‘Our killer obviously knew the truth of it,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘For once, I feel he’s done the world a service in getting rid of that bastard.’
‘It should have been through the process of the law, though I agree that dangling from a rope was too good for Fitz-William,’ snapped the coroner.
Saulf brought them back to practicalities. ‘What are we to do with the corpse?’ he asked. ‘It lies in our little mortuary now, but with this weather warming up it won’t last long.’
‘I’ll hold my usual fruitless inquest in the morning, then he can be buried. Osric is finding out whether he has relatives hereabouts. If not, his damned Guild will have to pay for his funeral.’
‘It seems wrong to give such a man a decent plot in the cathedral Close,’ growled Gwyn. ‘He should be left to hang in a gibbet cage until he rots!’
‘We can’t bring a corpse to trial, so he can never be judged guilty.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be judged and sentenced by Almighty God,’ promised Brother Saulf, whose voice confirmed his absolute faith in heavenly justice.
‘I wonder what He will make of his killer, though?’ mused de Wolfe.
A modest cavalcade set out from the South Gate shortly after noon on the next day, to meet the King’s Justices and escort them into the city. Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont, was in the lead, with a dozen men-at-arms behind him. As Richard de Revelle was eager to make the best impression, they were all in full battle array, even though there had been no fighting in Devon for decades.
Morin made an imposing figure on a big black stallion, his massive frame draped in a long hauberk of chain-mail, each link laboriously shined with fine sand to get rid of the rust. In a round iron helmet with a prominent nose-guard, the huge, bearded man resembled his Norse ancestors. Like the men behind him, he had a huge sword dangling at his waist, hung from the leather baldric over his shoulder, and his left arm was thrust through the loop of a kite-shaped shield. As they trotted proudly through the streets, the older Saxons and Celts they thrust aside had a brief but unpleasant reminder that these were still the invaders who had come with the Conqueror to dispossess them of their land and their heritage.
Behind the military vanguard came the less belligerentlooking members of the procession. The sheriff was first, as the King’s representative in the county. Dressed in a dandified outfit of gold-trimmed green, he rode alongside Thomas de Boterellis, who had been told by the Bishop to represent him. Behind him was John de Alençon, appearing for the clergy of the city. His riding companion was Sir John de Wolfe, who as the county coroner ranked immediately behind the sheriff in the pecking order of law officers. Then came the two Portreeves, Henry Rifford and Hugh de Relaga, the latter outshining even de Revelle in a peacock-blue surcoat and feathered cap. The tail-end of the line of horses carried some clerks from the castle and court, as well as a pair of Guild Masters, the whole entourage protected at the rear by Sergeant Gabriel and another six soldiers, also attired in hauberk and helmet.
As they jogged along, harnesses jingling, the horses’ hoofs threw up clouds of dust from the main road. De Wolfe was dressed in his usual black tunic and grey breeches, and was feeling warm under his short wolfskin cape. Unlike most of the others, who wore a variety of headgear, he was bare-headed and his thick jet hair bounced over his collar as Odin steadily thumped his great feet on the track.
As they passed the public execution site on Magdalen Street, free from business on a Monday, the Archdeacon waved at the sinister shape of the empty gallows. ‘Any chance of finding a customer for that, John?’
De Wolfe had told him earlier of the latest killing and its now familiar biblical signature. ‘We have no idea at all. I had hoped that he would make some slip that would help us find him, but there’s been nothing.’
‘The royal judges are not going to be pleased, sitting in a town with a clutch of unsolved murders,’ the Archdeacon said, with a hint of grim satisfaction as he nodded towards the sheriff.
‘That’s why he’s looking so agitated today,’ replied John with a wolfish grin. ‘He has a cartload of problems already — the Dartmoor tinners want to get rid of him as their Warden, the Justices know of his leaning towards Prince John, his accounting for the county “farm” is more than suspect, and now he has four unsolved homicides perpetrated by a city priest.’
The ‘farm’ to which he referred was the total annual tax revenue for Devonshire. It was fixed each year by the King and his ministers, and the sheriff had to ensure its collection from the people, then deliver it in person twice a year to the royal treasury in Winchester. If he could screw more out of the population than the agreed amount he could keep the excess — which was why so many candidates, including barons and bishops, competed fiercely, with bribes and inducements, whenever a sheriff’s post fell vacant. Some nobles even managed to be sheriff of two or more counties at the same time!
The cavalacade trotted on for a few more miles along the road towards Honiton, the first town to the east. The countryside was pleasant in the late spring sunshine, primroses and bluebells still abundant. The trees were now in full leaf and white scented mayflower was scattered on the thorn bushes. They passed ox-carts, donkeys, flocks of sheep, squealing pigs and all the usual traffic until eventually, the castle constable spotted a distant cloud of red dust. One of the men-at-arms behind him blew a blast on his horn to signal that the judicial party was in sight. A few minutes later, the two processions met and pulled off into a clearing beneath the trees to make the formal greetings and assemble themselves for the march to Exeter. The sheriff of Somerset had provided a dozen soldiers as an escort from Taunton; they now turned round and made for home. Horses and ponies milled around as the arrivals moved among the Exeter party for the formal arm-grippings and hand-shakings.
De Wolfe knew one of them fairly well — Sir Walter de Ralegh was originally a Devon man — but the others were strangers to him. De Ralegh was an older man in his sixties and had known John’s father. He was a hardfaced individual, his features looking as if they been hacked out of granite with a blunt chisel, but he had a reputation for honesty and was a staunch supporter of King Richard. He introduced de Wolfe to the second judge, Sir Peter Peverel, a wealthy land-owner from Middlesex, who had manors all over eastern England. Peverel reminded de Wolfe of Hugh de Relaga, in that he dressed extravagantly and expensively. A rather stout, dapper man, the coroner felt disinclined to trust him too far, though that was perhaps an unfair judgement on such short acquaintance.
The third was Serlo de Vallibus, a senior clerk from the Chancery. He was a thin, silent man of about forty, with a high forehead and a sparse rim of beard around his sallow face. He wore a plain oatmeal tunic under a brown cotte, which matched the colour of the handsome palfrey he rode.
The last Justice, dressed in cleric’s garb, was deep in conversation with the Precentor, and de Wolfe sidled up to de Alençon while he waited to introduce himself. ‘Do you know this priest, John?’ he asked quietly, inclining his head towards the newcomer. Gervase de Bosco was a small, wiry fellow wearing the black robe of an Augustinian canon. Like Thomas de Peyne, he rode side-saddle, though on a better mare than Thomas’s dismal pony.
‘He is my counterpart in Gloucester, though when he has any time for any episcopal duties, heaven alone knows! He’s always off indulging in politics or sitting in judgement.’
‘Is he a fair-minded man?’
‘I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. He’s no lover of the Prince, so that’s something in his favour.’
When the greetings were finished, they set off on the hour’s ride back to Exeter, the newcomers pairing off with the locals in the procession. They were followed by the dozen court clerks and servants who had accompanied the justices and a few more were way behind with the two wagons that hauled their personal belongings and documents. The carts were slower than the horses and part of Ralph Morin’s contingent stayed with them as escort.