Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

By this time De Wolfe was also looking down and could confirm Gwyn’s words. Two tall erect men, with light surcoats over their tunics, rode finely caparisoned horses up the slope, followed by a pair of esquires and six mounted soldiers. The latter wore round iron helmets, but none of the party wore mailed hauberks or aventails, which would have been intolerable in this hot weather. The surcoats of the men in front bore armorial devices, which were repeated on pennants attached to the lances carried by the two leading men-at-arms.

De Wolfe almost leapt to the doorway and clattered down the steps at a speed that risked his neck on the steep, twisting stairway.

At the bottom, he was just in time to meet the riders as they came under the gatehouse arch, where Sergeant Gabriel, almost speechless at this sudden visitation, was sending his guards to fetch ostlers and take a message to summon Ralph Morin.

John saluted the two men, both of whom he knew well. They hauled themselves wearily from their horses and greeted him with a grasp of the forearm.

‘I’d kill for a jug of ale, John,’ were the first words of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil and the most powerful soldier in England and Normandy. The other man was Sir Walter de Ralegh, a Devon man who was now one of the King’s judges and who had led the last Eyre of Assize in Exeter only a couple of months previously.

‘Come across to the hall, you can take your ease there,’ said John, still reeling from the seniority of the men who had come in response to his plea.

‘Is that bloody man de Revelle there?’ barked de Ralegh, an elderly man whose face seemed carved from granite.

Before he could answer, pounding feet brought the castle constable across the bailey. Ralph Morin was as dumbfounded as John by the exalted visitors who had just arrived. He also knew both men, as in the past they had all served in the same campaigns.

Ralph had heard the last remark and, after a hasty greeting, waved them towards the keep. ‘The sheriff went to Tiverton yesterday, he dare not neglect Lady Eleanor any longer. He said he would be back in the morning.’

With the two squires in tow and the men-at-arms taken off to barracks to eat and drink, the party made their way to the keep, through a ragged line of soldiers and their families, who came out to doff their caps, touch their foreheads and even give an odd cheer, as William Marshal had long been a popular figure in the land, especially among the military. Now in his late forties, he had already served two kings well — and if the future could have been foreseen, was to serve another two, as well as becoming Regent of England. He had a long face, like his younger brother, Bishop Henry Marshal, who owed his ecclesiastical promotion to royal gratitude for his sibling’s ability.

They went into Morin’s chamber at the other end of the hall and sat down, servants crowding in after them with wine, ale and food. There were too few seats for everyone and the squires, silent young men with blond hair, went back out into the hall to take their refreshments.

‘I’ll arrange for your accommodation, though this bloody place is so small,’ apologised Morin. ‘You can have my quarters, Lord William, and I’ll find somewhere for you, Sir Walter.’

The Devon-bred baron held up a hand. ‘No, we’ll not stay here. I’ve been to Exeter often enough as a commissioner or a justice to know that the New Inn is the best place, not this miserable stone box. It might have been good enough for William the Bastard years ago, but times have moved on!’

William Marshal agreed, after sinking at least a pint of ale in one long swallow. ‘In any case, I don’t feel it politic to share our lodgings with the man we’ve come to investigate.’

As the ale and wine flowed and the plates of meat pastries and chicken legs emptied, John learned how these two senior men had come to travel to Exeter at his behest.

‘Your letter arrived and thankfully Hubert Walter was still in Winchester. He thinks well of you, John, and knew that you were not one to cry “wolf” where there was no real need.’

Walter de Ralegh, another tall man with iron-grey hair, took up the tale. ‘The justiciar called me to him and told me to get down here to see what was going on, as I am familiar with the area and certainly have my own knowledge of de Revelle from some of his past escapades. Hubert said he would have come himself, but he was committed to going to Northampton and then on to London and Canterbury this week.’

The Marshal’s cool grey eyes fixed on the coroner. ‘You are well known for your faithful service to King Richard, de Wolfe. You proved this in Palestine and when you did your best for him in Vienna. Not many men would have got the Chief Justiciar to consider coming at your call.’

John warmed at the words, but they prompted a question. ‘Thank you, but how did you become involved in this?’

William gave a wry smile. ‘By being in the right place at the wrong time, I suppose! I am with the King in France for most of the year, but try to get back to Chepstow now and then to see my wife Isobel and attend to my lands in Wales. I was just returning to Normandy, having to go to Winchester on the way — and walked into this problem of yours. Hubert suggested that I take the sea route from here or Plymouth, instead of Portsmouth, so that I could accompany Walter here on his mission.’

‘And maybe call upon your brother at the same time,’ added de Ralegh, rather mischievously.

William grunted. ‘I’ll call upon him, surely. But in the course of duty, rather than fraternal affection. Henry and I do not often see eye to eye.’ He belched after his hasty consumption of rich food and ale. ‘In fact, I will call upon him this evening, to see what the fellow has been up to this time, before we begin our deliberations tomorrow.’

For the next hour, de Wolfe recounted all that had been happening in Exeter over the previous few weeks, repeating and expanding upon the facts that he had given in his letter to the justiciar. The two barons listened gravely and had a number of penetrating questions for John, which showed that they were well aware of the seriousness of the situation. At the end, when they were ready to go down to their lodgings in Exeter’s largest inn in the high street, William Marshal leaned forward and tapped de Wolfe on the knee. ‘Crowner, I think you should get this knight, Henry de Furnellis, along in the morning. It looks to me as if by tomorrow Devon might be needing a replacement for its sheriff!’

The proceedings on that fateful Monday were fragmentary, as the varying issues needed different people at different venues.

They began in the morning with William Marshal and Walter de Ralegh going to see the bishop. This was a private meeting at the bishop’s palace behind the cathedral and although John de Alençon and several other canons, including the precentor, succentor and treasurer, were called in later, the coroner could only guess at what transpired. Even his good friend the archdeacon was placed under a constraint of confidentiality, so that he could not divulge anything to de Wolfe. One result of the meeting was that Gilbert de Bosco was forced to appear at the coroner’s inquests later in the day.

Richard de Revelle rode in during the morning and though de Wolfe deliberately kept well clear of him until the formal proceedings began, he learned later from Ralph Morin that the sheriff was shocked to learn that no less a notability than the Marshal of England had arrived to enquire into his misdeeds, together with a senior royal justice.

De Revelle attempted to speak privately with them, but like the coroner, they declined to compromise themselves with him until the matters were dealt with officially. Richard then shut himself in his office with Roscelin de Sucote and refused to see anyone.