The coroner was unmoved. ‘Just do your best, Nicholas. Look, this one might be easier. What do you say about this?’ He picked up the small wooden box and handed it to the leech, who glanced at it perfunctorily.
‘That’s simple. It contains a mixture of ground herbs useful for countering inflammation,’ he proclaimed.
Gwyn scowled ferociously at him, his ginger eyebrows dropping towards his equally auburn moustache. ‘How can you tell when you’ve not even opened it yet?’
In spite of his distress, the apothecary could not resist a superior smirk. ‘Because it’s written on the lid – see?’ He pointed to the obscure symbol on the top. ‘And I should know what’s in it, for I gave it to Fitzosbern only yesterday.’
There was a silence.
‘You gave it to him, yesterday?’ repeated John slowly.
‘Yes, of course. He came in late in the afternoon, complaining of pain in his throat and a fever. I examined him and saw this recent slash on his neck, which was going purulent. I bathed it and put some lotion on it, then gave him these herbs to take thrice a day to try to assuage the sepsis.’
‘You gave him the medicament yourself?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Of course. I took it from here.’ He turned and pulled out a small wooden drawer from a double row of similar receptacles along the wall behind the counter. Holding it out, they saw that it was half full of a brown powder similar to that in the little box.
‘Was Edgar in the shop when Fitzosbern came?’ demanded John. The apothecary looked uncomfortable. ‘He was, but he turned his back on the silversmith and remained so in the corner of the shop, pretending to work at something.’
‘So he had nothing to do with the prescription or the treatment?’
‘Nothing! He kept well out of the way, for obvious reasons.’
John digested this. ‘Did you leave them alone here at any time?’
The apothecary considered for a moment. ‘Only when I had to go into the store room behind the shop to get a supply of these little boxes as we had none left in the shop.’
‘Was that for long?’
‘Only a few minutes – and I had to get a pan of hot water from the fire in the hut at the back, to bathe his wound.’
A few more questions drew a blank and John had to be satisfied with what he had already learned. Emphasising the need to try to test the food and wine, they left for Rougemont.
At the lower door of the castle gate-house, the coroner gave his officer a last order before going over to the keep. ‘I want Bearded Lucy questioned again. I feel that she knows something else, above what she admitted to us last week.’
Gwyn cleared his throat noisily and spat on the ground. ‘Can I persuade her a little?’ he asked hopefully, scratching his crotch.
‘Only with your voice, understand? I don’t want her broken in half or anything like that. Take Thomas with you, in case you frighten her to death. Then he can shrive her soul. But get some information from her first!’
He strode away across the inner bailey, his mantle streaming behind him like the plumage of some great black crow.
The meeting in Richard de Revelle’s chamber had been going on for some time when John arrived, but none of that part concerned him, as they had been discussing county administration and the collection of taxes. When he slipped on to a vacant bench, they were still arguing about the Stannery Towns, the semi-autonomous communities scattered around the edges of Dartmoor, where the tin-miners had ancient rights, including their own courts – and, with the miners of Cornwall, even a form of local parliament.
None of this had any relevance to the coroner, as his jurisdiction was universal. He took the opportunity to study the large group assembled to meet Hubert Walter, who sat at the head of a square of trestle tables, with the sheriff on his right. On his left was John de Alecon, as the Bishop delegated such secular meetings to his staff. The other thirty men were mainly barons and court officials from the western counties and the travelling circus that went around with the Chief Justiciar.
Hubert’s lean brown face was following the discussion intently. He owed his power largely to having kept a firm grip on every topic and he had a compendious knowledge of every administrative quirk that the complex government of England and Normandy could devise. Today he wore none of the elaborate finery of the Church or his martial robes, but was dressed in a plain tan surcoat over a tunic of cream linen. His head was bare, unlike many of the others whose more gaudy dress was topped by a colourful assortment of head-gear.
Eventually the discussion reached the matter that had been a source of friction between John and his brother-in-law for almost three months. The Chief Justiciar was well aware of it, for both the sheriff and the coroner had complained to the itinerant justices when they visited Exeter in October, and de Revelle had raised the matter again when he last went to Westminster with his county taxation accounts.
Hubert Walter picked up a vellum roll on which one of his clerks had penned a note as an aidememoire. ‘The problem seems to be this,’ he summarised, with the clarity that had helped him reach the highest position in the land. ‘The sheriff has long been charged with keeping the King’s peace in this county, which in olden days – even before William came from Normandy – included the trial and punishment of criminals. Are we agreed on that?’
There were nods all around and a smirk from Richard de Revelle, who felt that his case was already won.
‘But our last King Henry became disenchanted with the integrity of many sheriffs – you will remember the Inquisition of Sheriffs in the sixteenth year of his reign, which effectively dismissed them all for their corrupt behaviour.’
This time it was John’s turn to smile and the sheriff’s to scowl. Hubert went on with his lecture. ‘Then by the Assize of Clarendon and the Assize of Northampton, he set up the visitation of the royal judges, which should come to every county at intervals of a few months, taking over the shire court from the sheriff to try those serious criminal cases which are Pleas of the Crown, not minor local appeals.’ He held up his hand. ‘I know what you might say, that these courts are irregular and often fail to keep to their timetable, especially in recent times. But judges are few and the distances are great.’
He stopped to drink some wine and water from a glass set before him.
‘Anyway, that is the strict law, yet I well know that all over England sheriffs are still holding the Pleas of the Crown, which they should not do.’[5]
One of the barons from East Anglia, a member of the Curia Regis, broke in at this point. ‘This is ancient history, Archbishop. What has it to do with these new coroners?’
Hubert did not like being interrupted, but tried to be patient. ‘You know well enough that there are two different perambulations of the King’s Justices around the country. In the old days, any subject wanting justice from the King had to chase him around England and France. Old Henry improved that by sending the judges to the people, albeit slowly. The justices, who come, hopefully, several times a year to hold an assize in each county, deal with the serious crimes, but the Justices in Eyre, who come very much more infrequently, investigate all manner of financial and administrative problems in the land. It is those to whom the coroner’s efforts are directed, to record every matter that may lead to an addition to the Royal Treasury.’
There was a silence, as not everyone understood his point.
Richard de Revelle spoke cautiously, picking his words with care as he did not wish to sound as if he was ignorant of the law which he was supposed to uphold in the whole of Devon. ‘How does this distinguish our roles in prosecuting crime?’
The Justiciar leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Anything to do with money is the coroner’s preserve – amercements, fines, treasure trove, deodands and, especially, the murdrum fine. This is why the justices at the September Eyre in Kent revived this old Saxon office – Custos Placitorum Coronae – Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown.’