By mid-afternoon, after another jug of ale, John decided to walk back to the castle to practise his lessons, much neglected of late. He had been attending a vicar-choral in the cathedral precinct for tuition in reading and writing, and Thomas de Peyne had also been coaching him. Starting education so late in life, John found it hard to retain such learning and his progress had been slow, but he resolved once more to make a greater effort to become literate.
Outside the tavern, the drizzle had ceased and he made his way up the high street, ploughing through the crowds like a ship parting the waves. As a flock of sheep on their way to slaughter flowed around his legs, he caught sight of a familiar figure coming behind them. Surprised, he stopped and let Thomas come up to him, clinging for support to a solicitous young secondary. ‘Thomas, what are you doing out and about? When I saw you this morning, you were flat on your back in St John’s.’
Haggard, but grimly determined, the little clerk clung tightly to his companion’s elbow. ‘I am bruised but unbowed, Crowner. Brother Saulf said I could go home if I spent the rest of the day on my pallet there. I can get back to my duties tomorrow, I’m sure.’
De Wolfe grinned, for the small man had raised his own spirits too with his dogged determination. ‘You’re like Lazarus rising from the tomb – or sick-bed, in your case. But take your time in returning, Thomas – though I’ll admit I’ve already sorely missed your skills.’
Thomas’s peaky face lit up with pleasure at even this mild praise from his master, to whom he was devoted. ‘The hand that holds the quill is undamaged, Crowner. As my uncle the Archdeacon has shown me, I have experienced a small miracle – a sign from God that my cause is not hopeless.’ He winced as his free arm made the Sign of the Cross.
As he limped away towards the cathedral Close, leaning heavily on his friend, de Wolfe set off back to Rougemont with a spring in his step, cheered by the marked improvement in his clerk’s mood. In the chamber above the portcullis, he settled down for an hour or two’s study of the parchment leaves that bore his Latin lessons. Slowly and silently, his lips formed the sounds of the grammar and vocabulary that the vicar and Thomas had written for him. Then he laboriously practised writing simple phrases, using one of his clerk’s spare pens and jet black ink.
Eventually the effects of half a gallon of ale and the boredom of learning overcame him and he sprawled across his table, leaning his black head on his arms, and was soon sound asleep.
He was awakened by a timid rapping on the boards in front of his nose and blearily opened his eyes to see a young man-at-arms from the guard-room below, standing before him. Another older man was waiting just inside the sacking that screened the doorway.
‘This man says he must see you urgently, Crowner,’ stuttered the soldier, and stepped back to let the bailiff come forward, for John had recognised him as Justin Green from Chagford. Suddenly fully awake, with a premonition of trouble, de Wolfe motioned the man to the empty stool opposite. ‘What is it? Where’s my man Gwyn?’ he demanded.
The bailiff, his upper half damp with rain and his legs muddied from hard riding, looked anxiously at the coroner, in the manner of all harbingers of bad tidings. Haltingly, he told his tale, watching de Wolfe as his consternation grew.
The substance of his news was that there had been a near riot at the coinage in Chagford that morning when the Saxon Aethelfrith had been captured red-handed damaging some tin-works on the edge of the moor. A mob of tinners had dragged him to the town square, also accusing him of killing Henry of Tunnaford and Walter Knapman. He had boasted proudly of his vandalism and the enraged crowd had beaten him up. Gwyn had tried to intervene and had been knocked senseless for his trouble.
‘Is he badly hurt?’ interrupted de Wolfe, lurching to his feet.
The bailiff shook his head. ‘He was knocked out, but soon recovered, though with many scrapes and bruises. But the man he struck was still senseless when I left and I fear he may die. The tinners have bound your man and have taken him prisoner.’
Justin Green explained that Gwyn had been slightly wounded by a dagger and then went on to say that the crowd had hanged the old Saxon forthwith, stringing him up from a rafter of the coinage shelter, amid yells and jeers from the inflamed tinners.
‘And where was the sheriff when this outrage was taking place?’ roared the coroner.
‘The tinners demanded that he should convict and condemn Aethelfrith, as their Warden of the Stannaries – but he would not. Neither did he try to stop the execution, having but half a dozen soldiers with him against that ugly mob.’
