The Noble Outlaw

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Though the crowd in the Shire Hall might have been small the previous day, Exeter's gossip grapevine ensured that far more people climbed Castle Hill the next morning to see three knights and manor lords fight it out, possibly to the death.

The constable of Rougemont had been up at dawn to organise the arrangements. The weather was cold, with a leaden sky, but there had been no new snow, and only dirty remnants of the last fall lurked at the foot of the high curtain walls. Sergeant Gabriel and his soldiers from the garrison had cleared the centre of the inner ward of the usual obstructions, such as empty ox-carts, archery targets and heaps of refuse. The pigs and goats that normally snuffled about the bailey were chased down to the outer ward, and a man was stationed at the gate to make sure that they did not return.

Gabriel paced out the requisite square of sixty feet on each side and his men hammered in stakes at intervals, ropes being strung between them to keep the combat area clear of spectators. A dozen men-at-arms spaced out outside this barrier made doubly sure that there would be no interference to the ritual.

By the time the cathedral bell tolled to announce the office of Prime, just before the eighth hour, about a hundred people were gathered in the inner ward. At the end farthest from the gatehouse, towards the squat keep, the supporters of de la Pomeroy and de Revelle gathered along the rope, mainly the bailiffs, reeves and other manor officials. The opposite side of the marked-off square was reserved for de Arundell's men from the moor, together with his wife Joan. Nicholas and her cousin had tried to persuade her to stay away, but the resolute lady adamantly refused, saying that if her husband was to be wounded or killed, it was only right that she should be with him.

Resigned to the stubborn woman's resolve, Gillian le Bret stayed closely by her, and to de Wolfe's surprise, his own wife Matilda insisted on accompanying them. He tried to dissuade her also, saying that it was not proper for a woman to witness bloodshed, injury and possibly death, but taking her cue from Joan de Arundell, Matilda shrugged off his protests. John wondered to what extent she was there in case her brother Richard suffered the same misfortune, so with a sigh he abandoned his attempts to keep her away. He could not stay at her side, as he had his own duties as coroner whenever an ordeal was in progress, and Thomas had to keep a record for eventual presentation to the royal justices of the General Eyre when it arrived, sometime in the future.

At the eighth hour, the major figures in the drama began appearing.

As the Church, however reluctantly, had to participate in this appeal to the Almighty to see justice done, Archdeacon John de Alencon arrived, though the garrison chaplain, Brother Rufus, a jovial Benedictine, actually officiated. The fat monk came out of the tiny chapel of St Mary, which was adjacent to the gatehouse, and waddled across the hard mud of the bailey to greet de Wolfe, with whom he was firm friends. Together they ducked under the rope and stood waiting with the archdeacon for the combatants to arrive.

Henry de Furnellis came across from the keep with Ralph Morin, just as Nicholas de Arundell appeared from the guardroom in the gatehouse, where he and his 'squire' had been waiting. The squire acted as the fighting man's second and in this case was not unnaturally his steward Robert Hereward, the gaunt Saxon who had so faithfully stood by his master.

The pair joined his other retainers along the rope and Nicholas slid a reassuring arm around his wife and kissed her tear-stained face as they waited, until the sheriff strode up to John and his companions.

'Where are these damned men … do you think they've run away?' he demanded.

As if in answer, they heard the sound of hoofs on the drawbridge across the dry moat and five horses trotted into the inner ward. The riders went across to the stables against the further wall to dismount, then walked back to the central arena. John saw that Pomeroy and de Revelle were accompanied by their suave lawyer, and followed by Ogerus Coffin. The other arrival was an elderly man with a very wrinkled face, who he recognised as Richard's steward from his manor of Revelstoke, in the far west of the county. He was Geoffrey de Cottemore de Totensis, and he had a haughty manner in keeping with his ponderous name.

The new arrivals ducked under the barrier and, studiously avoiding the de Arundell camp, strode stony-faced to stand at the opposite end of the arena, next to their few supporters. De Wolfe saw that Henry de la Pomeroy walked with aggressive enthusiasm, his big body exuding confidence and indeed arrogance. His fleshy face seemed redder than usual, in spite of the cold breeze that blew between the castellated walls. In contrast, Richard de Revelle trailed behind him, his usual mincing gait reduced to a reluctant trudge. If he noticed his sister standing with his opponents rather than supporting her own flesh and blood, he made no sign of even acknowledging her presence.

