Gwyn heard it when he was buying a slab of cheese at a stall just inside the East Gate as he came in from St Sidwell’s. Astounded, he hurried towards the castle and overtook Thomas de Peyne, who was limping as fast as he could up the hill, after hearing of his master’s plight from a cook in the close, who had been out to buy butter for breakfast. Anxiously, they both went through the gate, noticing that the guards had been doubled. No one had orders to prevent the coroner’s staff from entering – and, anyway, Gwyn would probably have throttled anyone who tried to stop him. They dived down the steps to the undercroft, Thomas hobbling and hopping to keep up with the Cornishman’s determined strides. The gate to the cells was locked, so Gwyn thundered over to Stigand’s cubicle, where the gross gaoler was boiling something in a pot. ‘Open that bloody gate, you fat toad! I have to see to the coroner at once.’
The bloated Saxon looked up from his cooking with a sneer. ‘No one is to speak to him, I have strict orders.’
Gwyn was in no mood to discuss the matter. He grabbed the shoulders of Stigand’s dirty smock in both hands and jerked him clear off the ground. Shaking him violently, he hissed in his face, ‘Listen, you bag of slime, open that gate or I’ll twist your head off!’
Convinced in an instant, the repulsive guardian of the prison almost ran across the gloomy vault, with Gwyn prodding him all the way, Thomas following behind. When, hands shaking, the gaoler had manipulated his keys to let them in, Gwyn grabbed them from him and ordered the clerk to lock the gate. ‘We don’t want this bladder of lard running to raise the alarm,’ he snapped. Turning to the cell door, he peered in and found de Wolfe’s face within inches of his own on the other side of the grille. ‘We’ll have you out in a moment, Crowner! Thomas, bring those keys here.’
During the night de Wolfe had had plenty of time to think. ‘No, Gwyn, that’s not the way. The guards may have let you in but they certainly won’t let me out. In any case, I’m not going to run from my own city. If you try to force a way out, you’ll be trapped too.’
He explained quickly what had happened and how he had been tricked by Jocelin and the others. Gwyn was all for seeking out de Braose and dissecting him with a blunt knife, but again John restrained his violent inclinations. ‘You must stay free, it’s vital – and you, Thomas. You are my only link with the outside. Gwyn, you must go quietly out and straightaway ride into the county to alert those barons and knights we know are loyal to the King. Lord Ferrars, and Reginald de Courcy – you remember them from that business of Fitzosbern a few weeks ago. They will spread the message to others they know. Tell them that a rebellion is brewing again and that Pomeroy, Cheever and de Nonant are behind it in Devon.’ Something kept him from including the sheriff in his list. ‘Say that I have been falsely accused of a felony to keep me quiet and need assistance straight away. That will be sufficient to bring them post-haste into the city.’
He turned his face to his clerk, his gaunt features dirty and more unshaven than usual, and bent to lower his great height to the aperture. ‘Thomas, go to the Archdeacon with the same story as fast as your little legs will carry you. Also tell him that the men who killed the canon are behind this. Now go, both of you, and don’t get caught or I’m done for!’
He moved back into his cell to forestall any argument from Gwyn, who would have been willing to demolish the gaol stone by stone to free his master. But the big man had recognised the urgency in the coroner’s voice and did as he was told. ‘Get going, dwarf, down to the Close.’ He opened the gate and gave Thomas a push to send him on his way. Stigand tried to follow, but Gwyn grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up to the large cell at the end, where three ragged men waited to be hanged the next day. Unlocking their gate with Stigand’s keys, he thrust the gaoler inside and locked up again. He marched out, oblivious to the yells and screams of the fat sadist as the condemned felons worked off their anger on him.
He caught up with the limping clerk after a few yards, and they walked with exaggerated casualness to the gate, then hurried down to the town to do as they had been bidden.
Meanwhile, the sheriff was steeling himself for the show-down with his sister. Though he normally ate at the top table in the hall, this morning he ordered his steward to serve it in his office chamber. Resentful at being banished from his sleeping place, the man banged mugs and dishes on the table with surly indifference, but de Revelle was in no mood to worry about servants. Lucille had been sent to eat with the other maids in the kitchen, and as soon as the food was laid out, he dismissed the steward.
Then he tapped on the inner door and called Matilda to breakfast. There was no answer and he knocked harder, then harder again. With foreboding building, he put his head around the door and saw that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, staring fixedly at the narrow window-slit. Eventually, after several invitations, which became more terse as his frayed patience became thinner, she rose and walked past him without a look or a word.
‘Bloody women!’ he muttered under his breath, but chivalrously held the only chair for her to sit, while he took a stool opposite. Though Richard had little appetite, incredibly Matilda had none. She broke some bread and made a pretence of eating, but mostly sat with her head lowered. He noticed tears welling from inside her thick eyelids, but no sound came from her as he summoned up courage to tell her about her husband.
Pouring a little heated ale into her already full cup, he cleared his throat. ‘Matilda, I have some disturbing news, I fear.’ She made no response, but the two trickles down each side of her rather flat nose reached her upper lip. De Revelle failed to understand the depth of her apparent grief at her husband’s infidelity. He knew that she had been well aware of his long-standing affair with the woman at the Bush Inn – he had heard her on many occasions taunting de Wolfe with the ‘Welsh whore’, as she was wont to call her. Why she should be so ravaged by the disclosure of his adultery with the Dawlish wife was quite beyond him, as she had often accused John of affairs with women other than Nesta. But thinking of the often irrational behaviour of his own wife, he mentally shrugged it off as a typically female aberration.
The problem still remained of breaking the worse news to her. ‘During the night, a terrible thing has happened, Matilda dear. I see no way of breaking it gently. John is in the castle gaol, beneath us. He has been accused of ravishing a woman of the town. That she is little better than a harlot makes little difference, as there were four witnesses and the girl insists on Appealing him at the County Court this morning.’
Her head came up slowly and she fixed him with a blank stare, the like of which he had never seen on her before, neither in childhood, nor since. For a moment, he feared that she had gone quite mad. He gabbled on, beginning to be gripped by the fear of being in the company of someone mentally ill. ‘I have to hold the court, Matilda, I have no choice. This is none of my doing, this Appeal comes from that woman, supported by her friends who caught John in his lecherous act! I am only carrying out my duty as the King’s sheriff in this county.’
There was a crash as Matilda’s chair went over backwards. She had shot to her feet, glaring at him, her lips quivering, but she said nothing. White-faced and shaking, she went in to the bedroom and closed the door. Unnerved by her behaviour, he approached the door timidly and tapped again. ‘Are you alright, sister? Shall I send for your maid?’
There was a pause, then her voice came, low but steadier than before. ‘I shall be at the the Shire Hall to support my husband.’