‘The rest of the men returned with the constable a few hours ago,’ volunteered the young man-at-arms from behind.
De Wolfe kicked over his bench in rage and stormed into the middle of the chamber. ‘Damn the sheriff, the God-forsaken coward! He should have tried to stop them. The Stannaries have no jurisdiction over violent crime.’
‘That’s what your Cornishman yelled at them – and got stabbed for his pains.’
‘Where is he now, the rash fool?’
‘On his way to Lydford, lashed to the rail of a horse cart, with the man he felled lying at his feet. The sheriff and his men, with Sir Geoffrey Fitz-Peters and a score of tinners from around Lydford, are riding with them.’
‘Why in the name of the Holy Virgin are they all going to Lydford?’ demanded de Wolfe, becoming progressively more agitated as the story unfolded.
‘The tinners insisted on taking him to the new prison at Lydford and the sheriff made no protest. They say that if the other man dies they will hang Gwyn for murder.’
John groaned – it was already early evening and Lydford was well over thirty miles from Exeter, around the northern bulge of Dartmoor.
He could set out this evening, but would not get far before darkness fell. ‘How came you to ride here with the news?’ He thought that surely the sheriff would not have wanted to advertise his sorry part in this affair.
‘Sergeant Gabriel managed to speak to me secretly in the confusion when they were hanging the Saxon. He wanted me to urge on you the gravity of the matter, especially where your officer is concerned.’
‘I need no convincing of that – but many thanks for your speedy summons. When are these hot-heads likely to get to Lydford with their cart?’
‘They left soon after noon and it’s about eighteen miles from Chagford. That wagon is less cumbersome than an ox-cart, but they’ll still take at least until dark to get there.’
De Wolfe stared blankly through one of the window slits as he worked out the best plan of action. ‘I’ll ride tonight and get as far as I can, then continue at dawn,’ he growled. ‘You get a bed in a tavern here, then go home, with my thanks.’ He was already collecting his cape and broadsword from pegs on the wall. ‘I’ll get a palfrey or post-horse from the garrison stables. It will be swifter than my heavier destrier.’
De Wolfe strode to the doorway, slipping the baldric over his shoulder and buckling up his sword-belt. ‘And God help them if they’ve harmed my officer.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In which Crowner John rides to Lydford
In spite of de Wolfe’s urgent need to reach Lydford quickly, fate conspired against him. The palfrey he had hired cast a shoe near Tedburn St Mary, a hamlet no more than a quarter of the way to Lydford. By the time he managed to rouse a farrier in the village it was pitch dark and he could go no further. He spent the night wrapped in his cloak on the floor of the forge next to the banked-down furnace, and continued on his way at the first glimpse of dawn. Riding was slower than he had anticipated, for the track was muddy with rain and the remnants of melted snow, some of which still lay along the verges.
The road ran in a wide semicircle north of Dartmoor, which loomed high on his left hand. It was almost noon when he rode at last into Lydford, which lay half-way between Okehampton and Tavistock at the western margin of Devon. An ancient Saxon burgh, the little town had two castles: one was a ruined timber structure, dating back to the Conqu
est, which sat on the edge of the deep gorge that protected one side of Lydford; the other was a brand new square stone tower at the opposite end of the old castle bailey. It had been finished only a month earlier, to serve mainly as the Stannary gaol, though the lord of Lydford had quarters on the top floor. The main hall below this was used as a court and guardroom, the gaol being underneath. It was lacking door or window, reached only through a trap-door from the hall. Already, in the short time the prison had been in use, it had gained an evil reputation for its awful conditions.
John de Wolfe rode wearily up to the rebuilt wooden gatehouse that sat in a stockade that ran along the bank and ditch of the earlier fortifications. A crowd of men was clustered outside, with a fringe of curious women and children. As John walked the palfrey through the archway, a guard stepped forward to challenge him, but a snapped, ‘King’s coroner!’ left him standing with his mouth open.
There were more rough-looking men milling around the courtyard who, de Wolfe guessed rightly, were tinners. A thatched stable block was against the inside of the stockade on his left, with many horses and ponies tethered to rails. He left the palfrey with a dim-witted stable-boy, then strode towards the wooden steps that led up to the main floor of the tower.
