Crowner's Quest (35 page)

There was silence from inside the cell, but from next door Giles Fulford called out angrily, ‘I heard that, Jocelin! It’s a trick, don’t believe them.’

De Wolfe walked a few steps further up the passage and glowered through the next grille. Another grimy face beneath tousled fair hair glared out at him. ‘I should keep a still tongue in your head, Master Fulford,’ said the coroner evenly. ‘It was that same tongue that condemned your master, with a little lubrication from some cold water.’

‘It was a lie! You forced me under duress. None of it was true.’

‘Tell that to the hangman! Maybe he’ll believe you, for I won’t,’ snapped de Wolfe. He moved back to de Braose’s cell. ‘But there is a third way for you – for both of you.’

De Braose looked suspiciously at the coroner, his round face scowling. A prison louse was crawling down a hank of red hair hanging near his left ear but he ignored it, though his neck and hands were spotted with bug bites from the infested straw.

‘What new trick is this, Crowner? If we’re going to be hanged, then leave us in peace. Don’t come gloating and tormenting us.’

For reply, de Wolfe fished in the inner pocket of his riding cloak and pulled out a glove. It was an old one he had brought from home for the purpose. Reaching through the bars, he lightly smacked Jocelin’s face, dislodging the louse, then he dropped the old glove at his feet. ‘I challenge you, Jocelin de Braose, to trial by combat to the death. If you win, you and your squire may go free.’

The auburn-haired man stared at him through the square aperture. ‘They all said you were a madman and they were right! How, in the name of Mary Mother of God, can a crowner challenge a prisoner to trial by battle?’

Fulford yelled from next door to know what was going on, and de Braose answered, at the top of his voice, ‘This crazed man wants to fight me to the death!’

‘It’s better than hanging,’ shouted Fulford.

De Braose glared at the coroner and waved a hand dismissively, turning to go back to his stone slab. ‘Go away, leave us in peace.’

De Wolfe explained calmly, ‘I have just challenged you, not as crowner or even as a law officer of any kind. I did it in my role as champion for an aggrieved party who has laid an Appeal against you.’

De Braose came back to the door. ‘A champion! How in hell can you be a champion? For whom?’

‘A minor who, because of his tender age, can’t prosecute his Appeal in person. You must know as well as I that it’s normal practice for women, the infirm and those under age to appoint a champion.’

‘I know that, Crowner! But whom do you claim has made this ridiculous gesture?’ ‘Robert Fitzhamon – for you foully murdered his father and he wants both justice and revenge.’

There was momentary silence. ‘I deny it, there’s no proof at all of that. My squire’s so-called confession was made under duress.’

‘Then you can prove that in combat. Fight me and win, and you demonstrate your innocence by my death – it’s a common procedure. Forget that I’m coroner, just think of me as an old Crusader, slow in the mind and weak in the sword-arm!’

Jocelin was thinking of the fight near Dunsford church a few days before and had no illusions about de Wolfe’s prowess with a broadsword.

‘I will allow you to use Fulford as your squire. My officer Gwyn of Polruan will be mine.’

‘Are you really serious about this, de Wolfe?’

‘You killed an inoffensive old priest after beating him up for the sake of treasure and then made a young lad fatherless to suit your scheming masters. I can’t fight them at the moment, so I’ll make do with you.’

De Braose was scornful. ‘You’d not catch me by surprise again as you did in Dunsford. I’d kill you, Crowner.’

De Wolfe was philosophical. ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Let’s see, shall we?’

‘How is this to be played, then? The challenged has the choice of weapons.’

‘Choose what you will – but lance and shield are usual. If we’re unhorsed, then let the sword decide it.’

‘That suits me, Crowner, if you let me use my own horse. I’ll kill you on the spot.’ He raised his voice. ‘D’you hear that, Giles? We’re going to be free, thanks to the crowner’s wish to commit suicide.’

The reply was an exultant stream of foul language, but held a note of sudden optimism, natural from a man whose only expectation five minutes before was of having his neck stretched on the communal gallows.

As they climbed the steps out of the undercroft, de Wolfe muttered to his two retainers, ‘Now to convince Richard de Revelle that it’s legal – not that he’s any expert on legality.’

