The Pardoner's Crime (7 page)

‘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, hunched 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 counter-complainant. 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 Sir Richard's direction they lay 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.'

‘That is outrageous!' growled Sir Thomas. ‘He is an outlaw and any man may take his life. That is the law – or did you not know?'

Richard inclined his head politely. ‘I know the law, Sir Thomas. But I am in charge of this court. It is my duty to investigate all unlawful killings. A man has been murdered here and I mean to know why. I need to talk to this outlaw Robert Hood, to ascertain if he is the killer. If he is not, then there is a killer abroad in this town and no one is safe.'

‘Then I shall make it my business to have the wolfshead captured and brought before this court in chains!'