The Sanctuary Seeker (30 page)

The coroner sat hunched on his stool, finishing off a smoked herring. ‘It doesn’t matter a damn how de Bonneville got in. He’s there now and we’re stuck with him for up to forty days.’

‘Where is he holed up?’ Gwyn’s curiosity got the better of his usual silence.

‘Sitting at the foot of an altar in the North Tower,’

replied the constable.

‘Has he said anything yet?’ asked John.

‘Nothing apart from endlessly claiming sanctuary and hanging on tightly to the altar-cloth if anyone goes near him. A couple of canons and their vicars are circling about him, but the big men are going down there in about an hour - the Bishop himself, so they say.’

Gwyn lumbered off his window-sill to pour more drink. ‘Does he get fed in sanctuary?’

They all looked at Thomas, the oracle on this ancient procedure. ‘It’s the responsibility of the village or the Hundred - or, in this case, the town burgesses to keep him alive for up to forty days. That’s why so many escape from sanctuary as the local people don’t want the expense of feeding and guarding them.’ He crossed himself spasmodically as he spoke.

The constable made a noise expressing disgust.

‘And the task of guarding him falls on us - and that means half a dozen doors to watch. Why the hell didn’t he choose a small church instead? There’s plenty of them in Exeter, God knows, all with only one door.’

Crowner John gave one of his rare barking laughs.

‘Maybe we can tempt him to move to St Olave’s. My dear wife would love that, it being her favourite praying place. And, talking of the de Revelles, how is our beloved sheriff taking this?’

Morin grinned, his plain face lighting up at the thought of his superior’s discomfiture. ‘He’s keeping his head down as much as possible. When I told him that the villain was in the cathedral, he scuttled off to see the Bishop, who for a wonder is actually staying in his palace here for a few days.’ He shifted his bottom on the edge of John’s table and hauled his sword scabbard into a more comfortable position.

‘What’s the next move?’ he asked. ‘There’s a crowd around the cathedral already. News gets about quickly in this town.’

‘No chance of his escaping again?’ queried John.

‘The place is sealed up tight as a drum. A mouse couldn’t get out.’

The coroner got up from his bench behind the parchment-littered trestle and walked restlessly across to look down through one of the wall slits. The town looked as it usually did in early morning: all the action was out of sight in the cathedral Close. ‘I’d better get down there, I suppose, to make sure those damned churchmen don’t have some scheme up the sleeves of their cassocks.’

As Gwyn and Thomas cleared up the remnants of their breakfast, the constable had a sudden thought.

‘This Baldwyn, whose corpse lies bleeding in my cart shed down below. Will there have to be an inquest upon him?’

John stared at him in puzzlement. ‘Of course. He certainly came to his death unnaturally.’

‘But you slew him yourself! Can a coroner stick a sword between someone’s ribs and then investigate the death?’

John hadn’t had time to consider this problem.

‘What choice is there? I’m the only coroner in the county.’

The constable still felt the situation was difficult.

‘But how can you be a witness in your own court?

For that’s what an inquest is, even if it’s often held in the open air.’

As they walked down the winding steps, one behind the other, the coroner considered this problem. ‘I’ve no answer to that, Ralph - and I doubt if it has happened anywhere else yet. Maybe I’ll have to turn to Dorset or Somerset, to ask one of them to officiate - though, as far as I know, they’ve no jurisdiction in Devon.’

Morin laughed at John’s obvious dilemma. ‘That’ll teach you to go hunting felons with your own sword.

Leave it to the professionals, like me and the sheriff!’

John was scornful, though in good humour with the constable, whom he much admired. ‘Leave it to you lot? Where were you and your merry men last night, when those two were trying to mash my head with a mace? If the coroner of this county wants something done, he had better do it himself!’

The

banter went on for while as they walked away from the castle. Both men knew that the real object of their derision was Richard de Revelle, whose deviousness made the keeping of law and order by his military servants a stock joke in the county. The constable was uncomfortable with this, as the men-at-arms were mainly under his command, yet the unpredictable behaviour of the sheriff reflected badly on his own performance. They strode on down High Street, the citizens greeting them with affability, respect, suspicion or downright hostility, depending on their current relationship with law and authority.

When they reached St Martin’s Lane, they turned in towards the cathedral Close. John looked up at his house as they passed, but made no effort to go in.

He hoped that Matilda’s new-found compliance was standing the strain of the night’s events.

When they entered the Close, they found that the idle section of the population had discovered a new source of entertainment. Groups of people, mostly women and old men, stood around the doors at the west end of the huge building. Even the children and imbeciles who usually roved among the graves, playing ball and touch-tag, had gravitated to gape at the cathedral entrance. There, men-at-arms were stationed at each door and the older sergeant was parading restlessly between them, anxious to disprove their reputation for letting fugitives escape. Morin went off to talk to him, while John, his officer and clerk in tow, pushed through the sightseers. Leaving their swords with one of the soldiers, they went in through one of the side entrances that flanked the big main doors of the Cathedral of St Mary and St Peter.

Inside, the poor November light left the huge building dim and shadowy. None of the side windows were glazed and birds flew in to perch on the corbels of the wooden ceiling, high above John’s head. The body of the building, with its wide nave and flanking aisles, was an empty, bare vista of flagstoned floor.

The many services each day were for the benefit of the clergy, and the public, who could stand in this open space, were merely passive spectators. Only at the many small altars scattered about the inner walls was there contact between priest and supplicants, where masses were said at frequent intervals.

Many religious relics were scattered around the building, most in side-chapels and on altars, where people came to pray and plead for favours to cure body, mind and purse. One of the lesser clergy acted as a guide to the splinters of the Cross, hairs of Christ, St Mary Magdalen’s finger and part of the manger from Bethlehem.

But today no one had eyes for these holy artefacts as John marched the trio up the centre of the nave until they reached the quire-screen. This stood level with the sixth pair of massive columns that supported the building, separating the nave from the aisles. The quire was an ornately carved wooden cage, running back past the two huge towers towards the High Altar and the apse of the curved east end.

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.