A few canons and lower-caste priests scurried about, disturbed by the unwanted secular activity that had descended on them this day.
‘Where is this damned fellow hiding?’ growled the coroner, as they came up against the high wooden screen that separated the quire from the nave.
Gwyn saw to his left a pair of cassocked priests with their heads together, one pointing up the north aisle. ‘Something going on over there, by the look of it,’ he said. Bishop Warelwast’s building was not truly cruciform in shape, in that the two massive towers on each side did not open as transepts to form a central crossing. Instead, the inner walls went right down to ground level, but there were small arched openings to give internal access into the base of each tower.
John walked around the corner of the quire to look up the narrow space leading to the east end, which passed the doorway to the North Tower. Here, several clergy were peering with mixed curiosity and timidity through the doorway.
‘He must be in there, as Morin said. Let’s have a look at the murdering bastard!’ John was in no mood for delicacy or forgiveness after the events of the night.
They moved up alongside the columns of the nave to the opening that led into the bottom of the tower, a high, square chamber with a small door to the outside in the nearest left-hand corner. The gaggle of priests moved aside for them, Thomas de Peyne at once reverting to his former life by genuflecting and crossing himself. He repeated this as soon as he saw two altars against the right-hand wall of the chamber.
In front of the further one, almost in the north-east corner, a man sat on the floor, one hand firmly gripping the white cloth draped over the simple altar, dedicated to the Holy Cross, a relic of which was housed in a small brass-bound box on a shelf above it.
‘There he is, our runaway hero!’ shouted Gwyn, his red hair bristling, unconcerned about disturbing the sanctity of the place.
‘Be quiet, you barbarian! You’re in the House of God!’ hissed the outraged Thomas, standing alongside the three priests, who glared disapprovingly at the noisy, roughtly dressed Cornish giant.
Gervaise de Bonneville, dishevelled, his cheeks and chin stubbled below his fair moustache, looked up in terror at the officer’s bellow. He convulsively seized the altar-cloth even more firmly and crouched nearer the square table, which carried a gilded crucifix flanked by two candlesticks. He stared fearfully at the archway, unable to see clearly who was standing there in the gloom.
‘Who’s there? I claim sanctuary, whoever you are.’
His voice was tremulous with fear, as if he could already feel the coarse rope around his neck.
‘It’s the King’s coroner, John de Wolfe, whom you well know by now. We met last half-way through the night, sir. If you’d not been so craven a coward, you’d have seen me spit your man Baldwyn on the end of my sword.’
The man from Peter Tavy rose slowly to his feet as the other came fully into the chamber. He kept one hand firmly on the altar of the Holy Cross.
‘Baldwyn? Baldwyn is wounded?’
‘Wounded? Baldwyn is dead – with my sword through his chest. But at least he stood his ground to fight, sacrificing himself to let you escape. You ran like a frightened rabbit and left him to die.’
De Bonneville’s head sank to his chest and he subsided to the floor in front of the altar. They could only just hear his voice from across the wide room.
‘Baldwyn – oh, God, have mercy on him!’
‘And on you, Gervaise de Bonneville,’ boomed the coroner, ‘for you’re a cold-blooded killer, a murderer of your own brother, for which you’ll rot in hell.’
The fugitive held his head in his hands as he leaned against the base of the altar, mumbling something inaudible.
The coroner called to him again. ‘De Bonneville, will you come out of this place and surrender yourself to me or to the constable?’
Without looking up, the man at the altar screamed, ‘No, never! Leave me in peace. I am in sanctuary, I claim the protection of this holy place.’
Before John could reply, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Morin behind him in the doorway. ‘I was about to tell him a few truths about sanctuary,’ said the coroner.
The constable backed away a little into the arch, to look over his shoulder down the nave. ‘You’ll have to wait on this lot before you do that, John. Here’s a procession of priests. I saw them assembling outside the cloisters. A full delegation of God’s henchmen – and our dear sheriff with them.’
