by Keith Moray
Richard led the way up the steps and left the building. He walked across to the stocks and knelt down beside them. Blood had stained the wooden leg clamps, and a puddle of it had collected and congealed on the ground behind. In his mind’s eye he tried to picture the man sitting upright with his legs outstretched, clamped in the stocks. Then the arrow hitting him in the right eye, tossing him backwards onto the ground, and blood pouring all over the place.
Hubert knelt behind him. ‘A goodly shot to hit a man in the eye, sir,’ he commented.
‘If that was meant, yes,’ Richard returned. He stood and turned round, trying to plot the trajectory of a shot. It was possible that it had come from several directions, yet the only clear point, and one which would have given the bowman cover of sorts, was an alley some fifty feet away. ‘What is down that alley?’ he asked.
‘It leads to the bread-booths and the manor bakehouse, sir,’ replied the bailiff.
‘We will have a look over there, then we shall go to the Moot Hall and you can show me the court rolls, Master Bailiff. I take it that you can read?’
John of Flanshaw beamed proudly, his face recovering colour now. ‘I can, Sir Richard. And it is my own hand that writes the rolls. You will not read a clearer hand than mine.’
Hubert snorted, for there was a part of him that considered reading and writing no fit task for a man, despite the fact that Richard had taught him the basics.
The Wodehalle, as the Moot Hall was known locally, was a large timber-framed building capable of holding up to 200 people. Above its doors was the emblem of the de Warenne family, and above that was a small sundial. A long corridor led down one side of the building to a locked room called the Roll’s Office, in which either the lord of the manor, or his steward or the steward’s representative could consult with the bailiff. It was furnished with a desk and chair and several stools. Taking up a corner of the room was a large locked chest with numerous pigeon holes, containing the Manor of Wakefield court rolls. Dating back to 1274 and written in a mix of English and Latin on fine vellum scrolls, they recorded all of the dealings of the Manor Court.
Richard had spent an hour with the bailiff in order to familiarize himself with the latest rolls. He sat at the table with a vellum scroll unfurled on the table in front of him. From time to time he asked the bailiff for clarification of a point, but in the main he was much impressed by the standard of the entries.
‘You have done well, Master John,’ he said at last. ‘And you seem to know the correct wording of the law.’
The bailiff beamed. ‘We are proud of our law in Wakefield, Sir Richard,’ he said, eagerly.
Hubert had been rocking back and forth on a stool and now, at the bailiff’s words, he snapped the legs down on the floor. ‘Proud? A man has just been shot in your stocks! What is there to be proud of there?’
John of Flanshaw coloured and his jaw trembled as he sought a suitable retort. But he was stopped by Richard.
‘Hubert is right, Master John. This heinous crime has left a dark stain upon the honour of Wakefield. But I cannot say that I am entirely happy about his punishment in the first place.’ He jabbed the court roll with his forefinger and read out: ‘William Scathelocke, pinder of Wakefield did neglect his duty and failed on three days in May to clearing cattle out of the cornfields. Let him be put in the stocks for three days, receiving only bread from the manor bakehouse and water.’ Richard shook his head. ‘That is not justice; that is oppression and maltreatment. Nothing to be proud of there.’
‘I do not pass sentence, Sir Richard,’ the bailiff pleaded. ‘I only carry out the court’s orders and scribe them down.’
‘And who did pass this sentence?’
There was a heavy tread at the door of the office, then a gruff voice.
‘I sentenced that man, as you know well enough,’ said Sir Thomas Deyville. He paced into the room and stood looking down at Richard, his thumbs hooked behind his belt. ‘It was a fitting punishment for a lazy villain who caused loss to the manor.’
‘The greatest loss was the poor wretch’s life,’ retorted Richard. ‘It was a harsh and unjust sentence and should make all Englishmen ashamed. You have much to learn of justice and the law, I think, Sir Thomas.’
