Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

‘I came to Exeter from Bristol only a month ago, so I’m not yet familiar with the local politics,’ Rufus confessed. The garrison church of St Mary was given to three prebendaries who had brought him in to administer it after the death of his predecessor.

De Wolfe cleared his throat noisily. He had taken a liking to the new chaplain and felt he might make another ally in the castle, in addition to Ralph Morin, who covertly disliked the sheriff as much as John himself.

‘De Revelle and I have a long-standing disagreement,’ he began, markedly understating the situation. ‘Last autumn I was appointed as county coroner. The sheriff agreed to this — perhaps because my wife is his sister — but he wanted someone he could control, and here I have grievously disappointed him.’

‘I heard tell of this new coroner idea in Bristol. Was it not to raise more money for the Lionheart’s ransom and his costly wars?’

‘Partly that — but the King also wanted to curb the sheriffs, who have become more powerful and more corrupt of late. Some of them — one not far from here — supported Prince John in his treacherous attempt to usurp King Richard when he was imprisoned in Germany.’

‘But what has this to do with you two sparring with each other in the Shire Hall this morning?’

De Wolfe sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Brother. When William the Bastard conquered England, he inherited such a complicated legal system from the Saxons, that all his successors have been trying to reform it ever since, especially the second Henry of glorious memory. Now Richard — or, rather, his Justiciar — is offering everyone royal justice, rather than the confusion of lower courts we have now.’

The fat monk took a pull at his pot and wiped his lips on the sleeve of his habit. ‘That sounds very reasonable, so why are you at loggerheads with your brother-in-law?’

‘That’s an even longer story! The sheriff covets unchallenged power in his county and the chance to scoop as much profit as he can into his own purse. He sees the royal courts as a threat to his interests — and as the coroner is responsible for presenting as many cases as possible to the King’s justices, he sees me as an interfering busybody, intent on thwarting his schemes.’ The priest seemed genuinely interested and listened closely to de Wolfe’s explanation of the varied functions he was expected to carry out.

‘There were supposed to be three of us in Devon,’ de Wolfe concluded, ‘but one fell from his horse and killed himself in the first fortnight and the other was a drunken fool who lasted only a few weeks. I’ve been trying to deal with everything — though, praise be to God, a decent knight from Barnstaple is willing to take on the north before long.’

With the lubrication of another pot of ale each, de Wolfe and the monks chatted for some time, John explaining the multitude of tasks that a coroner was expected to perform, from taking the confessions of those abjuring the realm, to investigating house fires, burglaries and catches of the royal fish — whales and sturgeon — to witnessing Ordeals, viewing corpses, and enquiring into rapes and assaults.

The garrison chaplain proved to be an intelligent and astute fellow, asking sensible questions at intervals during the coroner’s explanation, but eventually they were interrupted by heavy feet clumping up the stone stairs and Gwyn thrust his huge frame through the sacking that hung over the doorway. ‘The Jews are waiting outside, Crowner,’ he growled, looking askance at the fat monk who sat drinking his own ale.

De Wolfe downed the rest of his pot and stood up. ‘Come with me, Brother. Perhaps you can advise me as this is a matter of religion — though a different one from yours.’

Two figures were standing just below the drawbridge of the castle, as the sentry under the gate-arch was unwilling to let them enter the bailey. One was a thin young man with a full black beard, his curly hair capped by a bowl-shaped helmet of embroidered felt. A long black tunic like a cassock enveloped him and a pack strapped to his shoulders gave an impression of a hunchback. He held the hand of a frail woman of about his own age, whose smooth olive face had the look of a sad angel. A Saxon-style coverchief was wrapped around her head, secured by a band across her forehead, the white cloth flowing down her back over a plain brown dress. In the background, a mule and a donkey with a side-saddle were being held by three men, their garb and appearance marking them as Jewish, presumably from Exeter itself.

Gwyn stepped forward and, in a strangely gentle voice, announced that the young woman was Ruth, Aaron’s daughter, and the man her husband David.

De Wolfe explained to the silent and impassive pair what had happened. ‘Had he any enemies that you know of?’ he asked the daughter.

Ruth’s brown eyes lifted to meet the coroner’s. ‘Almost everyone is our enemy, sir. Since my mother and brother were slain in York, we live in constant fear. But I know of no particular person who would wish to kill my father.’

‘We saw him but rarely,’ added David. ‘Though Honiton is not far off, travelling is hazardous, especially for such as we Jews. Everyone thinks we carry great sacks of gold with us,’ he added bitterly.

‘Are you in the same way of business?’ asked the monk.

‘There is little else for us now. Since the Crusades began, we have lost our chance to trade in commodities from the East. We are only allowed to be usurers, which is forbidden to Christians — though some seem to manage it. We are but sponges to soak up money from the people, then we are squeezed flat to return it into the royal coffers.’

De Wolfe did not wish the conversation to move into seditious paths so raised the matter of the burial. ‘Your father was buried yesterday with dignity outside the city walls in the plot reserved for Jews. We understood that you prefer there to be as little delay as possible. I understand that several of your faith from the city were there to offer whatever last rites you use. You are free either to leave him there or to remove him elsewhere.’

David looked at his wife then turned back to the coroner. ‘We thank you for your concern, sir. It is seldom that anyone accords us such consideration. We have decided to leave Aaron where he is, as we have nowhere better to take him.’

Brother Rufus laid a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Do you need any further requiem to be said over the grave? Have you anyone who can help you in this matter?’

David nodded sadly. ‘If we could be shown where the body lies, we can say our own few words over it. Then, later, we can bring some of our own elders from Southampton to join with the local Jews to carry out the proper ceremony.’

They thanked de Wolfe gravely once more and took their leave. John and the chaplain stood watching the pathetic little group walk down the hill from the castle gate, the woman perched on her donkey, the man leading his mule behind her as they vanished into the high street. ‘He’s right. Every man’s hand is against them,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘We use them badly in this country but they are far worse off in others. They are forbidden to engage in trade, and when they lend money, they are reviled by everyone, even though their customers are only too glad to use their services.’

‘Did the wife say her mother died at York?’ asked the priest.

‘Yes, in that madness of ’eighty-nine, when most of England rose up in hysteria against them. Just because some well-meaning Jews in London wished to give presents to the new King at his coronation, a riot started that spread right across England. She must have been one of those hundred and fifty who died besieged in York castle — many by their own hand or by those of their menfolk, rather than be captured.’