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For the sake of avoiding a tantrum, he did not pursue this subject, thinking it wiser to avoid antagonising his wife with hints at Richard’s dishonesty.

‘The General Eyre comes but seldom these days — it has to call at every county in England, but trundles around so slowly that years pass between visitations,’ he added.

‘So what are the other courts? We get visits more often than that,’ she demanded truculently.

‘Those are the ones you complain are held by clerks,’ he replied, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘Again, they are supposed to take place every quarter, but the Commissioners have never reached Exeter more than twice a year, if that. As the Justices in Eyre come so seldom, these lesser courts are meant to clear up the royal pleas at much more frequent intervals. That’s why they’re called, “Gaol Delivery”, to try those who have been incarcerated, to save expense and reduce the number escaping.’

The lesson over, Matilda reverted to her main interest in the matter. ‘Well, I just hope that we get some notables here next week. Exeter is such a backwater. When you became coroner, I had hopes that your connections with the King and the Chief Justiciar would get you preferment. Then, maybe, we could move to somewhere more civilised, like Winchester.’

God forbid, thought de Wolfe. Devon was his birthplace and his home; the last thing he wanted was to end up near a royal court, with all the intrigue and manoeuvring for social advancement that that would mean.

The meal ended and de Wolfe, satisfied that Matilda was talking to him in a moderately agreeable way, waited for her to go up to the solar for her afternoon slumber. Then he walked up to Rougemont. Gwyn had gone to St Sidwell’s to see his family, after his night spent away from their hut, but Thomas was in the chamber above the gatehouse, making copies of documents of presentment for the Justices next week.

De Wolfe sat at the other end of the trestle from his peculiar but industrious clerk and spent an hour silently mouthing Latin phrases from the parchments left for him by his tutor at the cathedral.

After a while, he became aware that his were not the only lips moving in the silence. Peering up from below his beetling brows, he watched Thomas covertly. The clerk’s pen had stopped and he was staring blindly through the window slit at the sky. He was having some silent conversation with unseen beings and from the scowl on his face and the occasional grimace that showed his yellowed teeth, he seemed to be directing some silent diatribe at an invisible audience.

The coroner was becoming increasingly concerned for his assistant’s sanity. Although Thomas had always been a miserable companion, it was only since he had learned that there was little hope of him being received back into the Church that he had become so morose. De Wolfe threw down his parchment and cleared his throat loudly, the sign that he was about to launch into some possibly embarrassing topic.

‘How goes it with you now, Thomas?’ he asked, rather fiercely. ‘Are you in better spirits these days?’

Startled, the former priest looked up, his beaky face showing surprise at such an unexpectedly personal question from his revered master. ‘I am fairly well, Crowner,’ he stammered, ‘though never can I be happy again while I am excluded from the company of my fellows in Holy Orders. But I have to live from day to day, as the Almighty indicated not long ago.’ When, in a paroxysm of despair, he had tried to kill himself a month or so ago, his uncle, the Archdeacon, had cleverly convinced Thomas that his failure was a miraculous sign that he was meant to live for some greater purpose. He still hoped that, some day, his ejection from Holy Orders for an alleged indecent assault on a girl pupil at the cathedral school in Winchester would be reversed — although his uncle held little hope that this would come about for a very long time, if ever.

‘Are you living well enough — your bed and board, I mean?’ continued the coroner gruffly. He paid his clerk twopence a day and knew that he had a free mattress in a servant’s hut in one of the houses in Canon’s Row.

‘I am well enough provided for in my bodily needs, thanks to you and my uncle, sir. It is rather my soul that needs the nourishment of belonging in the House of God.’ Suddenly he scowled at some inner thought. ‘There are those who persecute me and should be punished. False witnesses ruined my life, yet there seems no sign from God that they will be humbled,’ he added darkly.

‘I can’t help you there, Thomas. I did my best with the Archdeacon, but you know what he said. You must contain yourself in patience, I’m afraid. Meanwhile, you are very valuable to me, both as an excellent clerk and an invaluable fount of knowledge.’

At this extraordinarily rare compliment Thomas’s pale features pinked with pleasure. It was all the more precious coming from this stern, gaunt man of whom he was half afraid. Thomas respected him with almost dog-like devotion, being grateful for John having given him a job — and indeed the means to stay alive at a time when he was destitute.

They went back to their work for a while, but de Wolfe’s attention span for Latin texts was very limited and soon he threw down the parchments and took himself off to the castle keep. The hall was a hive of activity, and many of the tables, which were usually in use for eating, drinking or gaming, were occupied by the sheriff’s and burgesses’ clerks, all busily writing or shuffling parchments. Harassed-looking stewards, bailiffs and more clerks were hurrying around with sheaves of documents, all intent on trying to get the county’s affairs in order before the eagle eyes of the Justices in Eyre arrived next week.

When de Wolfe marched into the sheriff’s chamber, the scene was even more frantic. De Revelle was almost submerged under a pile of bound parchments and three clerks were jostling at his shoulder to place more sheets in front of him, jabbering their insistence that their problem was the most urgent. When he saw John come in, he yelled before the coroner could open his mouth, ‘Not now, John, please! I am going mad with these fellows battening on me every hour of the day. God curse these laws that send visitations from London to make our lives a misery! I hope all your affairs are in better order than mine.’

For once, de Wolfe felt almost sorry for his brother-in-law, but the realisation that de Revelle was spending most of his energy in trying to cover up the signs of his corruption hardened his heart. ‘Your dear sister wants to know who the justices will be next week. Tell me, if you know, and I’ll leave you in peace.’

De Revelle’s pointed beard jutted up at him. ‘There are four this time,’ he snapped petulantly. ‘Sir Peter Peverel, that over-rich baron from Middlesex, and Serlo de Vallibus, a senior Chancery clerk.’

‘You said four?’

‘Gervase de Bosco, an archdeacon from Gloucester, and someone with local connections, Sir Walter de Ralegh.’

From the sheriff’s tone, de Wolfe was not sure if the last name was welcome to him or not. A baron with Devon connections might know too much about de Revelle’s scheming for the sheriff’s comfort. ‘I suppose two will hear the civil pleas and the others the criminal,’ he observed.

The sheriff’s narrow face puckered with disgust. ‘And all four of the bloody men will make a nuisance of themselves by poking their noses into our affairs!’

The clerks were shaking parchments at him again and John left his brother-in-law to their urgent ministrations. Outside in the hall, he met Ralph Morin, who had just been giving orders to Sergeant Gabriel about escort arrangements for the king’s judges. The castle constable was a massive man, with the blue eyes and forked beard of his Norse ancestors, only a few generations removed from their Norman descendants. He had been directly appointed by the King, as Exeter Castle had been a Crown possession ever since it was built by William the Bastard.