We know very little, sadly, about how the inquests would have been conducted since there are no extant records written by an independent viewer; however, by looking at the set-up of other courts, it is clear that the same general procedures appear to have prevailed, and thus we may extrapolate from them to see how Baldwin might have run his court.
While looking at Baldwin’s role, it would be unfair not to briefly mention Simon’s, because the Bailiff’s duties were as extensive in many ways.
The Bailiff of Lydford was the servant of the Stannaries, the ancient tin mining areas of Devon (Cornwall had its own system and its own Stannary). Key areas of responsibility were situated in the centre of Dartmoor, but I believe that his territory was much wider than this. He was responsible for preventing fights and arguments between miners and local landowners, and mining didn’t stop with the old forest of Dartmoor. As a proof of this, one need only consider that the stannary towns of Tavistock, Ashburton and Chagford, were all outside the known extent of the forest of Dartmoor.
These towns were all administrative centres. Each Stannary town controlled its own territory from the perspective of collecting tolls and taxes. However, the Warden of the Stannaries was in overall charge, and it was his duty to present any criminals who had committed felonies before the King’s Justices.
The Warden delegated his responsibilities widely, especially during the wardenship of Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock, because the good Abbot had far too many other things on his plate to be able to watch over every transaction. Thus many tasks were given to his bailiffs. We know that in the 1300s his bailiff was fined for failing to arrest suspects and bring them to Lydford to the castle purpose-built as the Stannary Gaol. The bailiff would have been a man used to working on his own, a negotiator, someone capable of calming fights between miners or disputes between landowners and miners; he himself sometimes had to resort to violence. He would have been a local man, someone who knew the moors reasonably well, but who understood men and could assess them swiftly.
This is the sort of man Simon was – rugged, determined, sure of his own authority in the name of the Abbot, and committed to serving his master.
For more information on the Stannaries, look at H.P.R. Finberg’s Tavistock Abbey (Cambridge University Press) and Sandy Gerrard’s The Early British Tin Industry (Tempus Publishing).
Michael Jecks
Northern Dartmoor
April 2002
Prologue
In the darkened room, the man’s shattered body gave a final convulsive jerk. A curious reflex caused his good arm to fly skywards as his body tensed, his back arching like a bow. The weird posture was emphasised by the guttering candles. Their thick, yellow flames gave off a greasy, black smoke that rose to the rafters, giving the chamber a grim, lowering atmosphere, as though the ceiling itself was moving closer to witness this last act in a life which had been so filled with pain and despair. As he died his shadow seemed to blacken, as though his entire soul was transformed into a larger figure looking down on the people in there, especially upon his hated neighbour, Sir Ralph de Wonson.
Sir Richard had never liked him or his brother, Sir Ralph thought to himself. At least Surval the hermit had gone after sitting up and praying for Sir Richard all night – not that it would have given the poor sick knight much comfort to see him there. Involuntarily, Sir Ralph’s eyes went to the shadow’s hand, showing in stark relief against the painted wall, raised high over Sir Ralph’s head, the fingers curled like talons about to strike him down.
Over the muttered prayers of the monk, Brother Mark, Sir Ralph could hear the rattling breath as Sir Richard’s soul fled. And then, as the arm collapsed and Sir Richard’s oldest servant, Wylkyn, sprang forward with a concerned frown on his face, Sir Ralph smiled with the relief of the winner in a long race.
‘Rest in peace, Sir Richard,’ he murmured, crossing himself and standing a moment.
This was the one man who could have become a brake on his ambitions: Sir Richard Prouse, lately the master of Gidleigh in the Hundred of South Tawton, once a powerful, handsome knight, tall, muscular and with a mind as keen as his sword; now a mere shell. A bad fall at a tournament in 1316 had devastated his body, leaving him lame and crooked, needing a stick to walk even a small distance, unable to mount a horse or wield a weapon. He had been only twenty-four when he was wounded; he was thirty the day he died.
However, a man didn’t need the strength and power of a Hector to stand in another man’s way. Sir Richard Prouse had successfully managed to thwart Sir Ralph’s every ambition. Now he was gone – and it was Sir Ralph’s time. He could do all he desired.
That was the thought that filled him as he left that foul little room in the castle’s gatehouse. He felt his contemplative mood falling away even as he stepped under the lintel and found himself out in the open air again. He glanced about him at the castle’s fine walls, at the good-sized stables and huge hall, and smiled to himself. Gidleigh Castle was a prize worth winning. It was all he could do not to shout his delight aloud.
He pulled up his belt and wriggled: his heavy tunic of bright green wool was a little too tightly cut about his shoulders. Any other day, this would have put him in a bad mood, but not today. His boots leaked, his shoulders were pinched, and he had noticed a stain on his hose, but he didn’t care because the castle was his at last.
A horse whinnied, but he took no notice. Nothing mattered, today of all days. He was freed, he was come into his new wealth. This fine Tuesday in the early summer of 1322 was the first day of Sir Ralph’s new life.
The horse neighed again, more loudly this time, and Sir Ralph looked at the gateway in time to see a glistening black stallion pelt in, skidding to a halt on the cobbles as the laughing rider hauled on the reins, only to stand panting and blowing, shaking his great head. Froth marked his flanks, and sweat, but the rider looked as fresh as when he had set off an hour earlier. Now he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and sprang down, a young man wearing a grey tunic and parti-coloured hose of red and blue. Simply dressed, he nonetheless gave the impression of money.
‘Well?’
‘He’s dead, Esmon,’ Sir Ralph said with quiet satisfaction.
His son gave a harsh laugh. ‘About time! I feared the clod was going to drag it out another week!’
A haggard-faced servant was walking past the court, and Sir Ralph called to him. ‘You! Fetch us wine and bring it to the hall.’
‘Sir.’
‘And hurry!’
Sir Ralph, a tall, trim figure, with a strong, square face and dimpled chin, turned and marched to his new home. Although his fair hair had faded a little, he was in the prime of his life; he had been tested in many combats, and had never been the loser. That knowledge gave him the confident swagger, but it was his position in the world that gave his grey eyes their steadiness. He was Lord of Gidleigh now, the owner of this land, the ruler of his villeins and all their families, the unopposed master of all the farms and moors about here, from Throwleigh all the way to Chagford.
‘You’re sure there’s nothing can take it from us?’ his son asked.
A momentary irritation crossed Sir Ralph’s features. ‘What could happen?’