The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

When Thomas named them, de Wolfe recognized a pair of the sheriff’s cronies, Prince John sympathizers like Thomas de Boterellis, the Precentor-and indeed, like Bishop Marshal himself.

‘Do you know what it was all about?’ he demanded.

‘This deacon tried to listen at the door, for he is very nosey,’ said Thomas virtuously. ‘But a proctor chased him away so the only words he managed to hear were about “breaking sanctuary”!’

The coroner shot to his feet, tipping over his bench with crash. ‘The bastard! Surely he wouldn’t dare?’ he snarled. ‘Thomas, you are a churchman, surely it is inviolable?’

The clerk, a fount of knowledge on all things religious and ecclesiastical, explained that though the Church jealously protected its right to sanctuary-especially since the murder of Thomas Becket-it accepted that the secular powers sometimes broke it. ‘There is even a scale of penalties for violation of sanctuary,’ he explained. ‘The fines for dragging a man from a cathedral are far greater than from a mere parish church or a chapel.’

De Wolfe had no wish to see this put to the test and grabbed his cloak as he made for the door. ‘Thomas, get down to St Martin’s as fast as your legs will carry you and warn Gwyn! Bar the door if you can and only open it to me.’

He hurried across the inner ward and burst in to de Revelle’s chamber, only to find it empty, apart from a clerk sorting tax rolls.

‘Where is he, Edwin?’ he demanded.

‘An hour ago, he went in a great state of excitement to find the castle constable, Crowner,’ said the clerk. ‘He never came back.’

‘Damn it to hell,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘Perhaps I’m already too late!’

As he turned to hurry from the room, his eye caught sight of Gwyn’s new sword leaning against the doorpost. On an impulse, he snatched it up and hung it from his own belt, as when inside the city walls, he rarely carried his own weapon. He clattered down the steps, intending to get to St Martin’s as soon as possible, but stopped when he saw Ralph Morin, the burly constable who was in charge of the garrison at Rougemont. Together with Sergeant Gabriel, he was lining up a dozen men-at-arms in the inner ward, but the lethargy in their movements suggested a certain reluctance.

‘What’s going on, Ralph?’ he demanded as he strode up to them.

The constable took his elbow and steered him away from the soldiers. ‘Thank God you’re here, I was coming to look for you. That thrice-damned sheriff has ordered me to drag your officer from the church. I did all I could to resist, but an order is an order. He’s the king’s representative here and I am under his control.’

Unlike most castles, which belonged to barons and lords, Exeter had always been kept entirely under royal administration and the constable was his servant. De Wolfe, though angry and apprehensive, laid a hand on Morin’s broad shoulder. ‘I understand, Ralph. You have to do your duty, however evil it is.’

By now, Gabriel had joined them, livid with fury. In a low voice, vibrant with emotion, he said ‘It’s madness! First I contrive his escape, now I’ve got to go and drag him out again! But the bloody sheriff will have us all hanged if we refuse.’

‘What about the desecration of sanctuary?’ hissed the coroner.

Ralph shook his head. ‘De Revelle said to forget it, he’ll take responsibility and gladly pay any fine. He claimed that the bishop would gloss over any religious problem, so there’ll be no chance of us being excommunicated.’

His voice was bitter and John realized that only the thought of the gallows prevented him from defying his orders.

‘Then just do me one favour, Ralph. Give me time to get down there before you. Understand?’

The constable nodded and pointed to a horse outside a nearby stable. It was already saddled up for a castle messenger to ride off on some errand. ‘We are marching down, so if you take that gelding, you’ll be there at least ten minutes before us. That’s the best I can do, John!’

With a wave of thanks, John swung himself into the saddle and tore off through the gatehouse and down the hill to East Gate Street. To avoid the usual press of people in High Street, he dived into the back alleys opposite and swearing at anyone who got in his way in the narrow lanes, pushed his way through to the side of the little church. Abandoning the horse to graze the sparse grass of the Close, he hammered on the door and yelled for Thomas to open it. He heard a bar being lifted inside and when he virtually fell through the doorway, he found not his clerk, but a tall, fair priest facing him.

‘Father Edwin, the sanctuary of your church is about to be desecrated!’ he shouted.

The Saxon nodded gravely and now John saw that Thomas and Gwyn stood behind him.

‘Your clerk, my brother in God, explained what was happening. It is an outrage, typical of the oppression we have to suffer from these invaders.’

John, who though he had a half-Welsh mother, came from a long line of Norman invaders himself, but this was no time to argue politics.

‘We have to get him out and hide him,’ he snapped. ‘They will be here within minutes, so the only place is my house, just up the lane.’

The parish priest shook his head firmly. ‘You are a good man, Sir John. You cannot compromise your position like that, it could ruin you.’ He beckoned to Gwyn in a way that seemed to defy any argument and led the way to a small door set in the wall to the right of the altar. Opening it with a large key, he turned to John to bar him entering. ‘I suggest that you go straight to your dwelling, Coroner, and play the innocent, for they are bound to seek you out.’

He shepherded Gwyn and Thomas into the tiny sacristy where he kept the Blessed Host and his few service books. He waved John back towards the main door. ‘Your clerk will come to you later and let you know how matters stand.’

With that, he followed them in and shut the door. Then John heard the key being turned on the inside.

‘The man is a saint,’ said Thomas reverentially. ‘When I am a bishop, I will appeal to Rome for Father Edwin’s sanctification!’

It was evening and he was sitting in the Bush with Nesta and de Wolfe recounting to her the exciting events of this stressful day.

‘The sacristy had an outer door leading into a small yard,’ he explained.

‘Here there was a bier used for taking cadavers to the cathedral for burial, a kind of long chest on small wheels, with handles on each end. The lid opened on hinges and the priest made Gwyn get inside.’

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Nesta could not suppress a giggle. ‘I’ll wager he didn’t like that one bit!’

‘The poor fellow had to almost double up to fit himself in, cursing all the time under his breath,’ agreed Thomas.

He explained that the Saxon priest had given him an old Benedictine habit to wear, then told him to push the bier from behind, while he himself walked in front, pulling on the other handles. They trundled the clumsy device through the lanes, both chanting Latin prayers as they stared dismally at the ground. Folk in the street removed their caps or crossed themselves as they passed by with their ‘corpse’, until they doubled back towards the far end of Canon’s Row. Here they stopped near the foot of the city wall where there were gardens and some rough ground. In the shelter of some bushes, the lid was opened and Gwyn clambered out, looking even more dishevelled than usual. Quickly, the Saxon took him to a small arch in a stone hut built against the fifteen-foot wall and hurried him inside.

‘The city water conduits!’ exclaimed Nesta, at this point in Thomas’s story. ‘The ducts come through the wall there, so I’ve been told.’