The Torbay wreck plunder and murders were virtually settled now, with the reeve and two villagers locked up in the gaol of Rougemont Castle. In spite of John’s threat to levy the cost on Torre, the sheriff was fretting over the expense of feeding them until the next visit of the judges, which might take months. For this reason, prisoners were often allowed to escape, by the gaolers, who either turned a blind eye or were bribed. This happened even more often in the town gaol in South Gate, where those awaiting trial or already condemned by the burgess’s court were incarcerated. The townsfolk had to pay for their lodging there, and it was a standing joke that a steady stream of prisoners got out and vanished into the forests to become outlaws, so relieving some of the tax burden on the citizens of Exeter.
As the priest droned on at the altar, de Wolfe slouched among the congregation, who stood on the bare flagstones for no benches were provided for their ease. His thoughts drifted again to the complexities of the rape, the miscarriage death, and he wondered if Fitzosbern had been to petition the sheriff as he had threatened. If John read Richard de Revelle correctly, he would tread very carefully with the Ferrars, de Courcy, the portreeve and, indeed, Fitzosbern himself, as each had different and varying degrees of power among the hierarchy of the Devon community. The sheriff always tried to come down on the winning side, especially since he had burned his fingers so badly when he had supported Prince John against the King.
The coroner wondered whether there was anything in these almost hysterical accusations against Fitzosbern. Though he disliked the man, he recognised that his feelings were irrelevant in the matter of his guilt: so far there was not a shred of evidence against him, although there had been so much gossip and rumour.
His mind drifted on to another less complicated case. A child had been killed on Friday when a wheel came off the axle of a cart carrying building stone and crushed him. The jury had declared the offending wheel to be the instrument of death and so was a ‘deodand’, to be confiscated and sold for the benefit of the child’s family. The carter now faced starvation, as he had no usable vehicle to earn his living, but John now decided to let him have his wheel back and pay its value to the family in instalments. Deodand money was supposed to go to the royal treasury, but sympathetic and over-taxed jurymen often voted to have the money paid to the family of the victim.
Having mentally settled that case, John was jogged back to the present by Matilda’s elbow and found that the clergyman had stopped droning and the service was over. He walked his wife back to their house, Matilda preening herself before her acquaintances on the arm of her coroner husband. She stopped several times to pass the time of day and indulge in a little gossip. This morning the fracas in Martin’s Lane and the break up of the Fitzosbern menage was easily the favourite topic.
As far as John could make out from the snippets he heard, Fitzosbern was already as good as condemned for multiple rape, procuring miscarriages, and murder. Uncomfortable with this exaggerated nonsense, he urged Matilda on. When they got to their door, he said that he must go up to the castle to see her brother about the events of the previous evening. He promised her that he would be back for the midday meal – and promised himself a visit to the Bush that afternoon – then hurried through the town to Rougemont and climbed the stairs inside the gate-house.
Gwyn and Thomas, Sunday notwithstanding, were up in the cramped coroner’s chamber, taking their usual morning bread and cheese. John told them of the fight in his lane the previous evening and the whispering campaign in the town against the silversmith. The clerk nodded his bird-like head. ‘The same story is all about the Close. The canons and their servants are full of the gossip’, he confirmed.
Gwyn swallowed a full pint of ale. ‘Do you think there’s any truth in it?’ he asked.
The coroner shrugged, his favourite form of expression.
Thomas, hunched over his eternal writing, looked up again. ‘I saw Fitzosbern and then Henry Rifford hurrying over to the keep not ten minutes ago. Both are chasing the sheriff. No doubt.’
John rose from his stool. ‘The portreeve as well? I’d better get across there and see what mischief they’re up to.’
Under no circumstances could John de Wolfe ever feel sorry for his brother-in-law, but that morning he came near to it, as he saw the harassment that the sheriff was suffering.
Messengers from the Bishop’s palace vied with stewards to bring messages and require replies about the arrangements for the Archbishop’s visit the next day. Ralph Morin, the castle constable, waited impatiently to discuss matters of protocol with him in regard to the procession of Hubert Walter into the city – and in the midst of this administrative confusion, two angry men were shouting both at each other and at de Revelle. When John walked into the sheriffs chamber, Fitzosbern and Rifford were almost nose to nose in front of Richard’s table. Both were big men and both were red in the face with anger.
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Rifford! I had enough of such insults last evening, some of them on your family’s behalf.’
‘Where there’s smoke, Fitzosbern, there’s fire! Why should there be all this talk of you in the town of a sudden? I want the truth from you, at the end of a sword if needs be.’
Godfrey’s swarthy face sneered back at the Portreeve, his dark hair falling across his forehead. ‘Is that supposed to be a challenge, sir? You’d regret it! Your days of combat are long past, with years of fat pickings on the council of burgesses putting weight on your belly and flab in your muscles.’
The sheriff, trim in his green tunic and fawn linen surcoat, slammed his hands on his parchment-cluttered table and jumped to his feet. ‘Quiet, both of you! Look, I’ll give you five minutes to explain what you want with me, then you leave me in peace, understand? Today, of all days, with the Justiciar almost on my doorstep, I can do without this aggravation. Now then, Master Fitzosbern, say your piece.’
The silversmith, in a heavy blue mantle with a fox-fur collar thrown back over his shoulders, leaned on the other side of the trestle, his face jutting towards the sheriff. ‘I’ve told you already, I want justice! I was assaulted and defamed last night by no less than three men, outside my own street door!’
‘And you half killed young Edgar, son of Joseph, as well as grievously assaulting your own wife, by all accounts,’ retorted Henry Rifford, swelling visibly with indignation within his dark red surcoat.
Richard de Revelle held up a warning hand. ‘Wait, Henry, you’ll have your say in a moment. Now, Fitzosbern, who are you trying to lay charges against?’
‘This whipper-snapper Edgar for one, of course! He bangs on my door and attacks me verbally at first, accusing me of ravishing the daughter of Rifford here. Of course, I was devastated on hearing of the foul act, and have every sympathy with the portreeve and his family, but that’s no excuse for such baseless accusations against a leading member of the community like me.’