Now a blast by the inexpert trumpeter heralded the arrival of the two royal judges, who came down the steps from the keep with their clerks and a couple of court servants. The constable held up the rope for them to pass under, and they walked to the centre of the square, the rest of the participants gravitating towards them like iron filings to a piece of lodestone.

As the king's representative in the county, Henry de Furnellis again had the responsibility of managing the ritual, and he marshalled the various players into their proper places.

Nicholas was stood facing his two opponents, who were a good dozen feet apart, their respective squires standing behind them. The archdeacon, the garrison chaplain and the two justices grouped themselves between the disputing parties, and the sheriff beckoned to John to join them. As he walked across, he saw that Joscelin de Sucote also attempted to enter, but was brusquely warned off by Walter de Ralegh, who told him he had no part to play in this particular drama.

The first act was, not surprisingly, religious. Firstly, John de Alencon offered up a general prayer to seek God's mercy on all present and to plead that His wisdom would ensure that justice would be done that day. Then Brother Rufus stepped forward with a psalter in his hands and set about safe guarding the proceedings from any unfair advantage derived from witchcraft or the machinations of Satan! He advanced on each of the three duellists in turn and made them repeat a solemn oath after him, with both of their hands resting on the holy book, which he held out to them. Nicholas was first, squaring his broad shoulders as he made the sign of the cross and then followed Rufus's words in a strong, confident voice.

'Hear this, ye justices, that I have this day neither eat, drink nor have upon me neither bone, stone nor grass nor any enchantment, sorcery or witchcraft whereby the law of God may be abased or the law of the devil exalted. So help me God and his saints.'

The monk then went across to Pomeroy and repeated the ritual, Henry bawling out the words at the top of his voice in a pugnacious manner. Indeed, de Wolfe wondered if he had been drinking, in spite of the assertion in his oath, for he seemed to be in an abnormally excited mood.

Once again, there was a marked contrast when Rufus took his psalter to Richard de Revelle. Though the weather was cold, de Revelle's fur-lined cloak of green wool should have kept him from shivering, yet John saw his jaw quivering as he hesitantly repeated his oath.

When the chaplain stepped back after completing his task, the sheriff gestured at de Arundell. 'Sir Nicholas, it is your prerogative to choose your first opponent in this wager of battle. Tell us, who do you name?' Without hesitation, Nicholas pulled off his right glove and threw it on to the ground before Henry de la Pomeroy.

'I will fight that man first and may God give the strength of righteousness to my arm.' His voice was strong and clear, provoking a ragged cheer from the throats of the men who had shared his exile on Dartmoor. His wife, supported on each side by her cousin and Matilda, turned even paler and held a kerchief to her mouth to conceal her anguish.

Henry de Furnellis now waved at Ralph Morin, who stood near the rope, and he and Sergeant Gabriel marched across, each carrying an armful of equipment.

'To ensure that you are evenly matched, you will be given identical arms. You will have a short sword, a shield, a helmet and a jerkin of leather.'

The sheriff watched as the two squires examined the articles to make sure that no unfair advantage could be introduced. Then they went to their masters and helped them to remove their cloaks and strap on the short armless tunics of stiff leather, which were almost an inch thick and had been boiled until they had almost the texture of wood. The swords had blades about two feet long, unlike the great weapons that were used on horseback or in battle. Similarly, the shields were much smaller than the oval ones used against lances; these were round bucklers of hardwood covered with thick leather. The helmets were the standard issue, a round iron basin with a nose-guard, tied under the chin with thongs.

When the two men had been equipped, the others left the centre of the arena, apart from the sheriff and chaplain, who stood between the combatants. As de Wolfe loped back to the perimeter, he noticed his brother-in-law wiping his brow with the back of his hand, as if to remove a sudden sweat that, in spite of the frost, had overtaken him when he realised he had at least a short respite — and possibly a reprieve from fighting if Henry de la Pomeroy's boasts about his inevitable victory came true.

The sheriff gave the last formal instructions to the fighters.

'You will fight with might and main until one of you is vanquished, either by death or by being forced to the ground by the point of a sword at your throat or vitals, when the victor can have you hanged. To submit, then the loser must cry 'craven' in a loud voice!' De Furnellis stepped back, his duty done, and the monk had the last word. Raising his hand in the air he made the sign of the cross and cried out, 'May the blessing of God the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit descend on these weapons, to discern the true judgement of God.'

