The Pardoner's Crime (6 page)

Sitting in an inglenook by the blazing fire, he sat nursing his eighth mug of ale as he watched a group of Bucket Inn regulars playing dice at a nearby table. Through his haze he
listened as they discussed the news that had already spread to every household and inn in the township.

‘William Scathelocke was a decent pinder,' said one.

‘But not as good as you, eh, George-a-Green?'

George-a-Green playfully cuffed his fellow on the side of the head and collected the dice with a sweep of his hand. ‘He did a good enough job and he didn't deserve to be in the stocks in the first place.'

A greybeard with a bald pate nodded in agreement. ‘Aye and he certainly didn't deserve to be murdered by a bowman.'

‘Aye, but who could shoot a bow with that accuracy?' said the first speaker, a surly-looking fellow with a cloth over one eyeless socket ‘There is only one real archer around here who could make such a shot and that would be the Hood himself.'

George-a-Green scowled at him. ‘The Hood is no murderer. Take care of that tongue of yours, Hector, or you may lose it some day.'

The man called Hector shook his head with a grin. ‘That I won't, George-a-Green. I am only saying what I expect a lot of people are thinking. And I am not afraid to speak my mind. I have' – he stopped and grinned slyly – ‘faith in the Lord.'

‘Aye and we have faith in the fact that you are a one-eyed drunken fool!' returned George-a-Green. And he and his fellows burst into laughter as Hector began to look even surlier.

Albin of Rouncivale had pricked up his ears, for something about the villain's death and the talk at the table had suddenly caused him to sweat. He wiped his eyes with his forefinger and thumb and looked blearily about the room of the inn. It was a lively, busy place, full of men taking their ease after the work of the day and before they headed home at curfew time.

As he blinked away his tiredness he was aware of a pair of eyes staring directly at him from the shadows of an alcove. He thought that in that glance he recognized the shadowy face. Was this the real cause of the perspiration and the anxiety
that had descended upon him, he wondered? He averted his eyes and pretended to study the dregs in his mug. Surely no one would recognize him here, he thought. And if he was correct, why would
he
be sitting in the inn spying on him? He didn't like the first couple of answers that came to his mind. Warning bells were ringing in his mind and he decided to make his way home stealthily.

But, as he raised the mug to his lips and tilted it back he was aware that the other was still watching him. He needed to leave unseen. And, as usual, when he perceived himself to be in a tight spot, his mind saw a solution. The pinder, George-a-Green was a large fellow in a horsehair mantle with a long cloak. Pretending to bend to examine his foot, Albin picked up a burning twig from the edge of the hearth and surreptitiously tossed it upon the hem of the pinder's cloak. It took but a few moments for it to catch fire. Then a few more for his friends to notice the smell, then the smoke and finally the flames. And then there was chaos. There was jumping up, scraping back of stools, jostling and bumping, spilling of ale and fanning of tempers. Hands slapped, fists clenched and punches were traded. Within seconds a goodly fight had broken out, despite the remonstrances of the potman and a couple of serving girls.

But in the mêlée, Albin of Rouncivale disappeared.

Once outside he took to his heels, keeping into the shadows as he made his way to his lodgings by a circuitous route. As he left, his quick eye and quick wits perceived that there were two of them who had shown an interest in him. Whether they were common footpads or worse, he knew not. But their interest prompted him to decide that it was time to quit the town and move on at dawn.

When he finally made it to his room and had thought himself safe in bed, he heard them outside his room. He heard the footsteps in the corridor and elected to bring his planned escape forward. Gathering his clothes, his sack and his cross, for at times it doubled as a good cudgel, he let himself out of the window.

But as he ran, deciding to leave his donkey, he heard them come out through the same window. Damn this curfew! he cursed to himself. And all too clearly did he realize that they were gaining on him.

Ahead of him he saw a party of men and recognized them for the Warrengate constable and his men, about to do their round after curfew. He did not hesitate, but charged into them and was immediately held, buffeted and cursed for being a clumsy rogue.

‘My lord, take me,' he gasped. ‘I am a sinner, a criminal and I would confess to a crime.'

