband pushed her down on to her chair and she subsided into sobs again. He turned to the steward, a man he had known since childhood. ‘Alsi, what’s going on? Why are you here?’

The thin, greying Saxon, still in his riding clothes, raised his hands in supplication. ‘I should have found you first, Sir John, and told you before Lady Matilda. I am mortified to have caused her this distress, but I didn’t know it would affect her so profoundly.’

‘What, man? What’s happened?’

‘Your guest at Stoke, Sir Gilbert. He’s dead – murdered!’

Though violent death had been part of de Wolfe’s life for more than two decades, both as a soldier and now a coroner, this news was particularly shocking. De Ridefort’s fears, and the increasing confirmation that they might be well founded, had climaxed in tragedy.

With Matilda still rocking herself whilst she moaned her grief for her lost hero, John dropped heavily into the other chair and stared up at the steward. ‘When did this happen – and how?’

Alsi fiddled agitatedly at the large clasp that held his heavy brown riding cloak in place. ‘He went out for a ride late yesterday afternoon, Sir John. He fretted that he was tired of skulking indoors, so he borrowed a mare from the stables and rode off, saying that he would stay within the manor lands. But towards dusk when he had not returned your mother sent some stablemen out to search for him, in case he was lost in the woods between Stoke and the river.’ He paused and gave a trembling sigh. ‘Just before dark, they found him – or, at least, they first found the mare wandering. Then, within a few hundred paces, just inside the tree-line on the banks of the river, they discovered him lying dead on the ground with blood upon him.’

‘Could he not have fallen from his horse, or struck a low branch?’ As he uttered the words, de Wolfe knew they sounded futile: any Templar knight, especially one who had fought in Outremer, would hardly let himself fall to his death on a gentle afternoon trot.

Alsi soon confirmed this. ‘It was no accident, as you will see when you look at his wounds. He was deliberately slain, sir – and in a most bizarre manner.’