As far as Gwyn was concerned, the holy men were monks, but in fact they were priests, come from the parent Norbetine abbey at Welbeck. They had offered to keep the corpses at the back of their small timber church, next to the wattle and thatch building in which the three of them lived. William de Brewere was negotiating with their abbot in Welbeck for the building of a substantial stone abbey at Torre, and though it was fifteen months before Abbot Adam and six canons were to arrive, these three were the advance party.
When the coroner had arrived at dusk the previous evening, he had given orders for every man and boy over fourteen in the village and surrounding Hundred to be present an hour after dawn. It was difficult to carry out the letter of the law and have every male person present to form the jury, as that would have paralysed the work of several villages. However, this was such a serious matter, compared to the usual accident or sudden death, that Gwyn, Sergeant Gabriel and his men-at-arms went through the village and surrounding hamlets, knocking up each household and ordering them to be present at the inquest.
The rough grass in front of the canons’ habitation was soon churned by the feet of several score of reluctant freemen and villeins, backed at a distance by curious wives and girls, who had no legal part to play. Children, dogs and even a goat wandered in and out of the crowd and an enterprising hawker was selling apples.
The reeve Aelfric was there, apprehensive and furtive, as were several others John recognised from the affair on the beach. Even the village priest was present, haggard and yellow-faced.
The salvaged goods from the tithe barn were piled up on two ox-carts at one side, ready to be taken to Exeter. They had been left under the guardianship of William de Brewere’s seneschal, when John returned to Exeter after his first visit two days before. He was unsure if the seneschal was party to the theft of the valuable flotsam, but strongly suspected that the bailiff, who was next in command, well knew what was going on and had been hand in glove with his assistant, Aelfric.
The coroner looked around to check that his clerk was ready with quill, ink and parchment to record the inquest. Then he nodded at Gwyn. The Cornishman beat on a wheel of the cart with the flat of his sword to gain attention, before he roared in a thunderous voice, ‘All persons who have anything to do before King Richard’s coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance!’
There was a shuffling and squelching of feet in the mud, as the men of Torre tried to understand the meaning of this new ritual imposed on them by the distant powers in far-off London and Winchester. Few had any idea what an inquest was, but most accepted resignedly that it was yet another way of screwing more money out of an already impoverished population.
Standing apart from the villagers were the men from Topsham and Exeter, the father and son looking grey and downcast, sad enough at the deaths of the men from their ship but even more so about the ravishment of their poor Christina. They were anxious beyond all measure to get back to Exeter to console her and her father. Yet John sensed, through Edgar’s simmering anger, an apprehensiveness at both how to handle the crisis and his own feelings about the violation of his future wife, virgin no longer.
There was no chair within miles, so John officiated from a three-legged milking stool brought from the village. Hands on knees, his grey and black-clad figure, with the long jet black hair blowing in the wind, gave him the appearance of some satanic angel of doom come among them. He began in a menacing growl, loud enough for all to hear. ‘This inquest is into the circumstances of the death of six men found on Torre beach, and also into the wreck of the vessel of which they were crew,’ he began, in a tone redolent of accusation.
The first witness was Joseph of Topsham, who stood forward like an Old Testament figure with his long grey beard and flowing cloak. He swore that the wreck was that of his own ship Mary of the Sea. The vessel had been laden with wool on the outward voyage and due to return from Barfleur with a full cargo of dried fruit and wine.
Gwyn handed him the shattered board found on the beach and he confirmed that it was part of the ship’s hull, bearing some of the words of its name carved upon it.
‘And you have seen the bodies of the six men laid out in the priests’ chapel here?’ demanded the coroner. ‘Are they all members of that ship’s crew?’
Joseph nodded sadly. ‘They are indeed – and one is missing, a young lad called Hecche. I knew them all, poor souls.’
‘And were they all English?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘Two were Bretons and one an Irishman.’
‘But none were Normans?’
The older man shook his head emphatically. ‘No, all either Saxons or foreigners.’
At this there was a sigh of relief from the crowd: no Normans meant that at least the murdrum fine, of up to forty marks, had been avoided.
Then Edgar and the wine merchant, Eric Picot, who usually met his cargoes when they arrived at the port on the Exe and knew most of the ship’s crew by sight, were able to confirm Joseph’s identification of his men. Old Leonard, the silent clerk, produced a parchment copy of the order that the ship’s master had taken to Barfleur, listing the goods to be purchased for the return trip.
John led them over to the ox-carts and they formally identified the barrels and boxes by the markings burned into the wood with hot irons as the consignment they had been expecting to arrive at Topsham. ‘Much of it is missing, but this would account for about half of the cargo,’ said Joseph, laying a hand on one of the wheels of the nearest cart.
‘It means a considerable loss to us,’ added Eric Picot, brushing back his dark hair as it fell forwards across his forehead.
The coroner looked around at the silent crowd. ‘I must assume that almost all the goods that were rescued from the sea are here.’ He glared pointedly at the sickly village priest, as if to emphasise that he was well aware that some of the salvage had vanished down the man’s gullet. ‘But now I will turn to the deaths of these men. Three seemed to have died from drowning.’ He named those dug first from the sand, with no injuries. ‘These had died from the effects of the shipwreck, casting them into the waters, an Act of God, caused by the storm at sea. But the other three …’ He turned a thunderous eye on Aelfric and several of the other village men, who were standing in the front row of the audience, flanked ostentatiously by Sergeant Gabriel and his man-at-arms. ‘These three, also named by Joseph of Topsham, carry marks of violence, namely wounds on their heads and other parts, plainly caused by heavy blows from blunt weapons. There were splits on their scalps and severe bruises on their necks. There is no question of them suffering these hurts by the action of the sea. They were done to death by deliberate violence. Then there was an attempt to hide these foul deeds by burying them in the sand.’
After the hermit Wulfstan had been called to testify that he had seen bodies on the beach and casks being concealed, the reeve was thrust forward. He stood before the coroner like a bull waiting for the dogs to bait him, his face showing a mixture of truculence and fear. ‘I know nothing about any killings! Those seamen were dead afore I laid eyes on them!’ he cried, before John had a chance to challenge him.
Gwyn, standing close behind the reeve, gave him a helpful buffet on the shoulder to remind him of his manners. ‘Say “sir” when you address the crowner!’ he demanded.
‘You’re a liar, Aelfric,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘I’ve seen the injuries with my own eyes. Those men were done to death.’