Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

The outcome was both inevitable and rapid. After a few moments’ muttering, the man appointed foreman, a pastry-man from the High Street, stepped forward, still wearing his flour-dusted apron.

‘We find that the poor lady was murdered and that her husband can be the only man responsible.’

Aubrey de Courtenay nodded his approval. ‘Then I so pronounce my verdict,’ he said pompously. ‘That Matilda, wife of John de Wolfe, was killed with malice aforethought on the twelfth day of November in the seventh year of the reign of our sovereign lord, King Richard. And the jury name the said John de Wolfe as the perpetrator.’

He drew a deep breath, as he had never done this before to a knight of the realm and a king’s coroner.

‘I therefore use my power as a coroner to commit him for trial before the royal justices and command that he be kept in close custody until that time.’

There was an urgent murmuring among the crowd, broken by a stentorian voice from Henry de Furnellis, Sheriff of Devon. ‘How can you commit him, when he is in sanctuary?’ he demanded.

De Courtenay shrugged. ‘That is now your problem, sheriff! My jurisdiction ceases at the end of an inquest. He either emerges from that chapel and is arrested, or he stays there for forty days and is then starved to death — unless he confesses his crime and abjures the realm, in which case you will need me to come back to take his confession.’

He walked away from his chair as if distancing himself from any further involvement, but Richard de Revelle hurried towards him and began to speak urgently into his ear. The Dorset coroner stopped and beckoned to the sheriff, who from the look on his face would like to strangle Aubrey himself.

‘What is it now?’ he growled.

‘I have been reminded of your close friendship with the accused. I demand that you will not let your personal feelings allow him to escape from sanctuary — nor from your prison, if and when he emerges to be arrested.’

‘If he shows his head outside that chapel door, you are entitled — indeed, obliged — to hack it from his shoulders!’ added Richard de Revelle with obvious delight.

Henry glowered at the two men. ‘I need no reminding of my duties, thank you!’ he snarled.

De Courtenay wagged an insolent finger at him. ‘I’m sure you don’t, but I shall be kept well informed of any mishaps and I will see to it, through my noble family if needs be, that the Curia Regis be immediately made aware of any failure to keep this man in custody!’

With this last threat, he walked away with Richard de Revelle to fetch their horses. Then they rode away to Richard’s house to stay the night before his return to Lyme next morning.

‘Bastards!’ was Henry’s succinct comment as he watched them vanish through the gatehouse arch.

‘Can you not look the other way when John takes a walk one night?’ suggested Ralph Morin, who admired de Wolfe as much as he detested de Revelle.

The sheriff sighed. ‘I dare not. Richard will be watching like a bloody hawk! I’ll wager he’ll station one of his servants here in the bailey during the daytime, to check that John is still here.’ He spat on the ground, livid that de Revelle seemed to have got the better of them at last. ‘As the king’s officer in this county, I have sworn on oath to uphold his peace. Even for such a good man as de Wolfe, I could not break that obligation — and I know that John would not wish me to.’

‘I suppose something will turn up,’ said Ralph with an optimism that he did not really feel.

That evening was a very strange one for John de Wolfe. As the early dusk approached, the castle bailey lost its daytime bustle and an eerie quiet fell over Rougemont. The gawking crowd from the inquest had dispersed, as John was no longer on show, and soon he was left alone in the empty chapel.

Brother Rufus had brought him a fresh loaf, some cheese and a jug of ale, then went about his business. Gwyn and Thomas had stayed with him for a while, then the Cornishman went off to the Bush, promising to bring up a decent supper when Martha had finished cooking. Both men seemed somewhat ill at ease, unsure how to react to this new situation where their master was virtually a prisoner and accused of murder. The possibility of him being guilty never crossed either of their minds, but they needed time to adjust and to work out how they might best help him prove his innocence.

It was indeed a bizarre situation, locked in a stone box with only his murdered wife’s corpse for company. He wandered over to the bier, a wooden stretcher with four legs, normally kept hanging by ropes from the rafters at the back of St Martin’s Church, from where it had been borrowed.

‘Matilda, what’s to become of me?’ he murmured, getting the same lack of response that he usually received when she was alive. ‘I never wished this upon you, even when you were at your most obnoxious. We have our fathers to blame for this, God rest their interfering souls!’

As their parents had pushed them into a marriage which neither desired, it was little wonder that two such different personalities as John and Matilda had never found contentment, let alone loving happiness.

He sighed and ambled back to sit on the stone ledge that ran around the walls. Normally, worshippers stood on the packed earth floor, but for the old and infirm there was this comfortless resting place. It gave rise to the expression ‘going to the wall’, to indicate where failures ended up, John thought wryly.

He chewed listlessly at some of the bread and drank an earthenware cup of Rufus’s ale. Sanctuary seekers were entitled to be fed by the parishioners, an obligation that was often resented, especially in times of hardship or famine — which accounted for the number of ‘escapes’ from sanctuary, as the villagers were often eager to look the other way when they were supposed to be guarding the unwelcome inmate of their church. The law was hazy about the right of access to the sanctuary seeker by family and others — in this case, there was little likelihood of anyone challenging it, as apart from Richard de Revelle no one really wanted their Crusader coroner locked up.

As well as Gwyn and Thomas, Henry de Furnellis and Ralph Morin had been in to visit him, followed by John de Alençon. His friend the archdeacon said some prayers over Matilda’s body and told John that she would be moved to the cathedral next morning, to lie before one of the side altars.

‘Whatever her faults, John, she was a genuinely devout woman and will have no problem in finding her place in heaven,’ he said solemnly. ‘Tomorrow I will begin making arrangements for her funeral and have no doubt that you will be able to leave this place for that, even if I have to get a special dispensation from the bishop, who returned today.’

Typically, he did not ask John whether he was guilty or innocent, but offered to take his confession at any time he cared to give it.

‘My only confession would be to having murderous intentions upon whoever did this awful act!’ de Wolfe had replied angrily.

Now, sitting upon the cold stone ledge, his mind roved over all the events of the previous day, since he had discovered his wife’s body in their hall. Who could have done this? This was the question that drummed endlessly in his mind.

Why Matilda, who, though she had been the bane of his life, was never a threat to anyone else? In fact, her public face in church and in the social life of middle-class Exeter was one of devout respectability and even gracious affability.

Over and over, he went through the catalogue of potential suspects. Top of his list was either Reginald Rugge, the fanatical lay brother, or Alan de Bere, the equally malicious monk. Both were crazed religious extremists and had grounds for hating de Wolfe for breaking up their riot and their attempt to hang the heretics, as well as for getting the pair of them arrested afterwards. But why kill Matilda, unless they felt that it was an easier option than trying to harm the formidable coroner himself? He suspected one or both of them had set the fire that killed Algar and his family, but what relevance could that have had to Matilda’s death?