Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

With a sorrowful expression, Clement admitted that he knew there was friction between John de Wolfe and his wife, for he had several times heard violent arguments going on in their hall. This aroused a murmur of interest among the crowd, and many heads turned to stare at John.

‘You actually heard such disputes?’ demanded de Courtenay. ‘How could that be?’

‘Their house stands immediately on to the lane, sir. The window shutters allow the sound of voices to escape.’ He looked crestfallen, but assumed an air of righteous honesty. ‘On one occasion my own wife was present with me and can confirm what I say.’

‘Perhaps we should hear from her later,’ said the acting coroner. ‘But for now, did you hear what was said?’

‘I cannot recall the words, but it was of an angry, threatening nature,’ replied Clement.

Richard de Revelle was moving restlessly from foot to foot, desperate to have his say, and now he saw his opportunity.

‘I can confirm what the good doctor has testified,’ he declared, moving to the centre, directly in front of de Courtenay. ‘I repeat what I said just now — I called to see my sister last evening and found him standing over the body. As I entered the hall, he turned upon me and drew a dagger!’

‘Did he attack you with it?’

‘He was very threatening, but I remonstrated with him and he threw it on the floor.’

‘You bloody liar, Richard!’ called de Wolfe from the side, but the coroner held up a restraining hand as de Revelle continued his tale.

‘As Clement of Salisbury has said, my brother-in-law has repeatedly threatened his wife and quite recently, in my presence, I heard him promise to kill her! I am sure that their servants will confirm this.’

This provoked a loud ripple of muttering across the audience, which was strengthened when Lucille, Mary and Cecilia were called to be questioned.

Cecilia did her best to be non-committal, but when directly asked by Aubrey de Courtenay if she backed up her husband’s allegation, she reluctantly agreed that on one occasion, when passing their next-door neighbour’s window, she had heard a noisy altercation between Sir John and his wife.

‘But I am sure it was no more than the frequent raising of voices that occurs between man and wife,’ she added, trying to mitigate the damage that was being caused.

Mary the cook-maid was similarly reticent and gave evidence so grudgingly that the coroner had to warn her that she might be in trouble if she told less than the truth. Under this duress, Mary was forced to admit that her master and mistress sometimes had differences of opinion that developed into raised voices, but that she never heard Sir John ever seriously threaten his wife. It was Lucille who did the most damage, in that her evidence related to the time of the killing.

Looking like a frightened rabbit, she stood frail and shivering before the crowd as she related her knowledge of the previous evening.

‘The mistress and I had come home from church and I was folding her outdoor clothing in the solar upstairs,’ she whispered with chattering teeth. When de Courtenay barked at her to speak up, she almost fainted from fright but managed to get out the rest of her story.

‘The mistress was in the hall, taking some wine and cold meats that Mary had left for her, as the cook had gone to visit her cousin. Between the solar and the hall is a small window-slit, high up on the wall. I could hear voices and soon one was raised in anger, but I often heard them arguing or in violent contention, so I took little notice.’

‘Could you hear what was being said?’ demanded the coroner.

Lucille shook her head. ‘No, sire, I was busy packing garments into a chest at the other end of the solar. It was just a distant noise of voices.’

‘Did you recognise who was speaking, then?’ asked de Courtenay irritably.

Lucille managed to shrug her drooping shoulders. ‘I thought it was the master, as they often shouted at one another. Who else would it be, in the hall alone at night with Lady Matilda?’

This time a buzz of excitement gripped the audience, and men and women were turning to stare openly at John de Wolfe. For his part, John listened to the litany of accusers with a sinking heart. Unless he was careful — or fortunate — he was going to be condemned by default of any contrary evidence on his behalf.

‘You wish to deny anything that we have heard, Sir John?’ demanded de Courtenay, in a tone that suggested that he was not really concerned with any disclaimers but was required to go through the tiresome motions.

De Wolfe strode to the front again, flinging his black cloak over one shoulder in a dramatic gesture.

‘Deny? Of course I deny!’ he roared. ‘I have heard some travesties of the truth in my time as coroner, but never such a concoction of nonsense as this!’

‘You are saying that you never had violent disagreements with your wife, the latest last night, as heard by her handmaiden?’ asked de Courtenay in a tone that conveyed his incredulity.

‘That was not me who the stupid girl heard!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘She may well have heard voices through that slit, but they certainly did not include mine. My wife was dead when I arrived.’

‘She said she heard you!’ brayed de Revelle, breaking in from a few feet away.

‘She did not say that! She assumed it was me, because she expected any voice at that time and place to have been mine.’

Aubrey de Courtenay returned to chip away at John’s denials. ‘But your neighbour — and his wife — say they have heard you shouting at your wife in anger, as did your own cook-maid. And Sir Richard here claims you threatened to kill your wife in his presence. Do you say that they are all liars?’

De Wolfe fumed in impotence at being unable to forcefully deny what had been said.

‘They were idle words, uttered in temper, without true meaning! Every husband and wife falls out with each other from time to time; it would be unnatural to do otherwise!’

‘So you admit to often having angry scenes with your wife?’

‘They were not often, as you imply. I will admit that she was a difficult woman and our views on many things were sometimes at variance.’

‘Like your frequent infidelities that drove my poor sister twice into a convent,’ cried Richard.

John rounded angrily on his brother-in-law. ‘If you wish to trade personal insults and evidence of infidelity, I can supply details of seeing you with whores in the sheriff’s chamber — and recall that I once rescued you from a burning brothel!’

Aubrey de Courtenay held up his hands to restrain the two men from coming to blows, and Sergeant Gabriel moved nearer, motioning two of his men-at-arms to close in.

‘Enough of this! It is unseemly to rake up past happenings, except where they are relevant to this inquest,’ exclaimed the Dorset coroner, getting up from his chair and wrapping his dusty cloak around him. ‘It is an appropriate point for us to view the deceased, as the law directs. Both myself and the jury will satisfy ourselves that the cadaver is indeed that of Matilda de Wolfe and that she has injuries upon her consistent with the facts that have been heard.’

He led a procession of the score of jurors across the inner bailey towards the tiny church of St Mary, which stood to the left of the gatehouse. It was little more than a stone box with a small bell-arch at one end of the roof and a simple porch on one of the side walls. Gabriel’s soldiers kept back the rest of the onlookers, but the front row followed the jury, including the sheriff, constable, archdeacon and portreeves. As the acting coroner neared the chapel door, the portly monk Brother Rufus hurried ahead of him to open it, as he was the garrison chaplain and incumbent of St Mary’s.