‘Methinks he is a puddle-headed fool,' said a gangly youth with a stout cudgel upon his shoulder. Then he peered at Albin, his eyes registering recognition. ‘Yet I recognize his yellow hair. I saw this man, this Pardoner today.'  

Constable Ned Burkin hiccupped, for he had supped well on ale himself that night. ‘And what is your crime, Pardoner?'  

‘That girl the other night. Lillian her name was. I did rape her in the cemetery!'  

Ned Burkin reacted swiftly and struck Albin about his ears. ‘Take him, men. I never heard the like of this Pardoner's crime!' A slow grin spread across his face and he added, ‘Hold him well, for this will look good on our watch.'

S
ir Richard awoke from a troubled slumber at cock-crow. As he performed his ablutions he could hear the castle swiftly come to life as servants tumbled off their pallets in attics and cellars to begin preparations to feed the guests and the Deputy Steward's household.

‘Are you awake, my lord?' came Hubert's call through the door. Then at Richard's reply he came in bearing a basket containing cheese, a freshly baked loaf and a flask of ale. ‘Gideon Kitchen had this ready just as you ordered last night,' he said, depositing the basket on the table and helping Richard on with his sword belt.

‘Fine, then we shall be off straight away. I want to see that body as soon as possible before it gets too ripe. Have any of last night's guests left?'

‘The town constables left before the sun came up, my lord.'

A bell tolled from somewhere within the keep.

‘What is that?' Richard asked.

‘The bell for the Earl's Chapel,' Hubert replied. ‘My friend Adam Crigg, the guard I told you about last night, told me all about the castle. Earl Lancaster had the west tower
strengthened
and virtually rebuilt. He had his own private chapel constructed on the fourth level. I understand that whenever Father Daniel, the chaplain, is here, he holds a service in the Earl's Chapel for the household, before he goes to the main
chapel for the castle staff and whoever may be staying as guests.'

‘We shall have a look at this Earl's Chapel and say prayers before we leave then. It would make sense to ask our Lord for guidance before we start this day's work.'

Father Daniel and Lady Katherine, the Prioress of Kirklees Priory were both kneeling in front of the altar in the Earl's Chapel atop the west tower. Richard and Hubert stood at the open door looking in. The altar was carved from oak and covered with a fine linen cloth. On top of it was a large plain wooden cross with a plain white candle on each side. Behind the altar was an arched window with glazed green glass, and upon the smoothly plastered walls were painted scenes of the flagellation, the crucifixion and the resurrection of Christ. The ceiling was actually domed and a bell could be seen hanging within it; the bell-rope hanging down just to the side of the altar. On top of all of the walls clouds had been painted, with depictions of the feet of the Lord disappearing into them as he ascended to heaven.

Richard and Hubert genuflected and entered. At the sound of their feet the priest started and looked round, an
expression
of surprise upon his face.

‘Good morning, Sir Richard,' he said, standing swiftly. ‘Will you join us? I had not expected anyone else at this hour. The Deputy Steward and his good lady do not rise so early. I usually come back when—'

Richard raised an apologetic hand. ‘We must away soon, Father Daniel, and a blessing for our work would be welcomed.'

The priest bowed his tonsured head. ‘Lady Katherine and I were actually saying prayers to that very effect just now, Sir Richard. Murder is abhorrent and there has been too much bloodshed already. Earl Lancaster was—'

‘What, he was murdered, too?' Richard asked.

The prioress was swiftly on her feet and laid a hand on
Father Daniel's arm. ‘He did not say that, Sir Richard. He meant to say that Earl Lancaster was a devout man himself. That is why he built this lovely chapel.' She shook her head sadly. ‘Whatever his crimes against the King, he is with the Almighty now.'

Father Daniel placed his hands together. ‘As we shall all be one day. And knowing that you are going to see that poor murdered wretch, before the blessing for your work, let us say a prayer for his soul.'

A small group was standing chatting in front of the Tolbooth on the Birch Hill when Richard and Hubert rode up. The Tolbooth was a squat single-storeyed stone building with barred windows and a stout iron-studded wooden door. In the empty square before it was an empty stocks and a pillory, the area round them being covered in rotten vegetables and cow dung. Richard dismounted and eyed it distastefully, having noticed the bloodstains upon the stocks and the ground behind it.