At the top, there was such a press of people trying to get into the hall that he had to pull shoulders aside to get through. Inside the doorway a solid plug of bodies brought him to a halt. ‘What’s going on in here?’ he growled in the ear of a grey-bearded fellow jammed against his left side.
‘A crowner’s inquest – a local tinner who died here last night, after that affair in Chagford.’
For a moment, de Wolfe was mystified, as well as anxious. Then he realised that the territory given to Theobald Fitz-Ivo included Lydford. Even though the tinner had been injured in Chagford, which was de Wolfe’s responsibility, he had died in Lydford, so Fitz-Ivo rightly had jurisdiction. He forced his way inside, ignoring protests and threats until he had a clear view of the large chamber.
A low dais to one side carried a few benches and chairs, as in the Shire Court at Exeter. On these sat the obese Fitz-Ivo and the dapper sheriff, together with a couple of clerks and Geoffrey Fitz-Peters. Behind them stood a couple of men-at-arms, a priest and a few tinners. Immediately below the dais, a low bier rested on the floor, carrying the body of the black-bearded tinner, covered with a sheet up to his neck.
But de Wolfe’s attention was riveted elsewhere. Directly in front of the platform the huge figure of Gwyn of Polruan was pinioned by two soldiers. His officer looked even more dishevelled than usual, his hair tangled and ominously matted with dried blood. The part of his face that was not covered in whiskers was red and bruised and his left eye was half closed, the lid swollen and dark. As if they feared the giant would break free from his captors, heavy metal fetters were clamped around his wrists and ankles, joined together with a rusty chain.
Appalled and angry, de Wolfe shoved further forward until he stood in a free space at one end of the dais, the rest of the small hall being packed with a few score tinners, presumably both jury and spectators. Fitz-Ivo was leaning forward to speak, hunched over his paunch. The inquest must have been well advanced, for he was haranguing the jury by way of a summing-up.
‘So here we have a law-abiding man, a tinner helping to guard the self-confessed murderer of another tinner, Henry of Tunnaford, as well as being the destroyer of God knows how many stream-works and blowing-houses.’ He leered around the audience, deliberately emphasising the tinning aspects to a jury who were virtually all tinners.
‘This poor man was then grossly assaulted by this Cornishman, who beat him senseless and left him to die. The motive need not concern us, for a coroner’s inquest is to determine what happened and who was responsible, not why it occurred. Suffice it to say that this Gwyn of Polruan was not acting under his master’s orders, for the Exeter coroner was far away by then.’
De Wolfe fumed at this distortion of the truth, but worse was yet to come.
‘Consider your verdict, then, you men of the jury. This honest tinner, who leaves a widow and five children, was done to death by a brute twice his size, who tried to disrupt and prevent a summary trial and execution of a killer, confessed out of his own mouth – crimes solely against Stannary interests and swift justice straight from Stannary men.’ Fitz-Ivo leaned back and gave a self-satisfied smile at Richard de Revelle, as if to canvass his approval.
The sheriff was looking uncomfortable at the way Fitz-Ivo was drumming up feelings in the heart of tinners’ country, but made no effort to intervene, his popularity in this area being so fragile.
With sweat on his podgy face from excitement at his own eloquence, the fledgling coroner turned back to his audience to reach the climax of his exhortation. ‘The verdict is yours, but consider it among yourselves now. This can only be murder, a violent death from grievous bodily harm, and a hundred witnesses can show it was Gwyn of Polruan.’ He took a deep breath then delivered his coup de grâce. ‘If that is your verdict, then the culprit must hang forthwith!’ he shouted.
There was a scatter of yells of approval from the hall, though quite a number of tinners looked uneasy at this premature turn of events.
De Wolfe’s patience snapped, worn to breaking point by rising incredulity and anger. He thrust his way across the floor below the dais to stand in front of Gwyn and glare at the new coroner. The platform was only knee-high and as Fitz-Ivo was sitting down, de Wolfe’s face was on a level with his.
‘Have you gone mad, you fool? Or are you just drunk?’ he yelled, in a voice so strident that a hush fell upon the hall, even among the more raucous elements who had just been applauding his officer’s death sentence.