Brother Rufus then backed slowly towards the rope barrier and the contest began.

Standing with Gwyn behind the coroner, Thomas de Peyne watched the drama with tremulous fascination.

His classical education allowed him to compare the scene with some Roman gladiatorial contest, as the two men, out there alone in an empty arena, circled each other while they each took the measure of their opponent.

Shields across the chest and swords half lowered, they glared at each other across ten paces of hardened mud.

Both were about the same height, but Henry was the heavier, from both muscle and some fat, and there was little doubt that he was a strong and dangerous adversary, for all that he was six years older than Nicholas.

He made a sudden feint, jumping forward with a yell and making de Arundell step back. No blow was exchanged, but Pomeroy shouted at Nicholas to unnerve him.

'You've no bloody archers behind you now! I'm going to cut you to pieces, as I would have done at Grimspound if you'd fought fairly'

Nicholas made no reply, but a moment later, as Henry charged at him, he sidestepped and brought his sword down, making a chip of wood and leather fly from the edge of Pomeroy's shield.

From then on, the fight was fast and furious, a sequence of advances and retreats, shield bosses clashing and then breaking apart. Both men seemed evenly matched as far as skill and courage were concerned, and a rising tide of yells came from the onlookers, urging them on to even greater efforts. Though the sympathy of most people was with de Arundell, as the circumstances of this dispute were widely known, there was no doubt that Henry was putting up an excellent performance and he had a number of spectators shouting for him, in addition to his own men.

As the two combatants hammered away at each other, without so far inflicting any damage except to their shields, Gwyn muttered into the coroner's ear, 'If I was a gambling man — which I am — I'd put my money on Pomeroy at the moment, more's the pity.'

De Wolfe, his eyes glued to the action, replied without turning his head. 'There's nothing in it so far, Gwyn. Nicholas is the younger man, so maybe he can keep this up for longer. I don't see how they can carry on for very long like this.'

As if they had heard him, the fighters abruptly pushed each other away and circled at a distance, both with heaving chests and gasping for breath. John now saw a long rent down Nicholas's tunic below the jerkin, but there appeared to be no blood, so it looked as if Henry's sword had only slashed the garment, not the flesh underneath.

After a few moments' respite, the younger man returned to the attack, and this time de la Pomeroy backed away, his face almost purple with effort, his lips curled back in a rictus of angry excitement. Then he rallied and, with a burst of energy, forced de Arundell back to the centre of the square. They hammered away for several more minutes, and in spite of the cold, both men were seen to be sweating, perspiration visible on their brows below their helmets. De la Pomeroy, whose activity seemed almost demonical, looked as if he was about to explode, his face engorged and his eyeballs prominent.

As more shouts of encouragement erupted from the sidelines, mostly shouts of 'Nicholas, Nicholas!', the lord of Hempston again began driving Henry back, with a ferocious charge that took them halfway to the ropes.

Then catastrophe occurred, as Nicholas stumbled over a hardened clod of earth kicked up by some beast and fell forwards on to his shield and sword hand.

In a flash, Henry Pomeroy leapt towards him with sword raised, and as Nicholas rolled sideways and began pushing himself up, he suffered a glancing blow from the blade on his right arm.

John saw the sleeve rip and blood well out, as the agile de Arundell sprang up and instantly slashed back at his adversary. But it was his sword arm that had been injured, how badly de Wolfe had no means of telling. An experienced campaigner, de Arundell deliberately ran backwards to give himself a few seconds in which to slide his good arm from his shield hoop and change hands, so that his weapon was now in his left hand. Though not so powerful as his right, years of practice had strengthened it to a reasonable degree — but he was now at a considerable disadvantage. Henry came charging at him, yelling at the top of his voice, drowning the cries from the spectators. Nicholas held his ground and managed to strike at Pomeroy's shield so hard that a split appeared in the wood, which was now only held together by the leather covering. Once again a furious hand-to-hand combat ensued, which at least reassured de Wolfe that Nicholas's injury could not be life-threatening or he would have failed already from loss of blood.

'They can't keep this up for much longer,' snapped de Furnellis, standing alongside the coroner. 'Henry de la Pomeroy is like a man possessed. He'll make a mistake in a moment and Arundell will have him.' But he was wrong, though for a good reason.

