Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘We think we have, Crowner,’ replied the lawyer ponderously, the deep grooves at each side of his mouth suggesting that he suffered from permanent belly-ache. ‘But no doubt the first failure will dog us hereafter, if we pursue it through the courts. That is why we wish to settle the matter by combat.’

The sheriff listened to this dialogue impatiently. ‘If that’s what they desire, let them proceed,’ he snapped. His court would get the fee for enrolling the battle and he wanted to prevent de Wolfe touting for business for the Justices in Eyre, which were the King’s courts.

But the coroner aimed to do just that, not for any partisan need to bolster the royal Treasury but to avoid the futility of two strangers trying to kill each other in the name of justice. ‘If you think you have good evidence and can call witnesses, then the King’s judges will give you a fair hearing. They are due in Devon within the next month or so.’

The lawyer turned to whisper to Edmund. After some agitated conversation, he turned back to de Wolfe. ‘Perhaps we may talk to you later of the procedure in this matter, Crowner. Meanwhile, my client has decided to abandon this appeal for the moment.’

The alleged perpetrator, William Thatcher, gave a loud cackle of derision and let out a few choice oaths, for which he received a buffet from Gabriel, which he took with good humour. As Edmund slunk sheepishly out of the hall with his lawyer, some of the crowd also melted away, denied any drama over the granting of a trial by combat.

Richard de Revelle stared at the two men in fetters, still standing directly below him. ‘Are these the approvers?’ he demanded.

The clerk climbed to his feet again. ‘They are, Sir Richard. James Peel and Robert Brieux are desirous of giving evidence against their fellow-criminals.’

Approvers were accused persons either awaiting trial or already convicted, who attempted to save their necks by giving evidence against fellow-conspirators in the same crimes. There was a laborious procedure for achieving this, part of which consisted of the coroner taking their confessions and details of others whom they claimed had also been involved in the crime.

For the next half-hour, de Wolfe questioned them at length, while Thomas wrote it all down in his rolls for presentation to the Justices in Eyre, when they arrived in Exeter. This had been promised since last year and still the judges had not come. It made a mockery of the system, as the backlog of cases now made it almost impossible to manage the number of prisoners held while awaiting trial. The burden on the constables and city burgesses, who had to pay for the guarding and lodging of the prisoners, was such that many were allowed to escape and become outlaws, to the detriment of the peace and safety of the highways and countryside.

Eventually, all the business of the court was done and the shackled prisoners were marched back to the cramped, filthy prison cells beneath the castle keep. As the court dispersed, the Sheriff and de Wolfe had some rather stilted conversation, in which de Revelle returned to his complaint about his treatment at the Great Court on Crockern Tor. Once more he blamed Walter Knapman for the affront he had suffered, leaving John to reflect that perhaps his brother-in-law was not as thick-skinned as he had supposed. When the sheriff finally stalked off, still smarting at the memory of the insult, John collected Gwyn and his morose little clerk and walked back towards their office in the gatehouse.

At the guardroom, inside the arch of the castle entrance, Gwyn decided they needed bread, cheese and ale to stave off the pangs of hunger and went down to the stalls on the hill to replenish their provisions. As Thomas climbed the stone stairway to the second floor, he timidly asked his master for a moment’s hearing on a personal matter.

When they reached the dismal chamber above, de Wolfe slumped on to the bench behind the rough table and motioned his clerk to a nearby stool. ‘I think I know what’s on your mind, Thomas, but tell me anyway.’

The little man perched nervously on the seat, pulling his threadbare black mantle closer around his narrow shoulders. ‘I have suffered more than two years of torment, Crowner, since they threw me from the bosom of the Church in Winchester. I have often wished to die since then, to get peace from both my poverty and my shame.’

De Wolfe regarded him steadily, wondering how such a poor bodily frame could house so clever a mind — and one that had such a genuine love for his calling. ‘You have recovered well enough, Thomas,’ he chided, as gently as his normally abrasive nature would allow. ‘From near-starvation, according to your uncle the Archdeacon, you now at least have a roof over your head and a bed in the cathedral Close. I give you pennies enough for you to eat, do I not?’

The clerk almost fell off his stool in his eagerness to show his gratitude. ‘Sir, you and my uncle have been kindness itself. Without you, I surely would have died. Yet sometimes I wish that I had been allowed to slip away, for my ejection from the Church, which has been my life since I was seven years old when I first went to school, has been unbearable.’ His dark eyes filled with tears. ‘Especially as the charge brought against me was false. That girl, she teased me and led me on. I did nothing but give her a kiss — and then she screams, “Rape!” I am in despair, Crowner!’

De Wolfe fidgeted in embarrassment. Fearless in battle, indomitable in a fight, he was hopeless when faced with raw emotion, especially from another man. He cleared his throat loudly, and his hands scrabbled aimlessly at some parchments lying on the table. ‘This state of affairs has been with you a long time, Thomas. What now has changed?’

‘ I have changed, sir. You are right, the needs of my flesh, food, drink and sleep, are provided for well enough, for I require little. But food for my soul is a different matter. I am starving without my beloved Church.’

He gulped and passed fingers across his face to wipe away the moisture from his eyes. ‘Living in the Close makes it worse. I thought the company of priests and acolytes, with the fabric of the sacred building so near, might make up for some of my loss. But all it does is emphasise it. I am a sham, living within an enclave of God yet no more a true part of it than the mice who share my abode.’

De Wolfe looked down at his servant with mixed feelings. He had never had a son, and God forbid he would ever have one like Thomas, a scrawny elf with a lame leg, a slight squint and a crooked back. But the teasing fingers of paternal instinct touched him as this young man, who was totally dependent on him, sought his help as the only one who could raise him from his despair.

‘What would you have me do, Thomas?’

‘Speak to my uncle, John of Alençon. Ask him if there is any way in which I might seek redemption and, eventually, reinstatement in Holy Orders.’

De Wolfe looked doubtful. ‘The decision in Winchester was very definite, from what the Archdeacon once told me. It seems you were lucky not to be hanged. Only your cloth saved you.’

‘But the evidence was false! They relied upon the word of that evil girl, who denounced me merely for sport,’ sobbed Thomas, in anguish. ‘For the sake of some moments of excitement to spice up her dull life, I am condemned to ruination until I die. Please speak to my uncle, Crowner, I beseech you.’

De Wolfe grunted his assent, as much to end his clerk’s unwelcome exhibition of emotion as desire to help him. ‘I will bring the matter up with the Archdeacon but I place little hope on the outcome, Thomas. Without fresh evidence to clear your name, I fail to see why the Church should wish to reopen the issue. But I will speak to your uncle.’