Matilda was still holding out at her cousin’s house and de Wolfe made his usual pilgrimage to the Bush tavern that evening. The news of the trial by combat had not yet leaked out, though he knew that by tomorrow the whole of Exeter would be agog with the prospect of their coroner fighting a man accused of two murders.

Nesta was distraught at the thought of her lover putting his life in danger. ‘He’s so much younger than you, John! From what I saw of him in the Shire Hall, I’d not put him above twenty-five years.’

They sat as usual at his table by the side of the hearth. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. ‘Are you convinced that I’m senile and past it, my love?’

She looked up at him with her big hazel eyes, worry creasing her smooth face. ‘You could be killed, John. What would I do then?’

‘I could be killed every day of my life, Nesta. A fall from a horse, a sudden ambush by a dozen outlaws – even stabbed by a jealous husband!’

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Stop it, John! But be serious. Though you’ve been a fighting man for twenty years, this de Braose is young and fast. And what about Gwyn? He’s not so nimble as he was – and getting too fat.’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Gwyn’s not fighting Fulford. They are to be our squires, looking after the arrangements – and picking up the dead bodies.’

‘What happens to Fulford if de Braose is defeated?’

‘It means that they were guilty, so he’ll hang.’

Nesta sighed. These violent Norman traditions were so different from the Welsh laws, where restitution was the object, not revenge and death. ‘I won’t sleep until all this is over, John. When and where will it happen?’

‘Three days from now, at the tourney ground on Bull Mead. De Braose will be given a chance to ride his horse and get familiar with the lists on the day before. It wouldn’t be fair to take him stiff and cramped from a cell and put him straight on the back of his steed without some loosening up.’

Nesta shook her head wonderingly at the madness of men. ‘You look on this as some kind of game! I can’t understand you, playing with death as if it were some kind of entertainment.’

He looked grim. ‘We can’t take the chance of seeing these two go free again. I still can’t trust the sheriff – but apart from him, there are so many ways of evading justice, especially when months may go by until the king’s judges come.’

She brooded for a while, staring into the fire and imagining life without her man. ‘Did de Revelle agree to this?’

‘He’s in no position to deny it. He put up only a token opposition to my proposal.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He objected that for trial by battle there are supposed to be five summonses in the county court before combat can be accepted. That would take weeks, so I told him I was using my powers as a king’s coroner to abrogate this rule.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘No, not as far as I know! But no one here knows any different, without getting a ruling from the king’s judges – and that can’t happen in time. Anyway, the sheriff has no power to reject an Appeal – and I brought a letter written by Robert Fitzhamon’s priest confirming that the boy wishes to Appeal de Braose and appoint me as his champion due to his minority.’

The inn-keeper clung more tightly to his arm. ‘I fear for you, John, I really do! What about Bran? That great horse is getting old like you. Can he be relied upon?’

‘As long as he can still run in a straight line, that’s all I ask of him.’

With misgivings mounting with every passing moment, Nesta resigned herself to three days and nights of constant worry over this great beanpole of a man, with the black hair and dark jowls, whom she loved so much and was now afraid of losing because of some stupid masculine ritual.

John de Wolfe lost no sleep over the coming joust. Though he was optimistic about winning, he was not complacent about his survival, for the loser would die, that was for sure. He was fatalistic about his chances, as he had learned to be over a score of years when Irish, French, Moorish and even English adversaries had brought him near to death on many occasions.

He made sensible preparations for the event, but did not let them interfere with his daily duties. Indeed, a whole day was occupied with riding to Okehampton and back to inspect and hold an inquest on the body of the victim of a violent robbery on the highway. However, he made time to get to the livery stables to check Bran’s shoes and to purge him of worms with an extract of male fern. Gwyn sharpened all their weapons with a whetstone and checked over the chain-links on John’s hauberk. Then they went down to the tilting-ground at Magdalen Street to watch Jocelin de Braose and his squire practise. True to his word, the coroner had arranged with Ralph Morin to allow the two men several hours’ freedom, under guard, to practise at Bull Mead with their own horses, which had been stabled near the Saracen. He had even sent palatable food to the gaol, in place of the muck that Stigand provided, as he wanted no complaint that he had fought a malnourished, prison-sick opponent.