After a brief circling, the lord of Berry again came at Nicholas like a madman, roaring and slashing as if he intended to conquer his enemy by sheer weight and speed. The quick-footed Nicholas sidestepped again and, left-handed, jabbed behind Henry's damaged shield.

The thick leather cuirass absorbed most of the blow, but the point of his sword pricked Henry's belly and he gave a yell of pain, even though the injury was not serious.

The wound put him in a towering rage, and he swung back determined to cut this tormentor in half.

As he bore down on de Arundell, a hush descended on the crowd, who half expected to see this bull-like leviathan trample the slimmer man into the mud.

Nicholas expected the same, as he saw Henry's eyes bulging in his puce-tinted face, rage vying with triumph as he saw victory within his grasp.

Suddenly, the charging man stopped. He seemed to crumple at the waist, and his sword fell from his fingers as he grasped the neck of his jerkin and sank to the ground, a gurgling, gasping sound bursting from his purpled lips.

De Arundell gaped in amazement, his own sword still raised, but as de la Pomeroy did nothing but writhe on the frozen mud, still scrabbling at his throat, he cautiously went nearer. Half suspecting some trick, he kicked away the other man's sword so that it was out of reach, then dropped to his knees alongside him. By now, people were racing across the arena towards them, and seconds later the sheriff and coroner were by his side.

'What's happened to him?' demanded de Furnellis.

'God knows. Some kind of seizure, I think.'

'He's bleeding from his belly,' said Brother Rufus.

De Wolfe ripped at the thongs that secured the leather jerkin down the front of Henry's body. 'Give him some air, he's choking,' he commanded, for the stricken man was still gasping and tearing at his neckband. John explored the wound under the tunic and found it to be little more than a surface puncture.

'Nothing to do with that,' he said, looking up at Ralph Morin, who had joined the group clustered around the fallen man. For a fleeting moment, de Wolfe felt it ironic that so many were now solicitous about Henry's welfare, whereas five minutes earlier they were quite prepared to see him mortally wounded on the end of de Arundell's weapon.

By now, Joan de Arundell had broken away from her cousin and John's own wife and had raced across to her husband; hugging him, she demanded to see his wounded arm. The blood was running down his sleeve and dripping off his fingers, but he seemed oblivious of it, being more concerned with the extraordinary turn of events.

'It is the will of God, praise be,' exclaimed Brother Rufus. 'He has decided the outcome in the plainest manner.'

John de Alencon, also kneeling by the stricken lord, looked rather less convinced that this was a show of divine intervention, but he held his tongue.

'We must get him moved,' said the practical sheriff, and yelled at Sergeant Gabriel to find a litter to carry the victim to the keep, where he would at least be out of the biting breeze. At that moment, someone with a better understanding of seizures arrived, in the shape of Richard Lustcote, the apothecary, who had been amongst the spectators.

Dropping to a crouch, he said some soothing words to de la Pomeroy and undid the laces that closed the neck of his tunic beneath the leather jacket. Then with fingers on the pulse at the man's wrist, he cocked his head to try to understand the garbled words that were now punctuating the gasps for breath.

'You have pain, sir? Where is it, d'you say? In your chest and arm?' Gently, the experienced druggist coaxed some sense from Henry, at the same time calming him down, so that the purpling of his face and lips began to recede. Lustcote climbed to his feet and looked around the circle of faces. 'He has had a seizure of the heart and lungs, not a stroke of the brain,' he diagnosed. 'Too much exertion and frantic excitement in a man who should have eaten and drunk less these past few years.'

'What's to be done?' asked the sheriff anxiously. 'Will he live?'

Richard Lustcote pulled him further away, so as not to be discussing prognosis over the patient himself.

'He could die in the next five minutes — or live another twenty years,' he replied. 'Get him to a bed and leave him be in peace for a few hours. I will give him some tincture of poppy to quieten him down.' He groped in the capacious scrip on his belt, as he always carried a few basic medicaments for use in emergencies such as this.

As Henry was hurried away on a wooden stretcher by a couple of soldiers, the apothecary's pouch was put to good use again, as Joan de Arundell, concerned for her husband's injury, petitioned Lustcote to attend to the wounded arm. While this was being done, Henry de Furnekkis tried to get some order back into the disrupted proceedings. He conferred with the two justices who had come forward into the centre of the combat zone, then threw up his arms and yelled for attention, the tuneless trumpeter trying to help him with a ragged series of blasts.