Sir Thomas’s eyes seemed full of anger. ‘I am not so sure that I agree, since His Majesty set us a firm example when he settled with the Earl of Lancaster and half-a-dozen other rebel barons at Pontefract.’ He sniffed. ‘Still, I am keen to learn from you, Sergeant-at-Law,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I shall be back to sit with you when the court opens. My daughter follows and will also sit with us. But first, I am going to slake my thirst with some ale.’ Richard watched the Deputy Steward depart and noticed that Hubert was having a hard job of keeping his mirth from showing. ‘I fear that you are not making the Deputy Steward a friend, my lord.’
‘The law must be seen to be fair, Hubert,’ was all Richard vouchsafed in return.
The bailiff nodded. ‘I echo that, Sir Richard. We want to be proud of our law again.’
On the other side of the screen was the dais of the main hall, upon which was a large oak table with four chairs for the court officials. There were no chairs or stools in the main body of the hall since all except the officials were expected to stand in attendance. A three-sided wooden pen faced the table for whoever was addressing the court or being addressed by it. To the left of the dais, there was a line of twelve stools for the twelve elected members of the jury to sit and consider each case, and to vote when they were expected to by the court president.
After Richard had interviewed and instructed the four constables, he and Hubert had stayed in the Roll’s Office until the crowd began to file into the hall just before eleven o’clock. The cacophony of over 200 people muttering and conversing was quite considerable, but the hush that replaced it in a matter of a few moments told him that Sir Thomas and his daughter, Lady Wilhelmina, had entered and taken their seats at the official’s table. A moment later, there was a respectful tap at the door and John of Flanshaw put his head round and informed him that the court was ready. Richard nodded and the bailiff retreated.
Hubert had stood up instantly, but watched with some amusement as Richard closed his eyes as if contemplating taking a quick sleep.
‘Did you hear the bailiff, sir?’ he asked, uncertainly. ‘The court is —’
Richard opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Waiting! I know, Hubert. And that is as it should be. It will do Sir Thomas some good to wait a while, too.’ And he sat for another minute, then he leaned forward and opened a box that lay upon the table. From it he pulled out his iron-grey coif, the close cap that was his badge of office as a Sergeant-at-Law. He donned and straightened it upon his head, then stood and signalled for Hubert to open the door.
The hall was packed. Burghers, guildsmen, tradesmen, yeomen, bondsmen, villains, all were standing waiting expectantly. Twelve assorted individuals stood by the jury stools. The four constables with their men of the watch stood to the side of the table, while behind it, drumming his fingers impatiently, sat Sir Thomas Deyville with his daughter, Lady Wilhelmina. In contrast to Sir Thomas’s scowling demeanour, she sat demurely, dressed in a splendid lilac cote-hardie that emphasized her female form and with a circlet and veil of gossamer thinness that did not hide, but simply made her beauty more alluring.
Hubert took a stance at the left side of the table and Richard took his seat beside Sir Thomas. As he passed Lady Wilhelmina, he bowed and received in return a delicate inclination of the head and what he was sure was a smile from behind the veil.
He wasted no time in opening the proceedings. He introduced himself to the assembly, holding up the King’s seal giving him full judicial powers in the Manor Court. Then he went on, ‘And as the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm, and a Sergeant-at-Law, it is my intention to demonstrate that English law is fair to everyone. The jury system is the bastion of our great legal system and we shall appoint these twelve men as jurors, to hear and
where appropriate come to a decision, to help me the judge. All judgements will be carefully considered and given according to precedent of law. No person should be afraid of the law if he or she is innocent, but if guilty, then he or she can expect appropriate punishment.
‘Master John of Flanshaw, the bailiff, will record the events of this court in the Manor Court rolls.’ He nodded to the bailiff and gestured for him to take his stool at the end of the table where his inkpot, quills and vellum scrolls were laid out in readiness. ‘And he has already made out a list for me of the cases that we need to consider on this first sitting. So we shall begin.’
There were murmurs of irritation and a few exclamations of discontent from around the hall.
‘Silence!’ Richard snapped, thumping the table with a gavel. ‘The court will behave with dignity and the authority of the court will be respected.’
