Bernard Knight - The Manor of Death

'Henry Crik, I declare you wilfully 'mute of malice'. The law has prescribed a treatment for this sad condition, the peine forte et dure .' He waved a hand at the gaoler. 'Show him the plates, Stigand.'

The obese man went to the side of the alcove and, wheezing with the effort, picked up a heavy iron plate about eighteen inches square. He took it over to the sheriff, and de Furnellis hit the rusty metal with the hilt of his dagger, producing a dull thud.

'To encourage your memory to return and to loosen your tongue, we can tie you down to these rings and place this plate upon your chest. If you still feel unable to tell me what I wish to know, then Stigand here can fetch another — and another. We have no shortage of iron, I assure you.'

'You can't do this to me, it's not allowed!' howled Crik, turning pale with fright.

De Furnellis made a show of turning around and staring about the undercroft. 'Can you see anyone here who says I can't? I am the sheriff of this county and there is no one this side of Winchester who can prevent me.'

Crik made one more attempt to call his bluff, but at a sign from the crafty old sheriff Stigand dropped the plate with a clang and went to pick up some lengths of rope, which he began to thread through the rings on the floor. Sweating, Henry Crik began to weigh up which form of death he must choose. He, like most people, knew exactly what the peine forte et dure meant — increasing pressure on the chest, inability to breathe, blueness of the face and lips, burst blood vessels in the face and eyes — and eventually a horrible death from asphyxia.

If he confessed, he would be convicted and hanged — but because of the tardiness of the courts, that might be some time away, and many prisoners escaped, either by bribing the gaolers or escaping to claim sanctuary or to vanish into the forest to become outlaws. As his guards jerked him towards the rings, he suddenly broke and screamed out that he would talk.

'Too late, Crik. I can't deprive my gaoler of his sport. He might lose his touch if he fails to get enough practice.'

The wily sheriff had no intention of torturing the man, but he knew that an extra dose of terror would ensure that Crik did not change his mind.

Just as Stigand held up a rope to tie around the screaming man's wrists, the other Henry clapped his palms together to halt-the charade.

'Give him once last chance, then. Crik, I want everything you know, or you'll be tied down on that floor! '

It took the rest of the day to squeeze the truth from the crowd of suspects and for Thomas to write down all the facts and confessions on his rolls. Once Crik had broken and implicated others, it was just a matter of time and threats to extract the truth about the long-running conspiracy in Axmouth.

The proceedings were interrupted in the afternoon by the arrival of the Prior of Loders with his chaplain and cellarer. They had ridden as fast as their horses could travel to bring them to the rescue of their brother Absalom. Behind him was Archdeacon John de Alençon, whom the prior had roused out of the cathedral before coming to the castle. Robert of Montebourg was in a state of high indignation at the arrest of his servant, and when he saw him in such a bedraggled state, shackled like a common criminal, he became incandescent with rage.

'Release him at once, sir! He is a cleric, albeit in lower orders, but still immune from the secular power! What are you thinking of, treating him like a felon!'

Henry de Furnellis was unmoved. 'Because he is a felon, prior! He has admitted it from his own mouth, and you are welcome to read the confession that Brother Thomas here has written for consideration by the king's justices.'

The prior angrily scanned the parchment that Thomas handed to him, then deflated like a pricked pig's bladder. He strode over to the hapless lay brother and glared at him. 'Is this true, Absalom? Have you been deceiving me?'

The man's sullen scowl and his silence were enough for the prior. He gave Absalom a resounding slap across the face and marched back to confront the sheriff. 'Nevertheless, it is not seemly that one of the priory's brothers should be held in this place. I want him released into my custody,' he demanded.

'And that would be the last we or the court would see of him, eh?' said de Furnellis stubbornly. 'He is party to piracy and murder. He must be called to account, like the others.'

As it seemed an impasse, John de Alençon stepped forward to intervene. 'I see both points of view, gentlemen. I suggest that this clerk is transferred to the custody of our cathedral proctors. We have secure cells in the cathedral Close and robust men to guard them, until the bishop and the prior come to some agreement as to how the matter should be resolved.'

Rather grudgingly, the sheriff agreed, and two soldiers unshackled Absalom and took him stumbling out after the churchmen.

De Furnellis turned back to the line of prisoners, now wilting badly after their long ordeal. 'Right, now let's hear from you, Martin Rof — unless you want a hundredweight of iron to keep your chest warm!'

With Henry de Furnellis in such an unusually bullish mood, John had been more than content to stay in the background. He felt somehow remote from what was going on, his mind full of images of Nesta. The years they had had together now seemed like some dream, already fading but shot through with clear images of times they had made love or had sat together in the warm fug of the Bush's taproom, as well as the several crises that had bonded them even closer. As he stood in the dank undercroft, the yells from the prisoners and the bark of the sheriff's voice faded in and out as he recalled learning that Nesta was with child, then the loss of the babe, her attempt at drowning herself — and the time when she came near to being hanged as a witch, let alone her close escape from death when the Bush was set on fire.

The many hours and the frequent nights that he had spent in her little cubicle screened off from the public loft wafted in and out of his consciousness as he stood alongside Gwyn in Stigand's domain, half-listening to the cries, the pleas and the protests of the men from Axmouth.

The sheriff's voice snapped him out of his reverie and he pulled himself together, chiding his own inattention at such an important point in their investigation.

'The bastards are contradicting themselves and starting to accuse each other, John, which is just what we need. But I'm getting confused about who did what, so I hope your clerk is making more sense of it than I am!'

Poor Thomas, now seated on a box dragged from one of the alcoves, was sitting where he could get enough light from the doorway to write on the parchment resting on a board across his knees. A pot of home-made ink rested precariously on one corner, and he was scribbling away as fast as he could.

'Are you getting the gist of this down, Thomas?' said de Wolfe, leaning over his shoulder. He saw an irregular series of marks, which although he could not read looked different from his clerk's usually immaculate script.

'It is my own method of making brief notes, master,' answered the harassed Thomas. 'Everyone is speaking too quickly for me to record it verbatim; it is not like dictation. But afterwards I will transcribe it into a fair copy for you — and presumably the Justices in Eyre.'

'Well said, Thomas!' cut in the sheriff. 'This is getting so damned complicated that I suggest we should keep the sods locked up and push the whole problem over to the king's judges or the Commissioners, when they next come to the city.'

When all the half-dozen prisoners had been interrogated and shouted at sufficiently, they were forcibly herded back into the cells. The law officers and their assistants adjourned to the hall upstairs for some refreshment and to discuss what they had learnt. The sheriff commandeered one of the long tables, clearing off the people who had been sitting there, and the castle constable yelled at some servants to bring them food and drink.