When the hubbub had subsided sufficiently, the sheriff bawled out his announcement. 'By whatever means, an Act of God or the frailty of man, there is no doubt that Sir Nicholas de Arundell was the victor of that bout of arms. He has thus satisfied the first part of this wager of battle and in one hour will meet Sir Richard de Revelle to determine the final outcome.'

There was a murmuring from the crowd, some more catcalls and a few yells that it was unfair to match an injured man against a fresh opponent. Richard de Revelle, who with his cadaverous steward, had come up to the group in the centre, pushed his way through to the sheriff. 'I agree with those men,' he said earnestly. 'Surely we can delay this pointless business until he has recovered from his injury?'

De Furnellis glared at the dandified Richard. There was no love lost between the two men who had both been sheriff twice over.

'I would have thought you would have welcomed the chance to fight a wounded man, de Revelle. It's the only way you have a chance of winning.'

The fact that de Revelle had already considered this and weighed it against the chances of having the whole affair postponed or even abandoned, blunted the curtness of the answer that came to his lips — but Nicholas de Arundell broke in with a loud cry.

'No, sheriff, there's no need for an hour's delay! I have suffered nothing but a mere scratch and the disturbance has allowed me to get my breath back. Let us get on with the battle and settle it once and for all?

Again, de Furnellis went into a huddle with the king's justices, and John saw de Bohun shrug indifferently, while Walter seemed quite happy with de Arundell's proposal.

This time without the aid of the trumpeter, the sheriffs strident voice announced that the bout would continue at once, and all but the leading figures began to drift back to the ropes. Looking as if he was walking directly to the gallows, Richard de Revelle plodded back to his end, where his steward-squire, Geoffrey de Cottemore, and another servant took away his fine cloak and strapped him into his boiled leather jerkin and helmet.

The small shield and the sword were handed to him and he stood immobile for a moment, ashen-faced and numb of mind.

An educated man who loved learning and politics, he had never espoused the normal pursuits of most lords, fighting, gaming and hunting — though he was fond of womanising and embezzlement. Now to be thrust into an arena with a hardened Crusader who had spent years surviving on Dartmoor was the most frightening experience of his life, for he knew he had wronged the man and fully expected Nicholas to kill him. He felt frozen to the spot and it took a push in the back from his squire to get him advancing like an automaton towards the middle of the square.

'You have already taken your oath against sorcery,' said the sheriff. 'So after the priest has invoked the wisdom of God, you will begin to fight — if needs be, to the death.'

Brother Rufus came to repeat his call for the Almighty to see justice done, then he and the sheriff retreated, leaving the two men alone in the centre of the lonely field. De Arundell's arm was not nearly as good as he alleged, the lacerated tissues throbbing painfully under the tight bandage that the apothecary had applied. At least he had not lost much blood, so he was not weakened or shocked, and for now he was able to hold his sword in his right hand, though he was prepared to change and fight with the other if needs be.

As the two men circled each other, Gwyn and John de Wolfe watched anxiously from the side. 'Without that wound, there'd be no doubt, Crowner,' growled the Cornishman. 'I'd wager my last ha'penny on Nicholas. But he's tired after that run-around that Pomeroy gave him, apart from that strike on his sword arm.'

John had his eyes fixed on his brother-in-law. 'He's terrified, but all he's going to do is defend himself and hope that our man flags from exhaustion. I wonder if Nicholas intends to kill him?'

As he spoke, de Arundell — tired of slowly wheeling round his adversary — made a sudden lunge towards de Revelle, who jerked up his shield to take a swinging blow that almost knocked it from his arm. John saw a spasm of pain cross Nicholas's face as the impact radiated up his damaged arm and he was not surprised to see him back off and change his sword and shield to the opposite sides.

Richard de Revelle saw it also and attempting to seize his chance, ran in and struck several blows, all parried by Nicholas's shield. De Revelle tried again, then gave a squeal as the tip of de Arundell's sword slid beneath his guard and jabbed him on the wrist that held the buckler. Nicholas followed up without hesitation and kicked out at Richard's leg as he slammed his own shield against that of the other man. De Revelle staggered backwards and only just regained his balance, before his opponent was on him again, hacking left-handed against the shield, shredding the leather and splintering the underlying wood.