Hubert suppressed a smile as he watched his master, all too aware that he was deliberately stamping his authority upon the court. He was also sure that he was doing so to impress the same thing upon Sir Thomas, the Deputy Steward.
‘Master Bailiff, swear the jurors in.’
And while the bailiff did so Richard surveyed the gathering, recognizing various faces that he had seen the previous evening at Sandal Castle. He nodded to Master Oldthorpe and his wife, Emma. By their side was the bent figure of their simple servant, the hunchbacked Gilbert. Near the back of the court he saw Beatrice Quigley and her friend Matilda Oxley. He saw Father Daniel and Lady Katherine, the prioress. He knew that they and the rest of the assembly had high expectations.
He rapped the gavel again. ‘The court is now in session.’
To the disappointment of the spectators he did not mention the murder of William Scathelocke, but instead read out a list of cases, complaints and assorted matters which had been reported to the bailiff of the court. The first few he dealt with and disposed of in a leisurely manner. Complainants and witnesses were instructed to stand in the court pen where they were directly questioned by Richard.
Sir Thomas sat and listened, from time to time growling or volunteering what he believed to be appropriate sentences. It was clear to all that Sir Thomas would have every scolding wife clamped in a scold’s bridle, every thief parted with some part or other of their hands, and in the main seemed to favour public humiliation, beating and occasionally termination of life. But not so Sir Richard. He questioned each complainant and countercomplainant. He summarized for the jury, awaited their opinion, then passed judgement. Warnings and fines were the result in the majority of cases. Yet in some cases that involved town burghers, he instructed the bailiff to hand the proceeding over to the Burgher’s Court for them to investigate in their own court at a later date.
‘And now we come to the case of the murder of William Scathelocke.’
There was much shuffling of feet, clearing of throats and muttering. And from the back of the crowd someone called out, ‘About time!’
Some of the crowd began to laugh, but immediately stopped as Richard rapped his gavel on the table.
Hubert had the eyes of a hawk and spotted the caller. At a nod from Richard, he dashed into the crowd and pushed his way through to collar the man, a large fellow with a cauliflower ear. Unceremoniously shoving one of his arms up his back, he half pushed him back through the crowd to deposit him in the court pen.
‘Your name, fellow?’ Richard snapped.
‘Simon the Fletcher — sir,’ he replied in a surly tone.
Hubert lifted his hand to cuff his ear, but Richard stayed him with a raised finger.
‘Well Simon the Fletcher, and everyone else for that matter, mark my words well. This is a court of law. A fair court, but it will not be viewed as a place of amusement. You will observe the dignity of the court. You may return to the audience.’
Sir Thomas leaned forward and slapped his hand on the table. ‘Are you not going to deal with the oaf’s impudence? A few strokes of the lash would serve him well.’ He leaned back with an ill-disguised sarcastic sneer. ‘Or one of your little fines, perhaps?’
‘I thank you for all of your suggestions this morning, Sir Thomas, but I suggest you continue to observe and hold your counsel until we are in private.’
Then as Simon the Fletcher turned, his brow covered in a patina of perspiration at the thought of a flogging, Richard called him back.
‘Stay close to the front, Simon the Fletcher. The court may yet have use of you.’ He turned then to the constables. ‘Go now and bring the body of the murder victim.’
An eerie hush fell over the crowd for several minutes until two of the constables and two men of the watch returned with the grisly bundle wrapped in an old horsehair blanket. At Richard’s direction, they laid it on the floor in front of the table.
‘Lady Wilhelmina, this will be an unpleasant sight. Would you care to withdraw?’ When she shook her head, Richard raised his voice to the crowd. ‘I make the same offer to any female here. This man’s death was brutal and it is an ugly sight. If you wish to leave, you may do so until we have finished viewing the corpse.’
Several ashen-faced women and girls accepted the offer and made their way out. When the hall was ready Richard gestured to Constable Ned Burkin, who drew back the blanket to reveal the body. Despite herself, Lady Wilhelmina uttered a small gasp from behind her veil. Several of the jurymen uttered exclamations and there was a surge in the crowd as many tried to gain a clearer view.
