In a moment, black water was glistening in the trough, with angular pieces of ice floating on top.
Without further orders, Gwyn dropped his sword and bent over Fulford. With one ham-sized hand grasping a knot of clothing at his throat and the other gripping the rope around his legs, he lifted the victim up and dumped him into the filthy water. His face was still above the surface and yells and oaths rent the night air, but his tormentors were unmoved.
‘Did you kill the canon?’ snarled the coroner. The foul language continued and, at a nod from his master, Gwyn pushed Fulford’s head under the water and held it there as the man thrashed about, bubbles bursting from above his face. Then he hauled him above the water and waited for the coughing and spluttering to subside.
‘Who killed Robert de Hane and Fitzhamon?’ asked de Wolfe relentlessly. He was no sadist, but the image of the old canon revolving slowly at the end of a cord in his own privy hardened his heart, as did the recent memory of the boy Fitzhamon standing over his father’s body.
It took two more dunkings before Fulford broke, by which time he had inhaled enough water and shreds of sodden hay fallen from horses’ mouths to render him semi-conscious.
He was freezing and shivering and Gwyn was afraid that he might die before his determination cracked, but he was young and strong enough to survive. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak through chattering teeth, de Wolfe waved Thomas close to act as a third witness; later he must write it down from memory on his parchment rolls.
The gasped confessions were short and fragmented. When Fulford was quiet, de Wolfe stood back. ‘He’s no use to us now. Take him back to the Saracen and toss him through the door. Let his friends there warm him up, I’ll not have the Bush fouled by such as he.’
Chapter Eight
In which Crowner John threatens the sheriff
It was well after midnight by the time de Wolfe and Gwyn walked back up the steep slope of the drawbridge of Rougemont. The clouds had cleared to allow the week-old moon to shine unfettered and the high, rounded archway of the gatehouse gleamed against the dark masonry. A shivering soldier lurked in the doorway of the guardroom, wishing himself under his bed-rugs in the arms of his wife.
‘You go off to your palliasse, Gwyn. There’s no need for us both to lose more sleep,’ growled the coroner. He made off across the inner bailey towards the keep, while his officer trudged to one of the bastion towers in the wall where a dozen men-at-arms slept in the lowest chamber.
Another sleepy guard jerked himself awake at the entrance to the keep, wondering what had brought the coroner to disturb the Sheriff at this time of night.
A dozen servants and assorted lodgers were sleeping in the hall, wrapped in their blankets around the smouldering fire, though one man was still eating and drinking at a table with a tiny tallow dip for light.
De Wolfe ignored him and walked heavily into the sheriff’s chamber, where de Revelle’s steward was snoring on a mattress in the corner. The sheriff’s bedroom was through an inner door, but de Wolfe made no effort to wake the servant or to tap on the panels. He pushed it open and walked in, indifferent to what he might find. Unlike the previous occasion when he had found Richard in this same bed with a whore, his brother-in-law was alone.
John unceremoniously kicked the corner of the low bed. The snores changed into a strangled grunt and the sheriff sat up, wild-eyed and confused. ‘Who’s there? Steward?’ he called.
‘Not your steward, it’s the King’s coroner.’ He deliberately emphasised the word ‘king’. Richard struggled up to a full sitting position, his nightshirt falling off one shoulder. ‘What the hell do you want, John, in the middle of the night? Have you at last gone really mad?’
A candle-stump was still burning on a side table. De Wolfe went across to it and lit another from its flame, to give a little more light. ‘I’ve just had a conversation with your friend Giles Fulford. He has told me a few interesting things, in front of two witnesses, one of whom is now committing it all to writing.’
The sheriff’s eyes were two shining beads in the candlelight. ‘Fulford? Are you still obsessed with that fellow? I thought he would have gone back to his master by now.’
‘Not until the gates open, Richard. You should have thought of that when you let him go. Anyway, he kindly informed me that he was present when Jocelin de Braose strangled Canon Robert de Hane. He helped string the poor man up to his privy roof.’
De Revelle had recovered enough of his wits to start to bluster. ‘And you woke me just to tell me this nonsense? Why should he confess this to you?’
‘Because Gwyn of Polruan put him to the peine et forte dure in a horse trough in Idle Lane. It’s a well-known method of arriving at the truth – one often employed by you, as I recollect.’
The sheriff was back to full consciousness. ‘Torture! Are you expecting me to accept anything obtained under such duress?’
‘It was good enough for you a few weeks ago when you pressed that silversmith to confess to rape. What’s wrong with it now, that you want to reject it?’
De Revelle struggled out of the low bed and stood up, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. ‘You’ve totally lost your senses, John! I hereby relieve you of the writ of coroner. Go home and take some physic for your fevered brain.’
De Wolfe sat calmly in a folding chair in the middle of the room, one with a curved leather seat and back. ‘Don’t be so stupid, Richard. My writ from the burgesses was confirmed by the Chief Justiciar and the Chancellor. You have no say in the matter. Good God, man, we were appointed partly to keep you sheriffs in check, so you have no authority over us whatsoever.’ He held up a restraining hand in the gloom, as de Revelle was about to launch into another tirade of abuse. ‘Fulford also told me that de Braose was at Totnes on the day when Fitzhamon was killed. I suspect he had a hand in that too, but it was what he said about you that really interested me.’
De Revelle’s mouth, which had been open to rail and rant, shut abruptly. Then he spoke almost quietly. ‘What did he say about me? I know nothing about the death of that old priest in the Close.’
For some reason, de Wolfe believed this, but he had other matters to pursue. ‘He said that you were a frequent visitor to Totnes Castle and to Berry Pomeroy, that you and the lords of that area were getting very thick indeed. Just as you are thick with our Precentor and even the Bishop.’
De Revelle glared at his sister’s husband. ‘What does that mean? I am sheriff of this county. I am obliged to visit every part of it, and am well known to all its barons, lords and knights.’
‘All those who favour Prince John, it seems. I hear no reports of your visiting the Ferrars, the de Courcys, the Courtneys, the Raleghs, the Inghams … all the King’s men.’
‘That is ridiculous. What are you trying to accuse me of?’
De Wolfe pointed a long finger at his brother-in-law. ‘There is rebellion in the air, Richard. I know it, you know it, and many others know it. That is treason against the King and many will hang for it, if it’s not stopped. Do you wish to be one of them, Richard?’
The sheriff threw his blanket around him imperiously, as if he was a Roman emperor. ‘You are a fool, John, and a dangerous fool. You have no proof of any such treason. Your imagination runs away with you. Did your precious Fulford tell you revolt was afoot?’
‘He told us that de Braose was collecting and training men-at-arms from both England and France. Some came in quietly by sea through the Channel ports – I know that Dawlish was one.’