Abruptly, it was all over.

De Revelle suddenly dropped to his knees and sent his sword spinning across the dried mud of the bailey.

Throwing up his arms, one still inside the thong of his shield, he shrieked out the fateful word 'Craven!' Hovering over him, blood now oozing afresh from under his bandage, Nicholas stood with sword upraised.

For a long second, de Wolfe wondered if he was going to bring it down to cleave Richard's skull in half. Then he slowly lowered it and, with a contemptuous shove, put his foot against de Revelle's shoulder and rolled him over on to the cold earth.

In the Bush that night, the trial by battle was the talk at every table, not only at the landlady's place near the hearth. To have one defendant felled by a seizure and the other to make the most abject surrender at the hands of a wounded adversary was unique in everyone's memory.

'What I can't get over is Matilda's behaviour,' confessed de Wolfe, about to attack a trencher carrying a slab of fatty fried pork, with onions and beans around the sides.

'She marched on to the field amid the confusion and went up to her brother and slapped his face! Called him a spineless coward and said she never wanted to see him again.'

The tender-hearted Nesta sighed. 'Oh mercy, that's sad! She was always so proud of her brother when he was sheriff, though he was an evil fellow, as we all know to our cost. But I'm sorry she has been so disillusioned.'

'It will do me no good, though,' said John bitterly. 'The fact that she's fallen out with Richard will inevitably be laid at my door, as it always was in the past. Eventually she'll take delight in accusing me of being the one who got a pardon for Nicholas from the Justiciar and so led her brother into this situation with the royal judges.'

'I thought she was big friends with his wife and had broken with Richard for stealing his manor?' objected Gwyn, sitting opposite with a pig's knuckle and his third quart of ale.

'That won't stop her blaming me for his downfall. Women's minds aren't like ours, Gwyn, they can twist logic any way that suits them!' For that he suffered a sharp kick under the table from Nesta.

'If the world was run by women, it would be a much better and more peaceful place,' she announced tartly. 'All you beasts think of is war and killing and making life intolerable for ordinary folk.'

'That's not always so, though I admit there's some truth in it,' conceded John. 'Take today, Nicholas was magnanimous over his success. He could have spitted Richard on his sword or, being the victor, demanded that he be hanged — but he let him off.'

Thomas, who was hunched at the end of the table, eager to hear all the gossip, shook his head. 'That's not strictly true, Crowner, according to the traditions of 'wager of battle'.'

'Go on then, tell me, fount of all legal knowledge,' challenged John, the events of the day making him good-natured this evening.

'Yes, he could legitimately have slain him any time during the battle, but once he shouted 'craven', his life should be spared, but he would be declared outlaw.'

'Ha! There's natural justice for you,' jeered Gwyn.

'Let the punishment fit the crime. I wonder how he would fare, alone on Dartmoor?'

'But it didn't, did it?' pointed out Nesta. 'He walked away free, without hardly a scratch upon him.'

'The bastard's got a charmed life,' complained Gwyn. 'How many times is it now that he's been caught out in treason, embezzlement and theft, yet manages to slither back to his comfortable manor and a life of ease?'

John had to agree that his officer's analysis was very near the mark. 'But it will cost him dear this time, and I feel he'll keep his head well down for a very long while to come.'

'How will it cost him?' demanded Nesta, and waited for John to explain what had happened that morning.

'When de Revelle submitted, the sheriff and the two justices hurried over to see what should be done.

Nicholas at once announced that he wanted no retribution against either of his adversaries, other than full restitution of himself, his family and his men in Hempston Arundell and a sworn promise that they would never again interfere in his manor. But as part of this settlement, he wanted full compensation for all that had been taken from there during the time that de la Pomeroy and de Revelle had annexed it — all the freeholders' rents, the sales of crops, animals and wool that would have been earned by him had he been in occupancy during that period.'

Thomas's little eyes opened wide. 'That would come to a hefty sum. Can they calculate what is owed to him?'

'All the manor accounts and tallies are there, it seems. The justices, when they agreed to de Arundell's suggestion, gave the sheriff orders to have all the records seized and pored over by clerks familiar with such things — at the expense of Pomeroy and de Revelle. They have two months in which to pay up or they will be hauled back before the court, assuming Henry lives through this.'