The coroner put his head out of the doorway to see an impressive group approaching with a stately, measured tread. First came a canon’s vicar bearing a high processional cross, then the Archdeacon, John de Alecon, with a black cloak thrown over his chasuble and alb. He walked solemnly in front of Bishop Henry Marshall, who was in full regalia of embroidered cope over his other vestments. He carried his crosier – the gilded shepherd’s crook – and his lofty brow bore the mitre as if he was attending some major ceremony at the high altar.
He was closely followed by the Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, who walked with Richard de Revelle. The sheriff was in his best finery, wearing a dark red silk tunic to his knees, covered by a long cloak of green linen. A matching green capuchin was around his head, the tail falling elegantly to his left shoulder. John thought he looked more like a baron at court in Winchester than the law keeper of a far-western county, but perhaps his outfit reflected new political aspirations.
The vanguard was brought up by the cathedral Treasurer, John of Exeter, and a posse of prebendaries and assistant clergy. The coroner assumed that the personal friendship between the Bishop and the late Arnulph de Bonneville had led to this unprecedentedly grand delegation – and perhaps, also, it was an attempt to cover the sheriff’s embarrassment at having protected Gervaise and his squire at the court the previous day. Normally, a sanctuary-seeker would be lucky if a mere canon or vicar came to check that the secular authorities had not violated the ancient right of temporary shelter for fugitives. It was unheard of for a bishop in full regalia to intervene – but, then, it was not every day that the lord of a manor sought sanctuary for conspiring to murder his own elder brother.
The coroner, his men and the castle constable stood aside, Thomas de Peyne jerking like a marionette as he attempted to cross himself repeatedly and bow low at the same time. The canon’s vicar dipped the cross to get under the arch and led the episcopal convoy into the transeptal chamber. Here they contemplated the miserable figure crouched at the altar of the Holy Cross.
There was a heavy chair against the opposite wall and two junior clergy hastily dragged it across, placing it behind the Bishop. His throne was up in the chancel near the High Altar, but it would have taken ten men to shift it. Henry Marshall sat on this lesser seat and arranged his voluminous cope carefully around his legs.
The rest of the entourage formed a semi-circle behind him and John’s group came in to stand in the background. When the Bishop was settled, there was an expectant silence. His long chin turned towards the apprehensive figure crouched in the far corner. ‘Gervaise de Bonneville, come here,’ commanded the high-pitched voice of the prelate.
The figure slowly got to its feet, showing himself to the onlookers as a blond young man of average build. He was dressed in a crumpled dark green surcoat that reached to his knees over a lighter green tunic and trousers. The lower part of his legs, gartered above stout shoes, was splattered with mud from his flight last night through the filthy lanes. He stood, but made no move to go forward, keeping a firm grip on the edge of the altar.
‘I said come here – and kneel at my feet,’ snapped the Bishop.
De Bonneville’s mouth opened and closed a few times indecisively. Then he said, ‘I claim sanctuary, your grace, so I am afraid to leave this holy altar.’
Henry Marshall showed his impatience. ‘You stupid boy, you have no need to cling to that table as if it were a raft in the ocean. The whole cathedral – indeed the whole Close – is included in our ancien
t mercy of sanctuary. You can go out and stroll in it just as safely, so come away from there!’
Only partially reassured, Gervaise let go of the altar-cloth and slowly walked across the few yards of flagstone towards the Bishop’s chair. He sank to his knees and bowed his head.
The prelate restrained himself from holding out his hand for his ring to be kissed – he had a politician’s wariness of siding with losers.
‘It saddens me to see you in this state,’ he said sonorously. ‘I was a friend of your father for most of my life. To hear within such a short time of his death, then the death of his eldest son and now your mortal predicament is almost too much for me to bear.’
John thought that in spite of his words the Bishop seemed to be bearing up quite well.
Then the Archdeacon took up the interview. ‘De Bonneville, you say you seek sanctuary, so do you confess your sins?’
