'In view of the absence of good evidence, especially the defection of Robert Longus, I have to adjourn this, inquest until further information comes before me, said John to the assembled court — though under his breath he added, 'If that ever happens.' He glared at the sheepish jury, who were wondering what purpose had been served by taking them from their labours for an hour.
'A coroner has to determine who the deceased was, where, when and by what means he came to his death.
The identity has clearly been established and though it is obvious that no presentment of Englishry can be made, I will not levy the murdrum fine, as the corpse was discovered in the river and thus no particular vill can bear the blame. It is obvious that August Scrope was murdered. The time was last Monday and the place was on the high road between Topsham and St James' Priory. The cause of death was grievous wounding, and although the cadaver was found in the river I have no proof that he finally drowned. There is no evidence yet as to who attacked him and threw him into the water, so I will not demand a verdict from you the jury until I resume this hearing, hopefully when better information is forthcoming.'
After this long speech, de Wolfe nodded curtly to the faces below the platform, then turned to see how Thomas was getting on with his transcript. Leaning over his humped shoulder, he scanned the parchment on which his clerk was speedily inscribing his neat Latin calligraphy. Though John could not read more than a few words, he liked to check the length of the script, to make sure that Thomas was getting down an adequate description of the proceedings. He need not have concerned himself, as the little man was most diligent and took a pride in both the appearance and the content of his rolls, copies of which would be sent to the King's justices at the next Eyre of Assize, and eventually end up in the archives at Winchester or London.
When the jurymen had shuffled away and the grieving relatives had gone for their cart, Gwyn came across the empty hall to join them, his ever hungry stomach causing him to suggest adjourning to their chamber for their usual bread, cheese and ale.
As they walked across the inner ward to the gatehouse, Thomas ventured a comment. 'At least fears of multiple slayings this week have not come to pass, Crowner,' he said. 'The tournament passed off without a death — and the fair ends tonight, so ho fully only this one killing can be blamed on it.'
'Don't tempt fate, Thomas,' growled de Wolfe. 'We'll have to wait until tomorrow morning before we can congratulate ourselves on getting off so lightly.'
'What about this silversmith, Crowner?' asked Gwyn.
'Do you really think this damned armourer is one of the men we seek? His lord has given him a good alibi.' John stopped and turned to face his officer. 'Would you trust the word of such a man as Hugo Peverel, after the way he's behaved? No, as soon as we have a free day, we'll ride up to Sampford for a few words with them — taking Gabriel and a couple of his men if necessary!'
Fate was to decree that de Wolfe's visit would occur sooner than he expected.
Chapter Five
On the second Monday of every month, Sampford Peverel held its manor leet, a court where a wide variety of issues were heard, from accusations of drunkenness, theft and assault, to disputes over ploughing boundaries in the strip fields. For centuries past under the Saxons, these leets were the main arbiters of disputes and dispensers of justice within the little kingdoms that made up the manorial system of medieval England. The lord was master in almost every sense.
He owned his bondsmen — the villeins and cottars and even the freemen had little real freedom, except the choice of starving if they chose not to heed the master's wishes.
Though the vast majority of issues before the manor court were domestic and relatively trivial, serious crimes could be prosecuted, and if he so wished the lord possessed the power of life and death by hanging.
Since the arrival of the Normans, however — and especially since the relentless reforms of old King Henry, known as 'The Lawgiver' — the more serious offences were progressively being swept into the royal courts, bypassing the manor and even the county courts. In fact, part of the new coroner's function was to divert as much legal business as he could to the King's judges and commissioners, to the advantage of the Lionheart's ever eager purse. His very title came from the phrase custosplactorum corona- 'Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown'.
For several generations at Sampford, it had become traditional for the lord himself to preside over the court, unless he was absent on some campaign. In most manors, the task of running the monthly leet was usually left to the steward, the most senior of the lord's servants, but here, wherever possible, one of the Peverels sat in dictatorial judgement over his subjects.
This morning, at the October leet, there was some consternation among the steward, bailiff and reeve, as an hour after the appointed time for the court to begin there was no sign of Hugo Peverel in the large barn that was used for a courthouse.
Most other places used the hall of the manor house for the proceedings, but Hugo's late grandmother had objected to the despoiling of her home by a crowd of uncouth, smelly villagers who trampled her clean rushes with their muddy feet, spitting and peeing against the walls. She persuaded her husband to build another barn for use as a court, though it found other useful functions such as a shelter for farm animals and as a village hall, a place where ales and dances could be held on saint's days.
Now there were three score villagers standing aimlessly outside the high doors of the thatched wooden building, waiting for something to happen.
Every man over fourteen had to attend the court, unless some vital farming duty detained him, for the leet was the parliament of the manor and in theory decisions depended on a consensus of opinion among the.
villagers. The established customs of the manor traditionally overrode the whims of the lord, as in return for the endless work they performed for him, he was under an obligation to organise their lives and defend them against the feudal uncertainties of starvation, natural disaster and the predations of robbers and civil war. In practice, the will of a strong lord or baron prevailed over this primitive democracy, especially in manors that were ruled by such a tyrannical dynasty as the Peverels.
The bailiff, Walter Hog, came striding across the courtyard, scattering chickens, pigs and small children from his path as he made for the steward, who was leaning against the weathered oak of the door post.
'Still no sign of him, Roger! Sir Odo refuses to come, says it's none of his business any longer, but Ralph promises to attend when he's finished in the privy. He says you are to start the hearings to avoid any more delay.'
Roger Viel was a heavy-featured man with fleshy jowls and loose skin under his neck like a cockerel's wattles.
A born pessimist, he gave the impression that life was a burden to be borne stoically until death released him into a better place. He sighed as he turned into the gloomy interior of the court. Though Ralph Peverel was not so hot tempered and arrogant as his elder brother, he" tended to be sarcastic and to show off his cleverness when put into any position of authority.
Where the hell had Hugo got to? wondered Roger sourly.
Followed by a shuffling, muttering crowd, he took his place on a heavy oak chair, the only furniture in the place apart from a trestle table and stool where the manor-clerk occasionally sat when some more important issue required a record to be taken down. Along with the parish priest, the clerk was the only literate person in the manor, but today there was no need for his services, as the issues were all ones that could be dealt with summarily. Leaving the steward to get on with the business of dispensing justice, the bailiff walked quickly back to the manor house, a square, two-storeyed stone building. This was farther up the slightly sloping bailey, a two-acre compound within a stockade that defended the lord's residence. Like Rougemont, it had not been besieged since the last civil war between King Stephen and Empress Matilda half a century earlier, but with the present unrest between the King and his brother John, and the growing threat of a French invasion, the Peverels saw to it that their stout fence and gateway were kept in good repair.