For an hour, Gwyn and he sat on the two ranks of benches that were fixtures on Bull Mead for the upper-class spectators on tournament days. They watched de Braose as he charged at the quintain, a post carrying a horizontal swivelling arm with a fixed shield hanging from one arm and a heavy bag of sand dangling from a rope on the other. The attacker would ride his horse at the device and strike the shield with his lance, dodging the violent swing of the bag, which could knock him off his horse if he was too slow.

Then Jocelin and Fulford made mock charges at each other down each side of the tilt, a long barrier of hurdles made of woven hazel-withies stretching across the field, the ground on each side beaten into bare earth by the pounding hoofs of the heavy destriers. At practice, they carried the usual flat-topped shields, but only leather armour as they were using long wooden poles with flat ends rather than real lances. After a dozen passes, the clash of pole on leather-covered wood led to two successful unhorsings, both by de Braose against his squire, who picked himself up bruised but unbroken.

A number of spectators watched, including Morin’s guards, some old men dreaming of battles gone by, a few women with urchins running around with toy swords, and several cripples and beggars with nothing better to do. They were silent most of the time, knowing that the two combatants were criminals who would be fighting for their lives in a day or two – though each time Fulford crashed from his mare, there was a low murmur of anticipation of a broken neck or back.

After the quintain and the tilting, the two men practised sword-play for half an hour, until the men-at-arms hustled them off the field and marched them back to Rougemont, past the drying racks for serge cloth that stood in almost every empty space around the city walls.

‘That de Braose is good with a lance. You’ll have to watch him,’ admitted Gwyn grudgingly, as they walked back to the South Gate. ‘And he’s got a powerful swing with a broadsword. I thought they might have tried to escape when they had horses under them.’

‘Ralph had that in mind – that’s why he had twenty soldiers there, half a dozen of them mounted. But they could hardly fight through them with only a long broom-handle for a lance and deliberately blunted swords.’

‘A pity they didn’t try, then maybe you wouldn’t have this risky business to contend with,’ grunted Gwyn, who was secretly worried about the coroner’s chances in the coming combat.

De Wolfe slapped his massive back cheerfully. ‘Come on, Gwyn! We’ve beaten much better men than these many a time in the past. I’m not ready to hang up my arms and sit by the fire yet.’

The day of the trial began wet with a fine drizzle, but by mid-morning it had stopped, though it was misty and miserable. ‘At least the ground will be soft, for those who fall from their mounts,’ said John. ‘Hitting frozen mud can kill you, without needing a lance in your guts.’

He and Gwyn were at the tourney ground in one of the arming chambers, a grand name for two rickety thatched sheds that were built at each end of the double tier of viewing benches. Thomas de Peyne was lurking nervously in the background, frequently making the sign of the Cross and saying prayers for the preservation of his master’s life – and for his soul, if he lost. Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford were under guard in the other shelter, going through the same routine as John and his officer. The constable of Rougemont had sent down a couple of soldiers with a handcart to carry the armour and weapons for the two combatants. De Wolfe, of course, was using his own, tried and tested in many a conflict, while de Braose had been loaned accoutrements from the castle armoury, his own being in Berry Pomeroy.

As Gwyn helped his master into his fighting kit, they could hear the increasing clamour of the crowd outside. Everyone in Exeter and some of the surrounding villages knew of the contest and as many who could get away from their labours were there. Some merchants and craftsmen had even given their workers a couple of hours’ freedom to come to the Magdalen Street arena.

‘Sounds as if half England has turned out to see you kill de Braose,’ observed the Cornishman, as he helped de Wolfe pull his gambeson over his head. This was a long quilted garment, padded with wool, to underly his chain-mail and buffer any impacts.

‘I don’t think they care who gets killed, as long as there’s plenty of blood for a spectacle,’ replied the coroner cynically.

Putting on the heavy hauberk was more difficult, but John’s was an older type with only three-quarter sleeves, making the hundreds of chain-links sewn to the canvas a little lighter than the full version, which had long arms ending in mailed gloves. Neither man mentioned the possibility of defeat, but they had been through this routine many times and each knew the other’s thoughts. De Wolfe wondered what would happen to Matilda if he was killed. He had not seen a sign of her since her outburst in the Shire Hall and then her pleading with him to save her brother’s life and reputation. Presumably, if he survived this, she would eventually return home. He wondered if she would come to see today’s battle – which, with increasing certainty, he had to admit might have been a foolish act of bravado.