Gervaise shook his head vehemently. ‘Of course not, Father. I am innocent. I am the victim of circumstance and conspiracy. My squire, Baldwyn of Beer, may have been a villain, though I can hardly believe it. But it is a foul conspiracy to claim that I am involved. You already have a culprit proven by the Ordeal, this Alan Fitzhai.’
His voice almost cracked with emotion. Then there was a long silence. The Bishop chewed his lip. Should he continue his previous ardent championship of de Bonneville with the risk of it all falling about his ears? Or should he throw him to the wolves and wash his hands of the whole affair?
He decided to try a middle path, leaving his options open until the matter became clearer.
‘I am not concerned with the secular authorities – but whatever the eventual truth, I will defend to the death the inviolacy of sanctuary.’ He looked hard at the sheriff, the custodian of secular power in Exeter. Everyone present still had the spectre of Thomas Becket’s murder hanging over them and bishops were always happy to rub the noses of royal servants in the memory of that epic breach of sanctuary only twenty-four years before.
He turned back to glare at de Bonneville. ‘As far as the Church is concerned, you have the set period of sanctuary allotted to you, without fear of violation. I will ensure that this is held sacrosanct. Whatever else you may arrange within that period is between you and the law officers.’
Gervaise, still on his knees, nodded vigorously.
Henry Marshall turned again to the coroner and the constable, who had moved to stand alongside de Revelle. ‘No one may dare take him from this place against his will. He must be given food and water – but that is the responsibility of the city, not of the cathedral.’
The sheriff nodded. ‘I will inform the portreeves, your grace. They have that duty. In fact, they have also the duty to guard the fugitive against escape. These are burdens for the city. But in this case I will detail a sergeant and men-at-arms from the garrison. The constable will see to that.’
It seems that Richard is trying to run with both the hare and the hounds, thought John.
The mitre turned slightly to face Ralph Morin. ‘On the subject of such guards, I would remind you that the cathedral Close is not part of the city of Exeter. It is subject only to the rule of canon law and the King’s officers and the burgesses have no jurisdiction within these precincts.’
The constable stared stonily at the Bishop. It was obvious that he was going to be made the scapegoat in this, to avoid Henry levelling his criticisms directly at de Revelle.
‘Well, what have you to say? Your men are trampling all over my Close, in places where they have no right to be.’ He made it sound as if the soldiers’ boots were ruining exquisite lawns and gardens rather than a quaguire of grave-pits and rubbish.
For a moment, Gervaise’s face lightened with a flicker of hope; he wondered if the Bishop was trying to get the guards called off. This might give him a chance to escape.
But John entered the fray. His deep voice boomed from the back, ‘It is true, Bishop, that the ground of the cathedral Close is outwith the responsibility of the town but I would remind you that the roads and paths through it remain the property of the borough. Men-at-arms are fully entitled to stand upon these roads, even if they should not venture on to the soil between them.’
Marshall swung round to identify the speaker and his face darkened when he saw that it was the coroner. But John was secure in his facts and they could not be denied.
‘Very well, it may be so,’ the prelate conceded. ‘But I am still concerned that some heavy-footed, sword-happy man-at-arms might be tempted to violate the sanctuary I bestow upon this unfortunate soul.’
He decided to take the plunge and leaned forward to lay a hand on de Bonneville’s head muttering an almost inaudible blessing as he did so. Then, having decided that he had become far enough involved in this messy business, he rose from his chair and turned away from Gervaise without another word, leaving the man on his knees.
He moved at a dignified, slow pace towards the doorway, preceded by his cross-bearer and followed by most of his entourage.
Only de Revelle and the Archdeacon stayed behind with the constable, and the coroner and his men.
In spite of the Bishop’s assurances, the fugitive got to his feet and backed away again into his corner, pushing himself into the gap between the altar and the angle of the wall.
The sheriff advanced on his brother-in-law, his face twisted with rage. ‘See what troubles you’ve unleashed now, John!’ he snarled. ‘Why couldn’t you leave well alone? A couple of men dead – what’s that when we lose thousands each year in wars and pestilence?’
