The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘The man is to hang whatever happens, so why should he tell anything but the truth? I’ll certainly not release the prime suspect on such flimsy grounds. This Claver is obviously an outlaw and a thief, but that doesn’t mean he killed that man in the inn.’

Nothing would shift the resolve of John’s obdurate brother-in-law, and the coroner left in a towering rage, promising to get the whole truth from Simon when he arrived, even if he had to torture him to within an inch of his life. On his way back to Martin’s Lane, he met his friend the archdeacon, and he poured out his problems to John de Alençon.

‘In some ways, this could be considered to be a matter for the Church,’ said the priest gravely. ‘I have heard of this relic and, given the provenance offered by that letter from Sir Geoffrey Mappestone, it has a good claim to be a genuine piece of the True Cross.’ His hand automatically strayed to his head, heart and shoulders, reminding de Wolfe of his clerk’s almost obsessive habit. ‘Even though apparently tainted, it is still a part of our Christian heritage and this outlaw should be made to fully confess how he came by it.’

When John suggested that Simon Claver should submit to the peine forte et dure , even the usually compassionate archdeacon agreed. When he heard that the sheriff was reluctant to get at the truth for reasons of his own, de Alençon declared that he would call upon de Revelle and make his own ecclesiastical demand that they extract the truth from the outlaw.

The next day, when Gwyn tugged the exhausted and footsore Simon up the drawbridge into Rougemont and across to the stinking undercroft below the keep, he found that preparations were already in hand to persuade the outlaw to speak more eloquently.

Stigand, the evil custodian of the gaol, was waddling across from an alcove with some thick plates of rusty iron, each about a foot square. With a loud clatter, he dropped these into a pile in the centre of the dank cellar, panting with the exertion, as his grossly obese body was not meant for heavy work. When the coroner’s officer arrived with the new prisoner, Stigand shackled his wrists to the barred enclosure that led through into the half-dozen cramped cells.

‘They’re coming at noon to listen to this fellow sing!’ lisped Stigand through his slack, blubbery lips. He kicked the prisoner, who had sunk exhausted to the floor, and received a heavy clout across his head from Gwyn.

‘Leave the man alone, you evil sod!’ snapped the big man. ‘Give him some water and a couple of crusts.’

As he left, Gwyn wondered briefly why he should be at all solicitous to a man they were shortly going to torture, then hang in a few days, but there was something about the hopeless captive that reminded him of a beaten dog.

When the cathedral bell announced the middle of the day, a small crowd assembled in the undercroft to view the proceedings. The reluctant sheriff was there, as was the coroner, his officer and clerk, the constable, and the Archdeacon of Exeter. Sergeant Gabriel, who had returned from his fruitless search in the west, was in charge of a trio of men-at-arms brought to handle the prisoner. Now partly recovered from his trek across the countryside behind Gwyn’s horse, Simon was dragged to the centre of the large space, struggling and mouthing obscenities. Two soldiers manhandled him to the ground and shackled his outstretched arms and legs to rusty rings set in stones in the damp earthen floor.

As the sheriff stood aloof, with his arms folded under his bright green mantle, John de Wolfe took over the proceedings. Though he was no keen advocate of torture, it was part of the judicial process, and with Nesta’s freedom at stake he had no compunction in applying it to this evil man.

‘Simon, you have a last chance to tell the truth. You are well aware that as a captured outlaw, your life is already forfeit, so you have nothing to gain by being obstinate.’

All John got for his words was a further stream of curses and denials, so he nodded at the gaoler, who stood by expectantly. Stigand bent with difficulty over his fat belly and lifted a metal plate, clutching it to his stained leather apron as he turned to the prisoner, crucified on the floor. With much puffing, he bent and placed the slab of iron on Simon’s chest. His breathing restricted, the man began to wheeze, and his curses became muffled as he ran short of air.

‘Speak now and ease your suffering!’ pleaded John de Alençon, making the sign of the cross in the air over the man.

Laboriously, the gaoler lowered another plate, this time on the man’s belly, preventing him from using his stomach muscles to draw in air. His oaths and obscenities became mere gasps and his face began to turn purple.

‘Speak, man, you have nothing to lose!’ shouted de Wolfe, as the outlaw’s lips became almost black. ‘Nod your head if you submit!’

As Stigand puffed over with yet another plate ready to load on to the man’s chest, Simon’s stubborn wilfulness cracked. Blood spots had begun to appear in the whites of his eyes.

‘Relieve him, before he dies on us!’

Somewhat reluctantly, the sadistic gaoler pushed the plates from the sufferer’s chest and belly, then took a leather bucket filled with dirty water and threw it over him. A few moments later, after his ravaged face had returned almost to its normal colour, Simon Claver began to speak, still pinioned to the floor. He now admitted everything, his jealousy at Gervase having the best part of the chapman’s loot, his following him to Exeter, finding him in the Bush and cutting his throat.

‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ he croaked. ‘But as I was pulling that golden box from his pack, he started to wake and I panicked!’

Leaving Thomas to crouch down and write the confession as a record for his inquest rolls, de Wolfe went across to his brother-in-law and confronted him.

‘Satisfied now, Richard? You arrested my woman out of sheer spite, damn you! You’ve heard the confession from this man, so I hope you’ll not only order her immediate release, but go and give her a personal apology. Then I may not need to write every aspect of the matter in my presentment to the royal justices when they next come to Exeter!’

Richard began to huff and puff, but he knew that he was beaten, and after a few more heated words, he turned on his heel and marched stiffly up the steps out of the undercroft.

‘And good riddance, I say,’ muttered Gwyn in his master’s ear, as they watched the sheriff vanish. Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them and the voice of Thomas squeaked above the hubbub.

‘He’s having a fit! What’s wrong with him?’

They turned and hurried over to the group around the staked-out prisoner. Simon’s back was arched and his arms and legs jerked spasmodically, rattling the chains that held him. As John dropped on to his knees beside him, he saw that the man’s eyes had rolled up so that only the whites were showing, then there was a final great convulsion and he sank down, immobile.

‘He’s bloody well dead!’ boomed Gwyn, in a voice that expressed more incredulity than concern. ‘Why should he corpse himself now, and not when he was being squeezed?’

Thomas de Peyne looked up, his face paler than usual as he crossed himself.

‘The fool must have handled the relic-it’s Barzak’s curse once again.’ His troubled eyes rested on his master. ‘Crowner, for the Blessed Virgin’s sake, don’t open that tube, whatever you do!’

During the following week, life gradually returned to normal for the coroner’s team and the folk at the Bush. Nesta seemed none the worse for her sojourn in Rougemont, though climbing into the tavern’s darkened loft at night made her uneasy for a while. The sheriff remained distant and aloof, never referring to the matter again in John’s presence. His sister was as surly and resentful as ever with her husband, ignoring his halting thanks for keeping Nesta out of Stigand’s clutches.