With the lubrication of another pot of ale each, de Wolfe and the monks chatted for some time, John explaining the multitude of tasks that a coroner was expected to perform, from taking the confessions of those abjuring the realm, to investigating house fires, burglaries and catches of the royal fish — whales and sturgeon — to witnessing Ordeals, viewing corpses, and enquiring into rapes and assaults.
The garrison chaplain proved to be an intelligent and astute fellow, asking sensible questions at intervals during the coroner’s explanation, but eventually they were interrupted by heavy feet clumping up the stone stairs and Gwyn thrust his huge frame through the sacking that hung over the doorway. ‘The Jews are waiting outside, Crowner,’ he growled, looking askance at the fat monk who sat drinking his own ale.
De Wolfe downed the rest of his pot and stood up. ‘Come with me, Brother. Perhaps you can advise me as this is a matter of religion — though a different one from yours.’
Two figures were standing just below the drawbridge of the castle, as the sentry under the gate-arch was unwilling to let them enter the bailey. One was a thin young man with a full black beard, his curly hair capped by a bowl-shaped helmet of embroidered felt. A long black tunic like a cassock enveloped him and a pack strapped to his shoulders gave an impression of a hunchback. He held the hand of a frail woman of about his own age, whose smooth olive face had the look of a sad angel. A Saxon-style coverchief was wrapped around her head, secured by a band across her forehead, the white cloth flowing down her back over a plain brown dress. In the background, a mule and a donkey with a side-saddle were being held by three men, their garb and appearance marking them as Jewish, presumably from Exeter itself.
Gwyn stepped forward and, in a strangely gentle voice, announced that the young woman was Ruth, Aaron’s daughter, and the man her husband David.
De Wolfe explained to the silent and impassive pair what had happened. ‘Had he any enemies that you know of?’ he asked the daughter.
Ruth’s brown eyes lifted to meet the coroner’s. ‘Almost everyone is our enemy, sir. Since my mother and brother were slain in York, we live in constant fear. But I know of no particular person who would wish to kill my father.’
‘We saw him but rarely,’ added David. ‘Though Honiton is not far off, travelling is hazardous, especially for such as we Jews. Everyone thinks we carry great sacks of gold with us,’ he added bitterly.
‘Are you in the same way of business?’ asked the monk.
‘There is little else for us now. Since the Crusades began, we have lost our chance to trade in commodities from the East. We are only allowed to be usurers, which is forbidden to Christians — though some seem to manage it. We are but sponges to soak up money from the people, then we are squeezed flat to return it into the royal coffers.’
De Wolfe did not wish the conversation to move into seditious paths so raised the matter of the burial. ‘Your father was buried yesterday with dignity outside the city walls in the plot reserved for Jews. We understood that you prefer there to be as little delay as possible. I understand that several of your faith from the city were there to offer whatever last rites you use. You are free either to leave him there or to remove him elsewhere.’
David looked at his wife then turned back to the coroner. ‘We thank you for your concern, sir. It is seldom that anyone accords us such consideration. We have decided to leave Aaron where he is, as we have nowhere better to take him.’
Brother Rufus laid a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Do you need any further requiem to be said over the grave? Have you anyone who can help you in this matter?’
David nodded sadly. ‘If we could be shown where the body lies, we can say our own few words over it. Then, later, we can bring some of our own elders from Southampton to join with the local Jews to carry out the proper ceremony.’
They thanked de Wolfe gravely once more and took their leave. John and the chaplain stood watching the pathetic little group walk down the hill from the castle gate, the woman perched on her donkey, the man leading his mule behind her as they vanished into the high street. ‘He’s right. Every man’s hand is against them,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘We use them badly in this country but they are far worse off in others. They are forbidden to engage in trade, and when they lend money, they are reviled by everyone, even though their customers are only too glad to use their services.’
‘Did the wife say her mother died at York?’ asked the priest.
‘Yes, in that madness of ’eighty-nine, when most of England rose up in hysteria against them. Just because some well-meaning Jews in London wished to give presents to the new King at his coronation, a riot started that spread right across England. She must have been one of those hundred and fifty who died besieged in York castle — many by their own hand or by those of their menfolk, rather than be captured.’
The cathedral bell rang dolefully in the distance and reminded de Wolfe that he had another task to perform before he could ride to Sidbury. ‘I have to attend an Ordeal now, Brother. I must collect my clerk to record the result.’
The portly monk turned back with the coroner to cross the drawbridge. ‘I am summoned as priest too, so I’ll walk with you. I hear that Rome is becoming more discontented with our attendance at these ancient rituals, saying they smack of necromancy, not justice. I suspect that before long the Holy Father will ban our participation in them.’fn1
‘The sooner the better,’ grunted John. ‘They are complete nonsense, sheer black magic! Whenever I can, I try to persuade appealers to go for jury trial in the King’s courts. It makes more sense and it’s better for the Exchequer.’
He called at the Shire Hall on the way to drag the morose Thomas from his scribing on the empty platform and they made their way to the undercroft of the keep, which housed the castle gaol. It was a damp, squalid chamber, partly below ground level, with a wet earth floor beneath the gloomy arches that supported the building above. It was divided into two halves by a line of rusty bars, one of which housed a row of prison cells beyond a creaking gate. The rest was open, part-storehouse, part-torture chamber, ruled by Stigand, a grossly obese Saxon, who lived in squalor in an alcove formed by one of the arches. This morning, his task was to set up the apparatus for the Ordeal, a test of guilt or innocence that de Wolfe and many other intelligent people thought utter nonsese. But it was hallowed by time and still approved by most of the population, who were usually unwilling to exchange this unChristian soothsaying for the more logical process of a jury trial.
John swung round to the trailing Thomas, who trudged dejectedly behind, his writing pouch slung from the shoulder of his threadbare black tunic. ‘Who did you say was the subject today?’ he barked.
‘A man accused of stealing a sword from the shop of Nicholas Trove, a burgess from North Street, who runs an armourer’s business. Nicholas appealed him to the Shire Court last month, when he was attached with sureties of five marks to appear here today.’
‘At least he didn’t vanish into the forest in the meanwhile, so he must think he has a chance of proving his innocence,’ de Wolfe gruntd to Brother Rufus.
They went down the few steps into the dismal chamber and when their eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, saw a group of people clustered in the centre, below the low ceiling, which dripped turbid water from the slime-covered stones. The gaoler had a charcoal fire burning in a latticed iron brazier, which he was blowing with a pair of bellows. Stigand’s breathing was almost as noisy as his bellows, as he bent over his vast stomach which was covered with a stained leather apron. His piggy features were contorted with the effort of blowing sufficient air into his fire to make the shaped lumps of metal on top glow red-hot.