'The shock of paying all that money may well give him another seizure,' said Gwyn with some glee.

They continued the gossiping until there was nothing left to be said about the day's excitement. Thomas slid out of the tavern, bent on visiting the cathedral for some silent prayer, and Gwyn rolled off to the castle to play dice with Sergeant Gabriel and his soldiery, diplomatically leaving his master alone with his mistress. They soon found themselves up in her little chamber in the loft and John discovered that the tensions and stresses of the day had done nothing to dampen his ardour when they made love on the wide feather mattress on the floor.

Afterwards, in the dreamy relaxation that followed, the coroner lay on his back staring up at the dark recesses of the spider-haunted roof trusses, just visible in the light from a single candle. With his arm around Nesta's shoulders, he became contemplative about the events of past weeks.

'Most of my problems have gone, thank God,' he reflected with satisfaction. 'I had begun to despair of even finding a common thread between those guildsmen killings, let alone finding the identity of the actual killer.

And now my campaign to get justice for the Arundells has at last succeeded, though it was a finely run thing at the end.'

The auburn-haired landlady nestled closer to his body as they lay under the heavy sheepskins. She could see their breath steaming in the cold air, but even naked as they were, it was warm beneath the covers.

'So what remains to disturb your peace of mind, Sir Crowner?' she asked teasingly.

'Very little — there are hardly any inquests outstanding and Thomas's rolls are up to date for presentation to the next Eyre.' He suddenly scowled up into the gloom.

'Except of course, we have not yet found Geoffrey Trove, and that bastard who assaulted my wife may already have left Devon or even England itself.'

Some time later, afraid that her lover was falling asleep, Nesta prodded him with her elbow.

'Up you get, my man. You can't stay here all night, your dear wife will need your company after such a distressing day.'

He was not sure whether Nesta was being sarcastic, but knowing of her sympathetic nature, he decided she probably meant what she said. In any event, he grumbled his way out of bed and pulled on his clothes, before collecting Brutus from his knuckle bone downstairs and setting off in the freezing evening for home.

Next day, Matilda dragged her husband off to Raden Lane to say farewell to the de Arundells, who were on the eve of leaving for Hempston. They were to meet up next day with all the men who had lived with Nicholas on the moor and were to ride en masse along the River Hems to their manor, which would be their home once again.

Nicholas, his arm in a linen sling, was effusive in his thanks to John de Wolfe and pledged his help in anything that the coroner might need in the future. Lady Joan was tearful in her thanks and, with Matilda watching benignly, even ventured to give him a parting kiss on his bristly black cheek. John wryly wondered what his wife would have said and done if any other woman had done the same in public, especially Nesta — or Hilda of Dawlish. A little cynically, he decided that it took other people's misfortunes to temper their own conflicts, then chided himself for such unkind thoughts when his wife was silently suffering from yet another humiliation caused by her brother.

They left the loving couple and returned to Martin's Lane, where after their noontide dinner Matilda pleaded exhaustion. Indeed, she looked pale and wan, so her usual climb up to her solar was earlier than usual, not even delayed by a cup of wine. John had no duties that afternoon and wandered out into the back yard to seek Mary's company in her kitchen-hut. Flurries of snow were twisting about in the east wind, but there were not enough for snow to settle on the ground. He sat on a stool next to Mary's cooking fire with Brutus at his feet and contentedly sipped from a jar of mulled ale which she had made for him. After talking for a while about the remarkable events in Rougemont the previous day, Mary asked him what would happen to Richard de Revelle now.

'A cat has nothing on my brother-in-law when it comes to nine lives,' he replied cynically. 'He seems to weather every storm, even when they are all of his own making. But after this humiliation, I hope to God he just goes back to his manor and keeps very quiet for a very long time.'

'But he's not long bought a dwelling up on North Gate Street,' objected the raven-haired maid. 'I wonder if he and Lady Eleanor intend to live there some of the time?'

'I doubt he'll want to walk the streets of Exeter for a while, after his shameful exhibition up in Rougemont,' said John with ill-concealed satisfaction. 'If he's any sense of honour, which I doubt, he'll go back to Revelstoke, which is his manor furthest away from this city. If I never see him again, it will be too soon.'

But this uncharitable sentiment was shortly to be confounded.