‘Welcome to the Tolbooth, Sir Richard,' said one of the men, a well-fed man in his mid-thirties with a square-cut beard and porcine eyes. Richard recognized him as John of Flanshaw, the town bailiff and therefore, the main officer of the court. ‘The body is inside in one of the cells below ground.' He pointed to the bloodstained stocks. ‘I had everything left just as it was, so that you could inspect it if you wished.'

Richard nodded approvingly. ‘I will, before we go to the Moot Hall to inspect the court rolls. First, let me see the body.'

The other four men had spread out to allow the bailiff to get to the door. Richard recognized three of them as the
constables
for three of the town wards. They all looked fresh after a good night's rest, but another, whom he presumed to be the fourth constable looked as though he had yet to go to bed.

‘This is Ned Burkin, the Warrengate constable, Sir Richard,' the bailiff volunteered. ‘He has important news to give you. He—'

‘I will tell the judge,' Ned Burkin interrupted gruffly, as if keen to deliver his information personally. He turned to Richard, who winced at the smell of stale ale and bad breath that emanated from him. ‘I arrested a man last night. A Pardoner.'

Sir Richard heard Hubert grunt behind him. ‘Looks as if you were right, my lord,' he whispered. ‘A charlatan after all.'

‘That is as may be,' said Burkin, scowling at Hubert. ‘But his crime was more serious. He confessed to a rape, sir.'

Richard looked round at Hubert and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Then to Burkin, ‘And whom did he rape?'

‘I think it was that girl Lillian Fenton, sir.' He pointed at the door of the Tolbooth. ‘He is locked up down there, in the cell next to the corpse.'

‘Then we shall have a look at him after I have seen the body, then he shall have his say in court later today.'

The bailiff thumped his fist upon the Tolbooth door and a metal shutter slid back behind an iron grille. He barked an order to the turnkey and after some clanking of locks and shifting of bolts the door was pulled open and they entered.

‘This is strange luck, sir,' said Hubert, as they descended the dark stone steps to the underground cells, led by the turnkey who preceded them with a candle. ‘We come to
investigate
one case and another is solved in the process.'

Richard merely clicked his tongue and waited while the turnkey unlocked one cell and pushed the door open for the group to enter.

The body had been laid upon a pallet bed. By the light of the candle it made a grisly sight. He had been a young man in his mid-twenties, lean but yet well-muscled as if he had done physical work. His clothing reeked of cow dung and decayed vegetables, evidence of which stained his clothes. His face, Richard judged to himself as he looked at the unspoiled left side, would have attracted some women. Yet his brown hair was matted with blood from the dreadful wound on the right side. His whole eye socket had been destroyed where an arrow
had entered and subsequently been yanked free. Congealed blood and grey-pink brain matter was visible around the gaping hole of the socket.

John of Flanshaw, the bailiff, retched and rushed from the cell and could be heard emptying his breakfast in the corridor.

‘We shall have the opinion of the apothecary, Master Oldthorpe later on, I think,' Richard mused, straightening up, and turning to the constables. ‘Have the body wrapped and be ready to bring it to the Moot Hall when I call for it. The session of the Manor Court will begin at eleven o'clock.'

In the corridor, John of Flanshaw was recovering himself.

‘Have you made sure that the township knows to attend the court?'

The bailiff nodded. ‘I had a proclamation made at cock-crow, Sir Richard. And the constables and their men will ensure that the reaves have everyone there.'

Ned Burkin had pushed himself to the front of the group. ‘Will you question this Pardoner now, Sir Richard?'

To their surprise Richard shook his head. ‘I shall look through the bars of his cell, but I shall not talk to him, for that could prejudice his case.'

They were about to protest, but Hubert silenced them immediately. ‘Sir Richard is the Circuit Judge of the King's Northern Realm and is a Sergeant-at-Law. What he doesn't know of the law is not yet written. It is not your place – any of you – to question him.'

Richard had taken the opportunity while Hubert berated the bailiff and constables to look through the bars at the Pardoner. He recognized the man's lank hair and beardless face. And he noticed his sack and the cross which had been tossed in a corner of the cell with him. The Pardoner was on his knees, mumbling a prayer, his eyes tightly closed and his hands fervently clasped together.

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 Sir 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.'