They spoke together for some time, though Thomas did most of the talking. He told his master of his childhood and his long, lonely schooling in Winchester, of the death of his mother from the same phthisis that had crippled his own back and hip, and of the good days when he had taught at his old school, until his downfall over the girl, who had trapped him into making an innocent advance then alleged that he had ravished her. He told de Wolfe that there was nothing he wanted as his uncle the Archdeacon had already brought him his precious Vulgate. He clasped it in his hands as he spoke. Eventually, there was nothing left to say and, with a promise to see him again on the fateful morrow, John left with a heavy heart, telling Thomas that Gwyn had promised to visit him later that evening.
As he trudged home, he wondered if his officer had some notion of a last-minute rescue. Part of him hoped Gwyn would make some attempt, but common sense told him it would be a futile, disastrous act. The gaol was inside a locked compound, itself in the undercroft, guarded by the gaoler and often a man-at-arms too. The inner ward was impregnable, with a guardroom and sentries always on duty at the gatehouse. The whole castle — indeed, the whole city — knew of Thomas’s conviction, and no trickery or brute force on Gwyn’s part could get them both out of Rougemont then through the city gates. If they did, both would immediately be outlawed, legitimate prey to anyone who wished to kill them and claim a bounty for their heads. And Gwyn had a wife and sons to support, so even the affection he had for the little clerk was surely not worth that sacrifice.
It was early evening and he went home for a subdued meal with Matilda, who again was unusually docile, stealing puzzled glances at him from under her heavy brows as she sensed his distress. Although they spent most of their life together in mutual antagonism, when serious matters oppressed them, they were somehow drawn together, albeit temporarily. When John had broken his leg in combat some months previously, Matilda had nursed him with a fierce solicitude, and when she had suffered acute distress over her brother’s misdeeds, he had pledged and delivered his absolute support.
After the meal he paced the hall restlessly, then announced that he was going to talk to Adam of Dol and possibly the unhinged Ralph de Capra, if he could get into the sickroom of St Nicholas Priory. He also wanted to talk yet again to Julian Fulk about his sudden desire to leave Exeter, but knowing of Matilda’s interest in that particular priest, he avoided mentioning his intention.
The sun was going down as he reached St Mary Steps. The church was deserted once again, so he went round to the living quarters. The incumbent lived in a small house tacked on to the back wall of the church, its door opening on to the terraced cobbles of the hill. It was little more than a single room, with a box-like bed forming one wall. A lean-to shed at the other side provided space for cooking, which was done by an old man who also cleaned the church and rang the bell for devotions.
De Wolfe rapped on the upper half of the split door, which opened to reveal the truculent features of Father Adam. ‘What do you want, Crowner?’
‘To speak to you about de Capra.’
‘What business is it of yours? You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.’
De Wolfe took no umbrage at his manner, accepting that this strange man was incapable of civility. ‘As coroner, I have a duty to inquire into unlawful events. And it seems Ralph de Capra has twice attempted to kill himself, which is a felo de se.’
‘So what are you going to do about it — arrest him? Your own clerk tried to kill himself too, but he wasn’t thrown into prison — though he’s ended up there just the same,’ he added sarcastically. It seemed that he had no intention of letting de Wolfe inside his dwelling, so the coroner had to continue his questioning from the street.
‘What drove de Capra to this desperate state?’
Adam leaned on the door and thrust his florid face almost against John’s nose. ‘None of your concern, Crowner. What passes between two priests by way of confession is not for the ears of you or anyone else on earth. Only God the Father knows what was said.’
‘Was it truly a confession — or just the outpouring of a troubled mind? For I have heard that he had suffered a crisis of faith.’
The priest slammed his big hands on to the door top in temper. ‘Ha! Almost every so-called priest in this pestilent land is suffering from a crisis of faith! A lack of faith in what religion should mean. The failure to tell sinners what lies in store if they fail to repent. These milk-sops are not proper priests, but weak-kneed time-servers, all of them!’
John groaned to himself. He had launched this madman on his favourite obsession and was about to get another hell-fire tirade. ‘Then I’ll go to see de Capra up at St Nicholas’s,’ he said hastily, and backed away to leave a puce-faced Adam waving his arms and ranting about the unrepentant and the fires of damnation.
De Wolfe strode up the uneven steps of the hill and passed both the Saracen and the end of Idle Lane, but resisted the temptation to call in for a pot of ale and the solace of Nesta’s company, though he intended to come back later to the Bush. He crossed Fore Street and wended his way through the mean alleys to St Nicholas Priory, tucked away at the top of Bretayne. The prior, a sour-faced man whose cheeks were pitted with old cow-pox scars, was in the small garden, chastising a young monk for some error in the way he was weeding the vegetable plot.
When de Wolfe asked to see Ralph de Capra, the prior shook his head. ‘He’s not fit to be spoken to yet. The infirmarian has given him a draught to quieten him, though it seems to have had little effect.’
‘I have to talk to him now,’ insisted de Wolfe. ‘It is a matter of the utmost urgency.’ Though the chances were slim, if the deranged priest let slip anything that identified him as the killer, Thomas would be cleared. John could not pass up even the most remote possibility of saving his clerk’s neck from the rope tomorrow.
The scowling prior pulled up the cowl of his black Benedictine robe against a sudden gust of cool night air. ‘If you must, then be it on your head if he goes berserk again,’ he grumbled. He beckoned to a novice who was washing a pan outside the kitchen of the small priory and told him to take the coroner to the sickroom. Following him, John passed the storeroom where more than once, he had attended dead bodies from this part of town, though mercifully, it was empty tonight.
The young man led him into a passage with two cells opening off it, in one of which was locked the priest from All-Hallows. Nervously, he pulled a wooden pin from the hasp and stood aside for the coroner to enter. The moment John slipped inside, he heard the pin being hastily shoved back.
In the tiny room, with only a shuttered slit to admit a little light, he made out a skinny figure crouched on a pallet in a corner. He was stark naked and his tunic lay on the floor, torn into ragged strips. John wondered if he had been trying to make a noose, but there was nothing in the bare cell from which he could hang himself.
De Capra was shivering like a man with the ague, but not from cold. He gave no sign that he had noticed the coroner’s arrival, and sat staring at the floor.
‘Ralph, I am John de Wolfe, the crowner. Do you remember me?’
There was no response, so he pulled over a milking stool, the only furniture in the cell, and sat directly facing the other man. ‘Ralph, you must answer my questions.’
Again there was no reaction and John reached out to take the priest’s chin in his hand. He moved the man’s head so that he could stare straight into the vacant eyes. ‘What has happened to afflict you like this? What have you done?’
Suddenly, the other man was galvanised out of his catatonia. Shocked by the change, John fell backwards off his stool as de Capra leapt up and threw himself against the corner of the cell, standing naked on the straw mattress with his arms outspread against adjacent walls, like a living crucifix. ‘I have sinned, I have sinned!’ he wailed, his eyes rolling up to the wattled ceiling.