Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

De Wolfe sat on the bench at the central table, and Gwyn took himself off to chat to one of the soldiers while they awaited the opening of the court. A few minutes later, Richard de Revelle came across from the keep, escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and two more men-at-arms. He was his usual dapper self, attired in an expensive tunic in his favourite green, the neck and hem banded with gold embroidery. A darker green mantle of heavy serge was draped over his shoulders and his neat moustache and goatee beard had been freshly trimmed. The clerks hauled themselves to their feet until the sheriff had sat down in the only chair, ready to preside over his court.

There was no sign yet of the subjects of the proceedings and de Revelle condescended to favour his brother-in-law with some conversation. They discussed the house-fire and its fortunate extinction for a few moments, then de Wolfe brought up Saturday’s meeting on Crockern Tor. ‘These tinners seem a fiercely independent lot. I suppose they’ve been favoured by kings for centuries, because of the taxes they bring in to the Treasury,’ he observed provocatively.

The sheriff’s face darkened. ‘Damned arrogance, I call it. Wanting to oust me as Lord Warden, when I’m there by right as the King’s representative.’ He was almost apopleptic with anger at the memory of the Great Court.

De Wolfe wondered which king de Revelle wished to represent, given his partiality to Prince John’s cause.

‘Walter Knapman’s behind this!’ went on the sheriff. ‘He wants to be the emperor of the Devon tinners and he’s been stirring them up for many months, so my spies tell me. Lord Warden indeed! He’s just a tin-shoveller who’s risen above his station in life.’ His hands balled into fists on the table before him, as if he had Knapman’s neck between them. ‘This business of the headless overman — I’d not put it past Knapman to have arranged it himself, just to aggravate the tension amongst the tinners for his own ends.’

This was something the coroner had not considered, but he dismissed it as a fantasy of de Revelle’s fevered imagination. He realised with some surprise the depth of the sheriff’s feelings at the challenge to his authority over the Stannaries. He must have been putting more of the tin coinage into his own coffers than de Wolfe had suspected, to be so incensed about even a remote chance of losing this lucrative position.

Further delving into the Stannary problem was prevented by the appearance of a small procession at the hall entrance. Ralph Morin, the burly castle constable, led in a pair of dejected-looking men, dirty and dishevelled with heavy shackles to their ankles. Two more soldiers prodded them along from the rear, followed by a rather frightened-looking fellow accompanied by someone de Wolfe recognised as a prominent local lawyer. The last two peeled off and stood in the front of the small crowd, while the men-at-arms and the two prisoners came up to the foot of the platform, facing the coroner and the sheriff.

The clerk of the court, plump and pompous with a shiny bald head, stood up at the side table with a roll of parchment in his hands.

After self-importantly calling the assembly to order and declaring the Shire Court to be in session, he gave an obsequious bow to the sheriff, who, still in a bad temper over the tinners, acknowledged him with a curt nod.

‘Sir, the first matter is that of declaring five men outlaw, unless they answer to their names today.’ He read out a list of names, coupled with the charges alleged against them — theft, serious assault and counterfeiting. He paused and looked expectantly around the dismal hall, to be met with silence.

‘Have their names been called at the last three sittings of this court?’ snapped the sheriff.

This time little Thomas de Peyne rose from his place, a parchment in his hand.

‘Yes, this will be the fourth occasion, as recorded in the coroner’s roll.’

Now John de Wolfe rose to his feet, standing hunched over the table like some lean black bird of prey. ‘Then I declare them outlawed and instruct that they be now recorded in my Rolls as exigent, unless there are any two men here who will stand surety for their appearance at the next Shire Court, in the sum of twenty marks each. If they fail to answer to that final call, those pledges are forfeit.’

He looked briefly around the hall, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone, even relatives, would wager such a large sum on the faint chance that the errant culprits would show up next time. They were probably living rough either in the forests or on Dartmoor, unless they had taken ship to France or Wales.

A resounding silence followed the invitation to stand surety, and de Wolfe motioned to Thomas to enrol the names, then sat down for the next part of the proceedings.

The self-important court clerk rose again and consulted his documents. ‘Now Edmund of Wonford brings an appeal against William Thatcher, claiming the said William Thatcher did feloniously slay Alfred, the brother of the said Edmund.’

There was a commotion in the body of the court as a rough-bearded man, with hair like a horse’s mane, pushed forward towards the anxious-looking fellow whom de Wolfe had noted earlier. ‘He’s a bloody liar and a trouble-maker!’ he yelled, as Edmund shrank back from him. Sergeant Gabriel motioned to one of his soldiers, who moved quickly across and shoved the aggressor back a few paces.

‘What’s this all about? demanded the sheriff, in a voice that conveyed long-suffering boredom.

The lawyer with Edmund, a thin, sour-faced man in a long black tunic with a thick book under his arm to advertise his learning, moved up to the foot of the platform. ‘Sheriff, as you well know, I am Robert Courteman, an advocate of this city. I speak for this Edmund, who claims he and his family have suffered a grievous wrong, and also the loss of the income of the dead brother Alfred, who was a tanner. He wishes to appeal William Thatcher, demanding either recompense of forty marks or a challenge by combat.’

De Wolfe looked down at the timid Edmund, a small man of about forty, and then at William, who was built along the same lines as Gwyn of Polruan. ‘Trial by combat? Are you serious?’ he grated.

The lawyer hurried to clarify the situation. ‘He would not, of course, take up the challenge himself, being in poor health, but he would employ a champion for the purpose.’

De Wolfe snorted his disgust at such a solution. He had long thought that this method of settling disputes was ridiculous and was glad to hear rumours that the Church in Rome was considering banning it in the near future. It might not be so ridiculous if two men who had a serious issue to settle fought it out personally, but for one or even both to hire a proxy to fight for them made a nonsense of the whole system. He glowered down at Edmund and his lawyer. ‘Why was this matter not heard in the proper court? And what of a coroner’s inquest? I have no recollection of the case.’

The lawyer, who seemed somewhat bored with the whole matter, explained languidly, ‘The death was a year ago, sir, before the office of coroner was instituted. The case was heard in the manor court at Wonford, but the steward dismissed our claim.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘He said there was a lack of evidence as to how my client’s brother came to his death. But we are sure he was slain by Wiiliam Thatcher in a drunken brawl.’

John pondered for a moment. The system of courts was complex and he had a sneaking sympathy for folk such as these for whom the legal process seemed more a hindrance than a help.

‘Have you eyewitnesses or other good evidence, in spite of this being the cause for failure in the manor court?’ he asked, with a brusqueness that concealed his willingness to be helpful.