Fitz-Ivo flinched, his protuberant watery eyes gazing at de Wolfe as if he was the devil just arrived from hell. He opened his mouth to protest, but John overrode his words. ‘Have you learned nothing about your duties and powers, man?’ he ranted. ‘A coroner cannot pass any sentence, let alone that of death. If your jury names a person as being responsible, then he must be committed to the King’s justices for trial.’
Fitz-Ivo lurched to his feet, trying to work up righteous indignation. ‘You have no right to disrupt my court, de Wolfe. A coroner you may be, but now you have no jurisdiction here.’ He looked around for support from the sheriff, but de Revelle sat stonily silent. He was well aware that his protégé was incompetent to the point of absurdity, but locked in a room with a few score ill-disposed tinners he was desperate to remain neutral for as long as possible.
De Wolfe glared directly into Fitz-Ivo’s protuberant eyes as he said, ‘Your appointment has not yet been confirmed by the King’s Justiciar or his judges – and after this fiasco, I intend to make sure it never will be!’ His voice rose in a crescendo of wrath.
Turning his back abruptly on the fat knight, he walked the few steps past the corpse to where Gwyn stood, and laid a hand solicitously on his arm. ‘How goes it with you, man? Are you sorely hurt?’
His officer managed a crooked grin. ‘I’m well enough, Crowner. It takes more than a few loose-fisted tinners to see me off – even when one of them uses a knife.’ He lifted a chained arm enough to show his master where the blade had sliced though his leather cuirass.
De Wolfe confronted one of the hulking men holding his officer, prodding him hard in the chest with a bony finger. ‘Get these irons struck from this man immediately!’
The tinner looked warily across at his companion, who gripped Gwyn’s other arm, then shook his head. ‘The crowner up there told me to fetter him,’ he growled uncertainly.
‘And the crowner here is telling you to unfetter him!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘That fellow up there is no longer a coroner.’
Fitz-Ivo let out a howl of protest, and a few yells of dissent and abuse from the hall encouraged Richard de Revelle to rise and half-heartedly contradict his brother-in-law. ‘You have no cause to interfere in this, John!’
De Wolfe swung around to face him. ‘Ind
eed I have!’ he roared, in a voice that quelled the rising murmur in the court. ‘I am the only coroner in Devon appointed by King Richard and his justices. I had grave reservations, expressed to you, Sheriff, about even provisionally appointing this man to office, and I’ll prove to you that my misgivings were indeed well founded.’ His voice crackled with authority, and although Fitz-Ivo opened and closed his mouth a few times, he could find no words to utter.
‘First, my officer here was in Chagford expressly at my orders, to safeguard the coroner’s interest in the investigation of two murders. Thus he was acting on my behalf in all he did.
‘Second, the action of that unruly mob in hanging the Saxon was unlawful. They were well within their rights in seizing him if he was caught causing damage, but they had a duty to deliver him into custody until a proper trial could be held.’ He scowled at de Revelle and added, ‘I am surprised and concerned, Sheriff, that you, being present with men-at-arms, did not insist on – and enforce – this proper course.’ He turned to his now silent audience. ‘To hang that man without trial was a crime against the King’s peace equivalent to murder. I shall hold an inquest in Chagford on this Aethelfrith and will report those responsible to the King’s judges when the Eyre of Assize comes to Exeter in the near future.’
This provoked an angry response from certain parts of the gloomy chamber. ‘We live by Stannary law here, not yours, Crowner,’ yelled a voice from the back.
‘No, you do not!’ retorted de Wolfe, with a voice like a bull. ‘The King gave you tinners those special dispensations because of the value of the metal to the Crown. But you know well enough – and your Lord Warden here can confirm it – that Stannary law strictly excludes any jurisdiction over crimes of violence, those against life, limb or property.’
De Wolfe now fixed his eyes on Fitz-Ivo, who was as deflated as a pricked bladder. ‘Finally, you claimed in your fine speech just now that my officer cruelly beat this man to death!’ He pointed a quivering finger at the corpse lying on its bier. ‘Yet you did not invite your jury to inspect the body, as you should have done, and if they had, they would have noticed a strange lack of evidence about this cruel and fatal beating.’
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