Rosamunde, her mantle now wrapped around her, said nonchalantly, ‘Don’t worry about me. My acting’s better than yours. And if we ever do this again, don’t be so enthusiastic with your fists and your nails, you sadistic bastard! You nearly pulled my dugs off, making those bruises!’
Ignoring her complaints, the squat de Braose turned back to the coroner. ‘I’m to give you a last chance, de Wolfe, though I truly hope you won’t take it as I want to see you hang.’
The Coroner glared at him, wishing he could get his hands around that thick neck. ‘And exactly who says you’re to offer me this last chance, whatever that is?’
‘Henry de la Pomeroy, though surely you know that already. I am to tell you that if you agree not to cause any more problems for the rightful campaign to put a better king on the throne of England, we’ll not even take you from this house to Rougemont. You can remain as coroner and continue that post under the new King.’
He stopped to see if De Wolfe had anything to say, but the coroner waited in silence and de Braose finished his ultimatum. ‘But the complaint of this woman will remain hanging over you, backed up by four men’s sworn testimony, in case you get any ideas about backing out of the bargain in the next month or so. After that it won’t matter – John will be on the throne anyway.’ He waited for an answer and got it straight away.
‘Of course I’ll not keep quiet, you fools,’ de Wolfe shouted. ‘Why are you going through this ridiculous charade of a ravishment? Why not kill me now and then run away, as you did with the old canon and William Fitzhamon? That would stop me taking the news to the Justiciar, without all this mummery.’
De Braose shrugged indifferently. ‘I agree – but Pomeroy and de Revelle think that a murdered coroner might raise some eyebrows in Winchester or London. The next thing we know, some of the King’s Justices might be sent down here to snoop around. But the quick trial and disposal of a lecherous ravisher would attract little attention.’
Fulford motioned to the two roughly dressed mercenaries, who had been recruited probably from outlaws. ‘Come on, he’s said no, let’s take him to the sheriff.’
Jocelin made one last appeal to de Wolfe. ‘You realise that, once outside that door, you are accused and damned in the eyes of the city and county as a rapist? There’s no going back!’
For answer, de Wolfe spat accurately into his face and received another crippling blow in the belly, followed by a punch to his face that split his upper lip. Then he was dragged, struggling, towards the door and into the lane, followed by the soulful eyes of his hound, who still hid in the furthest corner.
Chapter Eleven
In which Crowner John goes to gaol
At least de Wolfe was spared the ignominy of being marched as a prisoner through the streets of Exeter in daylight. It was approaching midnight as they climbed the slope to Rougemont, and as the rain and wind had returned, there were few to see or care about a tight knot of men hurrying to the castle.
The two surly ruffians had released de Wolfe’s arms after one had lashed together his wrists with a length of rope. Using the free end as a leash, he allowed him to walk closely in front of him, with Fulford, de Braose and the woman going ahead, the other man behind.
Apart from an astounded guard at the gatehouse, who had been earlier told by de Revelle that de Braose was to be admitted, they saw virtually no one on their journey. De Wolfe, although he felt as though he was acting out some awful dream, realised that he had to bide his time: it would be pointless to call for help to any casual citizen they passed. The sheriff was the power in this county and all law enforcement, such as it was, drained back to him, which was why the rebels needed him on their side. Aid for John de Wolfe would have to come from outside Exeter, and tonight was not the time to find it.
They reached the undercroft of the keep and clattered down the steps into the almost pitch black interior. On the further side was a faint light, where Stigand had a small banked-down fire. He had his living space in one of the arched vaults, which he had blocked off with a crude wooden partition. Behind it was a filthy mattress and some cooking pots. Fulford kicked him awake and, when the grotesquely fat gaoler had come to his senses, he grudgingly lit some horn-lanterns and stumbled ahead to the iron gate closing the cell passageway. With a clatter of keys and mumbled curses, the gate squealed open and Stigand led the way to the first cell on the left, the door of which was open. De Wolfe was thrust inside and the rope taken from his wrists before the door was slammed and locked. There was a barred grille in the wooden panel, and de Braose’s face peered in.
‘You won’t be alone for long, Crowner. The sheriff wants a word with you – about arrangements for the hanging!’ Pleased with his wit, he walked off laughing.
De Wolfe knew every cell in this prison: he came here several times a week to record Ordeals and mutilations. He felt his way in the dark to a thick slate shelf built into one wall of the tiny room and sat down, ignoring the protests of the rats he disturbed in the dirty straw on the floor. His belly ached from the blows he had received and his bruised face and torn lip stung, but otherwise he was unbroken and unbowed. He had been imprisoned several times before, in worse places than this, both in France and England, but then he had been a prisoner-of-war rather than an alleged criminal ravisher. He cursed his own lack of suspicion of the woman on his doorstep, but on reflection he could see no way of anticipating such a devious plot. He had thought that someone might try to stick a knife in his back, but not to trap him in this way. It could only work, of course, because of the sheriff’s monopoly of power, and he tried to think of some way in which this could be frustrated – but no inspiration came. A few minutes later, he heard voices, and lights bobbed towards the passageway. He heard the outer gate creak open and close on its rusted hinges. Then his cell door was opened.
Richard de Revelle stood in the entrance and behind him de Wolfe could see the other three conspirators. The two strong-arm men had gone, and Stigand had been sent out of earshot.
‘This is a sorry state of affairs, John,’ said his brother-in-law unctuously. ‘I always knew you were overfond of the lusts of the flesh, but never thought you’d be driven to rapine!’
‘Spare me your nonsense, Richard. I doubt this was your idea, you don’t have the brains for it.’
The sheriff smiled sardonically at him. ‘This hasn’t been your day, has it, John? Your wife leaves you for good, because of your shameless adultery with God knows how many women – and within hours, you indecently assault this poor girl. I suppose her undoubted attractions were too much for you.’
‘It’s not so long since I caught you in bed with a whore, Richard, but I was foolish enough not to arrange for perjured witnesses to be present.’
The sheriff stiffened with annoyance, but no one there cared a whit for his morals. ‘This is your last chance, John. You are still my relative-in-law, more’s the pity, so I regret this situation for the sake of my sister. But, as you are too stubborn to join us, my reputation and my life are at risk if you are allowed to ride off to London with your misplaced loyalties.’ He looked over his shoulder as if seeking support for his final words.
‘You know what my answer will be to that!’ The coroner shouted his reply as loudly as he could, so that anyone nearby could hear it, even if it was only the few other miserable prisoners further along the passage. ‘I denounce you, Richard de Revelle, as a traitor to the King you have sworn to serve and a rebel against the Crown of England! You will be hanged for that – though you may be blinded, castrated and gutted first. That’s my answer!’