Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

They all filed in, half-filling the small nave, which was separated from the tiny chancel by only a step up from the earthen floor. In front of the linen-covered table that served as the altar, a bier on four stout legs bore a shape shrouded in a crimson velvet cloth.

Sergeant Gabriel, who was carrying out all the duties that Gwyn normally performed, stepped behind it and folded down the red drape to expose Matilda’s head and neck. The jury solemnly shuffled past, peering at her face, which seemed to repose quite peacefully in death. They gaped at the six blue-black bruises, each half the size of a penny, that lay on the upper part of her throat and under her jawline — and at some crescentic marks alongside them.

‘See the evidence of a strong hand, from a powerful man!’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly. ‘And the scratches nearby, from my poor sister desperately trying to prise her husband’s murderous fingers away!’

Aubrey de Courtenay made no effort to silence the prejudicial ranting, but the sheriff turned on de Revelle.

‘Keep your slanderous remarks to yourself, blast you!’ he hissed. ‘If this were not a church, I would fell you to the ground!’

John de Wolfe stared woodenly at his wife’s face, not approaching closely, as he wanted to say his farewells in private, not with half the town gawping at him. As he stood rigidly at the end of the row, Brother Rufus came up to him and laid a comforting arm about his shoulders and murmured something into his ear. John thought for a moment, then nodded at the burly monk, as Aubrey began leading the way towards the door. The jurors filed out into the pale wintry sunshine, and the more elite audience followed them until only Rufus, de Courtenay and John were left.

Aubrey pointed to the door. ‘It is time to ask for the jury’s verdict, de Wolfe. Go back to your place, please.’

There was a pause, then John shook his head. ‘I’m not going!’ he said.

Aubrey scowled. ‘What d’you mean, you’re not going?’

Calmly, de Wolfe took a step backward into the empty nave. ‘This is a church, a consecrated place. So I claim sanctuary for forty days, as ordained by the state and the Church!’

To say that consternation gripped the company would be a gross understatement. The locum coroner’s eyes bulged and he made fluttering gestures with his hands.

‘Sanctuary? You can’t claim sanctuary. You are a juror in the middle of an inquest!’

‘Is this, or is this not, a properly consecrated House of God?’ asked John coolly. He looked towards Brother Rufus for confirmation.

‘It is indeed,’ said the priest. ‘The chapel of a royal castle, under the direct control of Canterbury.’

Unlike most castles, Exeter had been built by William the Bastard as a penalty for the Saxon town’s revolt of 1068 and had remained in the possession of the Crown ever since, rather than of some local baron.

‘But you are a knight, the county coroner and the dead person is your own wife!’ spluttered Aubrey de Courtenay.

‘And where, may I ask, does the law lay down that any of those prohibit the gaining of sanctuary?’ said de Wolfe.

The other man’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, but he could find no answer. By now, a few people were coming back into the chapel, wondering at the delay. The first was de Revelle, and Aubrey found his tongue again.

‘De Wolfe refuses to come out, Richard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He says he is claiming sanctuary.’

A thunderous expression came over de Revelle’s face. ‘Impossible! Drag the man out! He is trying to ridicule the law!’

The stout monk advanced on him angrily. ‘You’ll not violate sanctuary in my church, sir! Recall what happened after Thomas Becket!’

Henry de Furnellis now hurried in from the porch. ‘John? Is this true?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You have thought of the consequences?’

De Wolfe nodded. Now that the die had been cast, he felt calm and resolute, knowing that there was only one way forward.

‘I need time to discover who is the true culprit, Henry. These vultures are only intent upon condemning me, without seeking any other explanation.’

The Dorset man was still trying to deny John’s right to sanctuary. ‘You are still part of a coroner’s jury. I command you to come out and take your place in the inquest,’ he protested.

‘I decline your kind invitation,’ answered John sarcastically. ‘I am well aware that the verdict was decided beforehand by you and your cousin’s husband here.’

‘Then I shall have no option but to continue without you,’ huffed Aubrey. ‘That will deny you the opportunity to say anything more in your defence.’

‘Why, is this a trial, then?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘And does anyone think for a moment that anything I say will have the slightest impression on what you have already decided?’

Richard de Revelle, who had just railed against John’s right to sanctuary, suddenly reversed his attitude. ‘Let him stay here, Aubrey,’ he said gaily. ‘It proves his guilt, for why else would he abandon the chance to maintain his innocence? Only the guilty run for sanctuary, so he has condemned himself by his own actions!’

He pulled at de Courtenay’s arm, but as they went to the door Aubrey called over his shoulder. ‘On your own head be it, de Wolfe! I am going to complete the inquest forthwith.’

Henry de Furnellis, John de Alençon and Ralph Morin remained in the chapel with John and the chaplain.

‘Archdeacon, is sanctuary valid in these circumstances?’ asked the sheriff, his drooping features heavy with concern.

De Alençon nodded. ‘I see no reason why it should not be. As de Wolfe has said, there is nothing that prevents it. Sanctuary is denied only to those committing sacrilege against the Church.’

‘But how can you go about proving your innocence when you are cooped up in here, John?’ boomed Ralph Morin.

‘I have forty days to think of something,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘If I stay out there, those bastards will see that I get thrown into some gaol or other to await trial God knows how far in the future!’

‘We had better get back and discover what mischief those two have managed to perpetrate,’ growled de Furnellis, leading the way back out into the inner ward. Aubrey de Courtenay was just finishing haranguing the jury, before ordering them to consider their verdict.

‘The poor woman clearly was strangled in her own home,’ he cried with a flourish of his hand. ‘She was still warm when the hue and cry saw her, and her husband, John de Wolfe, was present in the room, waving a dagger about and claiming he found her dead.’

He stopped and glared from one end of the jury to the other.

‘You have heard that he regularly quarrelled with his wife and that his brother-in-law has heard him threaten to kill her. His next-door neighbour, a physician and his wife, both of impeccable character, told you that they had heard altercations through the shutters. The dead lady’s maid heard voices raised in anger at about the very time that she must have been killed.’

He reached the climax of his damning speech, gesturing with outflung arms. ‘John de Wolfe has not denied those facts — and who else would or could have strangled her? It flies in the face of reason to think otherwise! And now he has sought sanctuary — is that the act of an innocent man?’

He dropped his hands to his sides as his histrionics ceased. ‘Now you must debate among yourselves as to how Matilda de Wolfe came to her death. This is not a trial and you are not judging anyone’s guilt — that is the task of the king’s justices when they next come to this city.’