The coroner, two hands’ breadths taller than the other, glowered down into his face as they stood but a few inches apart.
De Revelle, as uneasy as the Bishop over the whole affair, advanced on de Bonneville, who, well aware of the previous partiality the sheriff had shown him, looked at him with tremulous hope.
‘I have to ask you this straight away, Gervaise. Will you surrender to me and face trial on these allegations?’
The heir to Peter Tavy shook his head. ‘I am innocent, Sir Richard. It must have been Baldwyn, acting without my knowledge.’
The sheriff looked even more unhappy that before. ‘Such matter will be explored at the trial. If you have false accusers, this will become apparent when you face your judges.’
‘How can I defend myself against false witnesses?’ asked Gervaise wildly.
De Revelle tugged at his pointed beard in agitation. He wanted himself out of this place and this situation as soon as possible. ‘I have said, the court will discover the truth,’ he claimed with pious vagueness.
‘Will it be your county court or the burgess court? Or will it be before the royal justices?’ persisted de Bonneville, with panic in his eyes.
This was a thorny problem and de Revelle was not going to commit himself with so many onlookers present. ‘That will have to be decided,’ he said stiffly. ‘The matter in hand is whether you will give yourself up to me now.’
Gervaise looked from one face to another. He saw frank hostility in Gwyn of Polruan and the coroner, distaste from the constable and evasive duplicity in the sheriff.
He backed away, hands out in front of him, as if fending off attack. Stumbling back to the altar, he shook his head vigorously. ‘No! I’ll not surrender to you! You’ll chain me – imprison me – torture me, then hang me, whatever I say.’ His voice rose to a shriek of fear that reverberated around the bare stone chamber.
De Revelle turned on his elegant heel and caught John by the arm. His face was white, but the coroner couldn’t decide whether it was from anger or anxiety. ‘Come out of earshot, through into the nave,’ he hissed, pulling John by the elbow.
They passed back through the arch and stood around the corner against the high, cold stone.
‘You are poised on a knife-edge, brother-in-law,’ snarled the sheriff. ‘The man Baldwyn was evil and treacherous – I admit I was wrong about him – but Gervaise de Bonneville! If it turns out, as I hope and expect, that he was merely a
n innocent trying to be faithful to his own retainer, then you are in deep trouble, Master Coroner!’
John’s long, saturnine face showed no trace of anxiety and he failed to tremble at the sheriff’s threats. ‘What are you going to do about it, dear Richard?’ he answered. ‘Perhaps you can ask your good friend Prince John to bring his influence to bear on Hubert Walter – or even our royal king himself, eh?’
The sheriff’s pallor was flushed with the a mottled ruddiness of true rage. ‘You’ve always got some cheap answer to divert truly serious advice, sir! Watch your back on dark nights in lonely streets, John. I’ll not want to see my sister a widow before her time.’
The coroner grinned, infuriating the sheriff even more. ‘I think last night showed that I can more than hold my own in lonely alleys at dead of night! I can still shove a broadsword through a murderous heart – and I’d have saved you a hanging if the other knave hadn’t thrown down his weapon and run off like a jack-rabbit!’
Frustrated beyond endurance, de Revelle swung back into the archway and called, in a voice quivering with spite, ‘You have had your chance, de Bonneville! Now settle the matter with the coroner here.’
He vanished, abdicating any further responsibility to his brother-in-law.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In which Crowner John takes confession
Crowner John dragged the chair used by the Bishop nearer to the altar of the Holy Cross and sat down to parley with the fugitive. He had been up virtually all night and was feeling the strain of dodging chain-maces and indulging in sword fights.
‘So you’ll not give yourself up to me or the sheriff?’ he began conversationally.
The man from Peter Tavy pressed back into his niche and shook his head again. ‘Never! I might as well hang myself now from that window.’ He gestured dramatically at the centre bar of a small opening above them.
‘Save us a lot of trouble and expense if you did,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘I’ll willingly supply you with a rope.’
The Sanctuary Seeker Page 24