Lucille managed to shrug her drooping shoulders. ‘I thought it was the master, as they often shouted at one another. Who else would it be, in the hall alone at night with Lady Matilda?’
This time a buzz of excitement gripped the audience, and men and women were turning to stare openly at John de Wolfe. For his part, John listened to the litany of accusers with a sinking heart. Unless he was careful — or fortunate — he was going to be condemned by default of any contrary evidence on his behalf.
‘You wish to deny anything that we have heard, Sir John?’ demanded de Courtenay, in a tone that suggested that he was not really concerned with any disclaimers but was required to go through the tiresome motions.
De Wolfe strode to the front again, flinging his black cloak over one shoulder in a dramatic gesture.
‘Deny? Of course I deny!’ he roared. ‘I have heard some travesties of the truth in my time as coroner, but never such a concoction of nonsense as this!’
‘You are saying that you never had violent disagreements with your wife, the latest last night, as heard by her handmaiden?’ asked de Courtenay in a tone that conveyed his incredulity.
‘That was not me who the stupid girl heard!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘She may well have heard voices through that slit, but they certainly did not include mine. My wife was dead when I arrived.’
‘She said she heard you!’ brayed de Revelle, breaking in from a few feet away.
‘She did not say that! She assumed it was me, because she expected any voice at that time and place to have been mine.’
Aubrey de Courtenay returned to chip away at John’s denials. ‘But your neighbour — and his wife — say they have heard you shouting at your wife in anger, as did your own cook-maid. And Sir Richard here claims you threatened to kill your wife in his presence. Do you say that they are all liars?’
De Wolfe fumed in impotence at being unable to forcefully deny what had been said.
‘They were idle words, uttered in temper, without true meaning! Every husband and wife falls out with each other from time to time; it would be unnatural to do otherwise!’
‘So you admit to often having angry scenes with your wife?’
‘They were not often, as you imply. I will admit that she was a difficult woman and our views on many things were sometimes at variance.’
‘Like your frequent infidelities that drove my poor sister twice into a convent,’ cried Richard.
John rounded angrily on his brother-in-law. ‘If you wish to trade personal insults and evidence of infidelity, I can supply details of seeing you with whores in the sheriff’s chamber — and recall that I once rescued you from a burning brothel!’
Aubrey de Courtenay held up his hands to restrain the two men from coming to blows, and Sergeant Gabriel moved nearer, motioning two of his men-at-arms to close in.
‘Enough of this! It is unseemly to rake up past happenings, except where they are relevant to this inquest,’ exclaimed the Dorset coroner, getting up from his chair and wrapping his dusty cloak around him. ‘It is an appropriate point for us to view the deceased, as the law directs. Both myself and the jury will satisfy ourselves that the cadaver is indeed that of Matilda de Wolfe and that she has injuries upon her consistent with the facts that have been heard.’
He led a procession of the score of jurors across the inner bailey towards the tiny church of St Mary, which stood to the left of the gatehouse. It was little more than a stone box with a small bell-arch at one end of the roof and a simple porch on one of the side walls. Gabriel’s soldiers kept back the rest of the onlookers, but the front row followed the jury, including the sheriff, constable, archdeacon and portreeves. As the acting coroner neared the chapel door, the portly monk Brother Rufus hurried ahead of him to open it, as he was the garrison chaplain and incumbent of St Mary’s.
They all filed in, half-filling the small nave, which was separated from the tiny chancel by only a step up from the earthen floor. In front of the linen-covered table that served as the altar, a bier on four stout legs bore a shape shrouded in a crimson velvet cloth.
Sergeant Gabriel, who was carrying out all the duties that Gwyn normally performed, stepped behind it and folded down the red drape to expose Matilda’s head and neck. The jury solemnly shuffled past, peering at her face, which seemed to repose quite peacefully in death. They gaped at the six blue-black bruises, each half the size of a penny, that lay on the upper part of her throat and under her jawline — and at some crescentic marks alongside them.
‘See the evidence of a strong hand, from a powerful man!’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly. ‘And the scratches nearby, from my poor sister desperately trying to prise her husband’s murderous fingers away!’
Aubrey de Courtenay made no effort to silence the prejudicial ranting, but the sheriff turned on de Revelle.
‘Keep your slanderous remarks to yourself, blast you!’ he hissed. ‘If this were not a church, I would fell you to the ground!’
John de Wolfe stared woodenly at his wife’s face, not approaching closely, as he wanted to say his farewells in private, not with half the town gawping at him. As he stood rigidly at the end of the row, Brother Rufus came up to him and laid a comforting arm about his shoulders and murmured something into his ear. John thought for a moment, then nodded at the burly monk, as Aubrey began leading the way towards the door. The jurors filed out into the pale wintry sunshine, and the more elite audience followed them until only Rufus, de Courtenay and John were left.
Aubrey pointed to the door. ‘It is time to ask for the jury’s verdict, de Wolfe. Go back to your place, please.’
There was a pause, then John shook his head. ‘I’m not going!’ he said.
Aubrey scowled. ‘What d’you mean, you’re not going?’
Calmly, de Wolfe took a step backward into the empty nave. ‘This is a church, a consecrated place. So I claim sanctuary for forty days, as ordained by the state and the Church!’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
To say that consternation gripped the company would be a gross understatement. The locum coroner’s eyes bulged and he made fluttering gestures with his hands.
‘Sanctuary? You can’t claim sanctuary. You are a juror in the middle of an inquest!’
‘Is this, or is this not, a properly consecrated House of God?’ asked John coolly. He looked towards Brother Rufus for confirmation.
‘It is indeed,’ said the priest. ‘The chapel of a royal castle, under the direct control of Canterbury.’
Unlike most castles, Exeter had been built by William the Bastard as a penalty for the Saxon town’s revolt of 1068 and had remained in the possession of the Crown ever since, rather than of some local baron.
‘But you are a knight, the county coroner and the dead person is your own wife!’ spluttered Aubrey de Courtenay.
‘And where, may I ask, does the law lay down that any of those prohibit the gaining of sanctuary?’ said de Wolfe.
The other man’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, but he could find no answer. By now, a few people were coming back into the chapel, wondering at the delay. The first was de Revelle, and Aubrey found his tongue again.
‘De Wolfe refuses to come out, Richard!’ he exclaimed. ‘He says he is claiming sanctuary.’
A thunderous expression came over de Revelle’s face. ‘Impossible! Drag the man out! He is trying to ridicule the law!’
The stout monk advanced on him angrily. ‘You’ll not violate sanctuary in my church, sir! Recall what happened after Thomas Becket!’
Henry de Furnellis now hurried in from the porch. ‘John? Is this true?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You have thought of the consequences?’
De Wolfe nodded. Now that the die had been cast, he felt calm and resolute, knowing that there was only one way forward.
‘I need time to discover who is the true culprit, Henry. These vultures are only intent upon condemning me, without seeking any other explanation.’