He sat with a jug of ale while waiting for the game to end and then bought Gwyn a quart of cider when the big redhead ambled across to him. ‘Made seven pence tonight, Crowner! Must be the luck from all that treasure rubbing off on me.’
They sat peacefully for a while, drinking and watching the light fade in the open window space. ‘Thank God that it was all intact, according to the check that the treasury man made,’ said John, for Gwyn had not been in the strongroom when Simon Basset had confirmed that all was correct. ‘I was worried that that fire was some kind of diversion intended to cover up an attempt to rob the wagon.’
They discussed the events of the past few days, and as usual their conversation drifted off to nostalgic longing for Devon and all the familiar things that made this exile in London seem so miserable.
‘We must get ourselves back there as soon as possible, Gwyn. But this damned appearance of the dowager queen will interfere — we can’t get away until her visit is over.’
‘Unless we can slip away for a few days from Bristol or Gloucester?’ suggested the Cornishman.
John shrugged. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings — every day seems to have some new twist.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The new twist that arrived the next day came via the same timid page that had summoned de Wolfe the previous week. His head appeared around the door after Gwyn had yelled in answer to his gentle knock.
‘Sir John, I have a message from the Justiciar’s office,’ he began. Taking a deep breath, the lad then rattled off a long sentence that he had obviously learned parrot fashion.
‘Archbishop Walter sends his felicitations to the Coroner of the Verge and commands his attendance at noon in the Great Hall to meet various parties in regard to jurid — jurisdiction.’
He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word, then subsided into embarrassed silence, looking from one to the other of the three men in the chamber.
‘Thank you, lad,’ said John kindly, remembering his own days as a ten-year-old page in the service of a knight from Dartmouth. ‘Do you know who else might be attending this meeting?’
‘Another page has been sent across to the abbot, sir. And I know that yesterday heralds went up to the city in connection with the same matter, according to the Justiciar’s chief clerk.’
The boy left, thankful for such an amiable reception and John pondered over the significance of the news.
‘Hubert is either going to cave in to those arrogant louts from the city — or he’s going to hold out for precedence for us,’ he said pensively.
‘The archbishop probably has to tread carefully at the moment,’ observed Thomas, who had the best grasp of current politics. ‘He is in bad odour with many of his churchmen and also with the civic authorities in London. The city is still angry with him for setting fire to one of their churches — and in knocking down so many houses to build this new wall around the Tower.’
‘But that’s at the direct command of the king!’ bellowed Gwyn, who was as staunch a royalist as his master.
‘Doesn’t stop Hubert being unpopular,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Bloody-minded independence is virtually a way of life with the citizens of London. We’re likely to have a lively meeting today, mark my words! You had both better come along, you’re part of the coroner’s team which is at the heart of this dispute.’
When they entered the main entrance of the Great Hall early that afternoon, they found that the meeting was to be held at the far end, on the central dais facing down the colonnade of pillars that supported the massive roof. The court of the King’s Bench sat there frequently, but today it had been commandeered by Hubert Walter, who was head of the justice system — and almost everything else.
Three large chairs for the judges were placed at the back of the platform and benches were arranged at right angles in the space marked off by the bar of the court, a wooden pole which kept the public at bay. As de Wolfe and his companions arrived, so did most of the other participants, coming in from the interior of the palace through a rear door. Four palace guards preceded Hubert Walter, whose lean body was today dressed in a crimson tunic with a large golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck. His head was covered with a white linen helmet, laced under the chin and he wore gloves of thin leather.
Behind him came half-a-dozen worthies and John recognised Godard of Antioch, the sheriff with whom he’d had dealings the previous week. Another taller man with a pointed brown beard wore a massive gold chain over a robe that had fur trimming, even in this warm weather. John assumed that this was Henry fitz Ailwyn, the first Mayor of the city of London. There were several other men who were unknown to him, as well as a couple of priests, one being Hubert’s personal chaplain and confessor.
Two clerks, complete with parchments and pens, sat at either side to record the proceedings. After some muted conversation and shuffling about, everyone sat themselves down, Hubert in the centre, the mayor on his right. The other chair was empty, but as the rest of the delegates arranged themselves on the benches, a new trio came marching up the main aisle and entered under the bar, lifted for them by the sergeant of the guard. These were William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, with his prior and another priest. The abbot took the vacant chair and John de Wolfe, at a sign from Hubert, perched himself on the end of one of the benches, near the door into the palace.
Gwyn and Thomas melted into the small crowd that was now gravitating to the bar and to the sides where the court was partitioned off between the first two pillars. John noticed that amongst the spectators were Renaud and his eye-catching wife, as well as Archdeacon Bernard and Ranulf of Abingdon.
The sergeant opened the proceedings by rapping the end of his pike on the platform and everyone stood while the chaplain gabbled a prayer in Latin. He made the sign of the cross in the air and everyone subsided again, as the Justiciar began speaking without any preamble.
‘The issues are clear and we need not detain ourselves overlong with them,’ he barked, marking his authority from the outset. ‘Almost two years ago, for a variety of reasons which need not concern us now, King Richard, on the advice of his Royal Council, appointed three knights in every county to keep the pleas of the crown. The system was promulgated at the Eyre held in Rochester in September of that year and has functioned well ever since.’
There was a scornful laugh from Henry fitz Ailwyn. ‘Functioned well enough for you to screw yet more money from the population!’
Hubert Walter looked with distaste at the man on his right.
‘It was a natural progression of the law reforms begun by King Henry,’ he said sharply. ‘The royal courts are gradually replacing the confusion we inherited from Saxon times and the coroner is a vital means of servicing them.’
‘The ecclesiastical courts are by no means in confusion, archbishop!’ objected William Postard from his other side. The abbot was a small man, who spoke and moved quickly and rather jerkily, reminding de Wolfe of a squirrel.
‘I was referring to the hotchpotch of secular courts, Lord Abbot,’ answered Walter in a conciliatory tone. ‘The manor courts, the hundred courts, the county courts, the forest courts — and we still have such primitive methods such as the ordeal, trial by battle and other pagan rites that have no place in a Christian realm!’
The abbot nodded, mollified by the archbishop’s exclusion of the canon law, still a sensitive subject since the murder of Thomas Becket a quarter of a century ago. ‘But what is the purpose of this meeting today?’ he asked.