‘First of all, I need to have this body formally identified. Are there any of his kin present?’
John of Flanshaw coughed to draw Richard’s attention. ‘He had no kin, Sir Richard. He was one of the pinders and he lived by the pinder-fields. If it is helpful, I can identify him.’
Richard nodded. His eye fell on the apothecary. ‘Master Oldthorpe, step forward please.’
The apothecary’s eyes opened wide with surprise and he made his way through the crowd.
‘I need your medical opinion. How did this man die?’
With a look of relief, the apothecary acquiesced. He pulled up his knee-length mantle and crouched beside the body. He put his hand over his nose and bent over the head to look into the gory eye socket. He reached into a pouch at his side and drew out a long metal probe. The crowd watched distastefully as he put it into the empty eye cavity and moved it hither and thither to examine the extent and the depth of the wound. Then he ran his hands over the abdomen, which had swollen with gas, and lifted each of the limbs in turn. At last he pushed himself up to his feet and wiped the probe on the hem of his mantle.
‘This man has been dead for a short time, I think. Less than a day, but long enough for rigor mortis, the corpse stiffness to set in. The skin has gone purple where the blood has stagnated. There is no putrefaction, just the beginning of bloating. The cause of death is clearly this wound to his head. An arrow wound, I would say. It almost went right through his head, and it certainly made a mess of his brain. Whoever pulled the arrow out removed his eye, or what was left of it, and a goodly amount of his brain. He would have died instantly, my lord.’
‘I thank you, Master Oldthorpe. You may step back.’ He looked aside and nodded approvingly to see the bailiff busily recording events on a scroll. ‘Now step back into the pen, Simon the Fletcher.’
The large man looked uncomfortable as he took his place in the three-sided enclosure, his eyes staring aghast at the dead body lying in front of it.
‘What do you make of this arrow?’ Richard asked, snapping his fingers at Hubert, who unwrapped the murder weapon that had been lying on the table throughout the proceedings and handed it to the arrowsmith.
The fletcher picked it up gingerly. ‘It is well made, sir.’ He held it up and looked down its shaft. ‘It has a poplar shaft, which makes it light. The flights are made of grey goose feathers and trimmed most particularly.’ He touched the tip of the arrowhead and hefted it. ‘It is a narrow broadhead arrowhead, well weighted and as good an arrow as you could find.’
Richard had watched the large man with interest. ‘How long have you been a fletcher?’
‘All my life, sir. As my father was and his afore him.’
‘Is this arrow one of yours?’
Simon shook his head. ‘It isn’t locally made, sir. I tend to use ash for the shafts. Most of my fletching is simple design, for that is what most folk want. This is an arrow built for accuracy.’
‘A hunting arrow?’
‘Maybe, sir, but I would say it was shot by a marksman.’
‘And are there any marksmen about this town?’
The large fletcher shifted from foot to foot. ‘Like all towns we have regular archery training, sir. It is demanded by law. If you go down to the archery butts on the Ings fields on Thursday afternoon, you will find a number of fair shots.’ He looked at Sir Thomas nervously. ‘Although the best of them is no longer with us.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, sir, he is outlawed. His name is Robert Hood.’
Sir Thomas thumped his fist on the table. ‘Damn that name. He is a wolfshead! A traitor to the King and he has had the nerve to demand tolls from travellers in the woods.’
Richard realized that he had not told the Deputy Steward about his own meeting with the man called Hood. He rapped his gavel.
‘One more question, Simon the Fletcher: did this Robert Hood buy his arrows from you?’
‘No, sir. He was a forester. He always made his own.’
Richard nodded pensively, his eye roving around the assembly and catching sight of Matilda and Beatrice. They were both looking very anxious. He leaned forward. ‘You may stand down, Simon the Fletcher.’
Then he indicated to the bailiff, ‘Please record that William Scathelocke was murdered while in the town stocks by an unknown assailant. The whereabouts of an outlaw named Robert Hood needs to be ascertained. He is not to be killed, but must be taken alive.’