Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

‘The Jews are coming this morning about the body,’ Thomas reminded him, ‘and you have an approver to hear at the Shire Court.’ The coroner was required to take a confession from an ‘approver’, an accused or convicted person who was attempting to save his neck by turning king’s evidence against his fellow accomplices.

Gwyn scratched his groin vigorously. ‘That Ordeal is on, too,’ he rumbled. ‘The liar who claimed he bought that sword, not stole it.’

De Wolfe swore under his breath — he would be lucky to get away by noon, which meant he would not be back in Exeter before the gates were shut at curfew. Another night away from home would mean more whines and sulks from Matilda. Then a happier thought struck him: Sidbury was near Sidmouth, a coincidence that might prove interesting, especially if he was to be away all night.

But first the day had to be got through and the first chore was his brother-in-law’s Shire Court. Normally it was convened every fortnight, but extra sessions were being hurriedly arranged in preparation for the arrival of the royal judges the following week, as all pending cases had to be presented before them.

An hour later, the trio crossed Rougemont’s bustling inner ward to the Shire Hall, the bare court-house where de Wolfe had held the inquest on Aaron. Several cases had been dealt with already, either by Richard de Revelle or Ralph Morin, the castle constable, who sat on the platform in front of a posse of scribes. Also present was the obligatory priest, who today was the new garrison chaplain, an amiable monk called Brother Rufus.

Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle garrison, led in the next prisoner dragged from the stinking gaol under the keep. With rusty irons on his wrists and ankles, he was brought to stand below the middle of the dais. Lice were crawling on his neck and one ear-lobe had a festering rat-bite, signs of a prolonged stay in the cells.

The sheriff, lounging in the only chair on the platform, waved a hand carelessly at de Wolfe. ‘This one’s yours, John,’ he drawled, managing to sound offensive even when the words were outwardly polite.

De Wolfe came to the edge of the platform to stand over the wretched prisoner. He hovered above him, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Eadric of Alphington, you have been accused of robbing Roger Lamb on the high road near Alphington on the day of St Jude’s fair, taking his purse containing seven shillings’ worth of pennies, making off with his horse and causing a grievous wound to his head that almost killed him.’

The Saxon, a surly-looking man in his late twenties, glared up at the coroner through a mane of dirty blond hair that tangled over his face. ‘I admit I was there, but I had no part in the robbery.’

There was a sigh of impatience from the sheriff, who was tapping his heel restlessly with a short silver-topped staff. ‘Stop this mummery and send the damned fellow to be hanged!’ he muttered audibly.

De Wolfe ignored him and glared back at the prisoner. ‘You claim you wish to turn approver. You cannot do that unless you confess your crime to me.’

‘How can I confess to something I didn’t do?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘It’s your choice, fellow. You can go back to your cell and await your trial, if you so wish.’

Faced with the near-certainty of conviction and the gallows, Eadric took but a moment to decide. ‘I can confess to my part in the affair, Crowner, but the others were the real villains.’

With Thomas de Peyne at the table behind them, writing as fast as he could, the coroner intoned the ritual formalities of the confession. Then the bedraggled Saxon grudgingly described how he and two fellow villagers had left the fair considerably the worse for drink. While they were stumbling along the main road between Exeter and Alphington, a merchant overtook them on a bay horse and abused them for getting in his way. According to Eadric’s version, the rider struck one of the others with his whip and a brawl ensued. The merchant was pulled from his horse and hit his head on the road, being rendered unconscious. Eadric claimed that he was a mere spectator of this fracas and protested when his companions, afraid that they had killed the merchant, took his purse and horse and vanished into the trees.

The victim had recovered rapidly and denounced Eadric to a party of riders who appeared around a bend in the road.

‘They seized me and beat me, holding me until the bailiff of the Hundred came. He bound me and I was dragged here to prison. But it was the others who did the evil, leaving me behind to take the blame. And I can name them!’ Eadric declared.

‘A likely tale!’ sneered the sheriff. ‘Send the liar back to his cell, John.’

Although, for once, the coroner was inclined to agree with his brother-in-law, he ignored his interruption and concentrated on the prisoner. ‘An approver is supposed to challenge his accomplices to combat to the death. If you win, you can abjure the realm. But you’ll have to fight two men, one after the other.’

Eadric scowled up at de Wolfe. ‘I’ll take my chances, Crowner.’

‘There is another way for you. Instead of combat, which you are likely to lose against two others, you could choose to be tried by a jury of your fellows in the King’s court before his Justices.’

There was a sudden scrape as Richard de Revelle pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. ‘Indeed he cannot! He must appear before this court — my court.’

De Wolfe glared down at the sheriff, who was half a head shorter. ‘By my taking his confession, he has placed himself within the coroner’s jurisdiction. And I have a duty, granted by our king through his Justiciar, to offer the justice of the royal courts to anyone accused of a serious crime, such as this.’

De Revelle’s pointed beard quivered and his normally pallid face flushed with rage. ‘Don’t start all this again, damn you,’ he hissed.

John was unperturbed by the sheriff’s fury. ‘This was a grievous assault, maybe even attempted murder. It should not have been dealt with in the Shire Court in the first place, but presented to the Eyre, as I have suggested.’

De Revelle glared around the hall, and saw the clerks’ ears were flapping, and the few spectators waiting hopefully for a first-class row between the two most senior law officers in the county. ‘I’ll not bandy words with you in public, John,’ he snarled. ‘We’ll thrash this out later in my chamber.’ Abruptly, he turned and, with his smart green cloak flying behind him, hurried to the step at the end of the platform and vanished in the direction of the keep.

Sergeant Gabriel, trying to keep the grin off his face, prodded the Saxon towards the archway. ‘I’ll send him back to Stigand’s tender care, Crowner, while he makes up his mind.’ Stigand was the brutish oaf who tended the dreadful castle gaol.

There were no other cases and the participants broke up to go their various ways. De Wolfe found himself walking back towards the gatehouse with Brother Rufus, who held Masses for the castle inhabitants in the tiny chapel of St Mary across the other side of the inner ward. His black Benedictine habit bulged around his tubby body and his shaven head shone in the morning sun as if it had been wax-polished.

‘Why the harsh words between you and the sheriff?’ asked the priest, always ready for some gossip.

‘Come up to my chamber for a jar of ale, Father, and I’ll tell you.’

Thomas was still writing up his rolls in the court and Gwyn had gone down to the town to look for the Jew’s daughter, so John was glad of some company at his morning libation.

After the rotund monk had puffed up the steep stairs in the gatehouse, they sat at the table with a mug each, filled from Gwyn’s pitcher.