Bernard Knight - The Grim Reaper

In the afternoon, he returned to the Shire Hall and tried to concentrate on the cases, to keep himself from dwelling on Thomas’s fate.

Near the end of the session Gwyn turned up, surprising de Wolfe by being sober. The Cornishman looked a decade older than he had when de Wolfe had last seen him. Gabriel was behind him and gave a covert shrug towards the coroner, as if to convey that he could do nothing with Gwyn in his present depressed mood. They remained behind when the court emptied, sitting in forlorn silence among the bare tables and benches.

‘It is useless appealing again to those men,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘They say that once a jury has pronounced a verdict, they are powerless to alter it.’

‘Bloody hypocrites — that jury would have said whatever their lordships decreed,’ snarled Gwyn.

De Wolfe uncoiled himself wearily from his stool and stepped down on to the floor of the court. ‘I’m going across to see Thomas now. Are you coming?’

His officer shook his head. ‘I’ll go later — when I’ve gathered the courage to face him.’

When John descended the few steps into the undercroft, Stigand made no attempt to obstruct him and sullenly waddled across to open the gate into the cells with a clinking bunch of keys. Inside was a short passage with a series of cells on either side and the gaoler opened the first door to admit the coroner.

Almost fearfully, de Wolfe squelched through the blackened, wet straw to stand over his clerk, who sat motionless on the edge of the slate slab. A lion in battle, willing to face any adversary with a sword or lance, de Wolfe cringed in any situation such as this: emotion and compassion confused him. Yet when Thomas looked up, it was almost as if the little ex-priest was the one who was ready to give comfort to him, rather than the reverse. He wore a beatific smile and seemed quite at ease. ‘Don’t fret, master, this is what was ordained by our Creator. At least I can’t make a mess of being hanged tomorrow — my cloak is hardly likely to get hooked on the gallows-tree as it did on the cathedral wall.’

His calmness and his attempts at humour almost broke John and only by coughing and choking could he keep his emotions in check.

They spoke together for some time, though Thomas did most of the talking. He told his master of his childhood and his long, lonely schooling in Winchester, of the death of his mother from the same phthisis that had crippled his own back and hip, and of the good days when he had taught at his old school, until his downfall over the girl, who had trapped him into making an innocent advance then alleged that he had ravished her. He told de Wolfe that there was nothing he wanted as his uncle the Archdeacon had already brought him his precious Vulgate. He clasped it in his hands as he spoke. Eventually, there was nothing left to say and, with a promise to see him again on the fateful morrow, John left with a heavy heart, telling Thomas that Gwyn had promised to visit him later that evening.

As he trudged home, he wondered if his officer had some notion of a last-minute rescue. Part of him hoped Gwyn would make some attempt, but common sense told him it would be a futile, disastrous act. The gaol was inside a locked compound, itself in the undercroft, guarded by the gaoler and often a man-at-arms too. The inner ward was impregnable, with a guardroom and sentries always on duty at the gatehouse. The whole castle — indeed, the whole city — knew of Thomas’s conviction, and no trickery or brute force on Gwyn’s part could get them both out of Rougemont then through the city gates. If they did, both would immediately be outlawed, legitimate prey to anyone who wished to kill them and claim a bounty for their heads. And Gwyn had a wife and sons to support, so even the affection he had for the little clerk was surely not worth that sacrifice.

It was early evening and he went home for a subdued meal with Matilda, who again was unusually docile, stealing puzzled glances at him from under her heavy brows as she sensed his distress. Although they spent most of their life together in mutual antagonism, when serious matters oppressed them, they were somehow drawn together, albeit temporarily. When John had broken his leg in combat some months previously, Matilda had nursed him with a fierce solicitude, and when she had suffered acute distress over her brother’s misdeeds, he had pledged and delivered his absolute support.

After the meal he paced the hall restlessly, then announced that he was going to talk to Adam of Dol and possibly the unhinged Ralph de Capra, if he could get into the sickroom of St Nicholas Priory. He also wanted to talk yet again to Julian Fulk about his sudden desire to leave Exeter, but knowing of Matilda’s interest in that particular priest, he avoided mentioning his intention.

The sun was going down as he reached St Mary Steps. The church was deserted once again, so he went round to the living quarters. The incumbent lived in a small house tacked on to the back wall of the church, its door opening on to the terraced cobbles of the hill. It was little more than a single room, with a box-like bed forming one wall. A lean-to shed at the other side provided space for cooking, which was done by an old man who also cleaned the church and rang the bell for devotions.

De Wolfe rapped on the upper half of the split door, which opened to reveal the truculent features of Father Adam. ‘What do you want, Crowner?’

‘To speak to you about de Capra.’

‘What business is it of yours? You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.’

De Wolfe took no umbrage at his manner, accepting that this strange man was incapable of civility. ‘As coroner, I have a duty to inquire into unlawful events. And it seems Ralph de Capra has twice attempted to kill himself, which is a felo de se .’

‘So what are you going to do about it — arrest him? Your own clerk tried to kill himself too, but he wasn’t thrown into prison — though he’s ended up there just the same,’ he added sarcastically. It seemed that he had no intention of letting de Wolfe inside his dwelling, so the coroner had to continue his questioning from the street.

‘What drove de Capra to this desperate state?’

Adam leaned on the door and thrust his florid face almost against John’s nose. ‘None of your concern, Crowner. What passes between two priests by way of confession is not for the ears of you or anyone else on earth. Only God the Father knows what was said.’

‘Was it truly a confession — or just the outpouring of a troubled mind? For I have heard that he had suffered a crisis of faith.’

The priest slammed his big hands on to the door top in temper. ‘Ha! Almost every so-called priest in this pestilent land is suffering from a crisis of faith! A lack of faith in what religion should mean. The failure to tell sinners what lies in store if they fail to repent. These milk-sops are not proper priests, but weak-kneed time-servers, all of them!’

John groaned to himself. He had launched this madman on his favourite obsession and was about to get another hell-fire tirade. ‘Then I’ll go to see de Capra up at St Nicholas’s,’ he said hastily, and backed away to leave a puce-faced Adam waving his arms and ranting about the unrepentant and the fires of damnation.

De Wolfe strode up the uneven steps of the hill and passed both the Saracen and the end of Idle Lane, but resisted the temptation to call in for a pot of ale and the solace of Nesta’s company, though he intended to come back later to the Bush. He crossed Fore Street and wended his way through the mean alleys to St Nicholas Priory, tucked away at the top of Bretayne. The prior, a sour-faced man whose cheeks were pitted with old cow-pox scars, was in the small garden, chastising a young monk for some error in the way he was weeding the vegetable plot.