Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

The cathedral bell rang dolefully in the distance and reminded de Wolfe that he had another task to perform before he could ride to Sidbury. ‘I have to attend an Ordeal now, Brother. I must collect my clerk to record the result.’

The portly monk turned back with the coroner to cross the drawbridge. ‘I am summoned as priest too, so I’ll walk with you. I hear that Rome is becoming more discontented with our attendance at these ancient rituals, saying they smack of necromancy, not justice. I suspect that before long the Holy Father will ban our participation in them.’ fn1

‘The sooner the better,’ grunted John. ‘They are complete nonsense, sheer black magic! Whenever I can, I try to persuade appealers to go for jury trial in the King’s courts. It makes more sense and it’s better for the Exchequer.’

He called at the Shire Hall on the way to drag the morose Thomas from his scribing on the empty platform and they made their way to the undercroft of the keep, which housed the castle gaol. It was a damp, squalid chamber, partly below ground level, with a wet earth floor beneath the gloomy arches that supported the building above. It was divided into two halves by a line of rusty bars, one of which housed a row of prison cells beyond a creaking gate. The rest was open, part-storehouse, part-torture chamber, ruled by Stigand, a grossly obese Saxon, who lived in squalor in an alcove formed by one of the arches. This morning, his task was to set up the apparatus for the Ordeal, a test of guilt or innocence that de Wolfe and many other intelligent people thought utter nonsese. But it was hallowed by time and still approved by most of the population, who were usually unwilling to exchange this unChristian soothsaying for the more logical process of a jury trial.

John swung round to the trailing Thomas, who trudged dejectedly behind, his writing pouch slung from the shoulder of his threadbare black tunic. ‘Who did you say was the subject today?’ he barked.

‘A man accused of stealing a sword from the shop of Nicholas Trove, a burgess from North Street, who runs an armourer’s business. Nicholas appealed him to the Shire Court last month, when he was attached with sureties of five marks to appear here today.’

‘At least he didn’t vanish into the forest in the meanwhile, so he must think he has a chance of proving his innocence,’ de Wolfe gruntd to Brother Rufus.

They went down the few steps into the dismal chamber and when their eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, saw a group of people clustered in the centre, below the low ceiling, which dripped turbid water from the slime-covered stones. The gaoler had a charcoal fire burning in a latticed iron brazier, which he was blowing with a pair of bellows. Stigand’s breathing was almost as noisy as his bellows, as he bent over his vast stomach which was covered with a stained leather apron. His piggy features were contorted with the effort of blowing sufficient air into his fire to make the shaped lumps of metal on top glow red-hot.

Watching him with varying degrees of patience were Richard de Revelle, Sergeant Gabriel and two of his men-at-arms, the latter grasping between them the subject of the ghoulish ceremony, a porter from Bretayne by the name of Matthew Bezil. As de Wolfe, Thomas and the monk approached, they were followed by the complainant, Nicholas Trove. He was a red-faced, angry-looking man, short-necked and short-tempered. At that moment, his mood had much in common with the sheriff’s.

‘Stigand, for God’s sake, hurry up!’ snapped de Revelle. ‘I’ve got better things to do than stand here while you puff away at the damned fire. Surely they’re hot enough now?’ He pointed impatiently at the iron ploughshares glowing on top of the brazier.

The gaoler hoisted himself upright with an effort, his bloated face almost purple. ‘They’ll do, Sheriff. I’ll set them out now.’

With a long tongs, he took a glowing ploughshare from the fire and set it over a flat stone embedded in the mud of the floor. A line of nine carefully spaced stones, each a pace apart, ran across the undercroft and as quickly as his shambling gait allowed, Stigand set a series of the triangular lumps of hot iron on each one.

‘Now, before they cool too much, damn you, get moving,’ snarled the sheriff. Everyone present, except the accused, was yawningly familiar with the procedure and wanted the charade over as quickly as possible.

The guards jerked Matthew across to stand immediately before the first ploughshare and released his arms. Brother Rufus made the Sign of Cross in the air and murmured something in Latin as Matthew gritted his teeth and with a yell of defiance, ran as if the devil was behind him, jumping from iron to iron in a gliding, springing movement he had obviously been practising for weeks to make the least possible contact with the smoking metal. His banshee wail lasted the whole nine steps and at the end he stumbled and fell in a heap on the fouled earth.

Stigand had moved to that end, where he had previously left a leather bucket of dirty water, which he promptly threw over Matthew Bezil’s feet — the fellow had paid him twopence in advance for the privilege.

The groups of observers moved towards him, carefully avoiding the sizzling ploughshares. Standing in a circle, they looked down at the man as if they were an audience after a cockfight, critically examining the result of the contest.

Bezil rolled over on to his back and Gabriel hoisted up both legs so that the soles of his feet could be seen. Stigand lit a bundle of rushes soaked in pitch at the brazier and held it near to give a better light.

There was silence while the experts critically regarded the calloused skin of Matthew’s flat feet.

‘They look clear to me,’ muttered Brother Rufus at length.

‘The man’s been hardening them off for weeks, by the looks of it,’ objected the sheriff.

‘There’s no law against that,’ retorted de Wolfe, always ready to contradict his brother-in-law.

In fact, since electing to undergo the Ordeal, rather than a trial by jury, Bezil had spent a month in running the streets barefoot, had passed hours chafing his soles against a rough flagstone and rubbing in a concoction of oak-galls and tannin. As a result, the skin was twice as thick as normal and of the consistency of old leather.

‘That’s not legal, having feet like that,’ howled Nicholas Trove. ‘He should have undergone a different Ordeal — like that of water or molten lead.’

‘He was given the Nine Ploughshares at the court, so that’s what he got,’ growled de Wolfe.’ You can’t change the rules now, if they don’t suit you.’

It was obvious, even to the sceptical sheriff and the outraged complainant, that Matthew’s feet bore not a trace of burns — though perhaps Stigand’s bucket of water had delayed the appearance of redness that was usually inevitable, even if scorching and blistering failed to appear.

De Wolfe called out to his clerk, who had squatted in readiness before an empty cask, on which he had spread his writing materials. Thomas had a ferocious scowl on his pinched face and his lips were moving in some soundless litany, unrelated to the events around him.

‘Record that Matthew Bezil underwent the Ordeal of ploughshares and his innocence caused his feet to reject the hot iron,’ he said, trying to conceal his cynicism.

Thomas scratched away with his quill, still muttering under his breath.

For a moment, John’s mind wandered from the Ordeal to wonder why his clerk was acting so oddly these days, but then he recovered himself. ‘Record also that Nicholas Trove falsely appealed the said Matthew Bezil in accusing him of the theft of a sword and is therefore amerced in the sum of two marks.’

The armourer howled in protest that he had not only lost his sword but now had to pay its value as a fine. Though the coroner felt some sympathy for him, he used the fiasco to promote his cause of encouraging the use of the king’s courts — and to further irritate his brother.