Though his face was not built for much smiling, John grinned good-humouredly. These were his friends and he needed such in Exeter as enemies were to be had in plenty.
‘Come with me now, if you want to see the crowner at work,’ he responded. ‘I’m on my way this minute to hold an inquest at Rougemont.’
Hugh de Relaga smacked him on the shoulder. ‘I think I will, friend, to see how Hubert Walter’s latest bright idea is working. What about you, priest? Will you join us?’
John de Alecon shook his head wryly. ‘Some of us have duties to attend, Portreeve. Not all of us have time on our hands, like you burgesses.’
With a gesture of benediction, he moved off towards the cathedral close while de Relaga and the coroner set off up the slope towards the castle. They talked about the price of wool and the loss of a shipload going from Exmouth to Flanders. They passed through the gate in the curved embankment that cut off the north-eastern corner of the town and formed an outer ward to the castle, part quarry, part living space for soldiers and their families, who had erected huts against the walls.
‘Is this about the killing in the Saracen last night, John?’ asked the portreeve, as they climbed the steep incline and then the drawbridge into the castle gatehouse.
‘It is indeed – and a wounding where the fellow may die.’
De Relaga puffed a little at the exercise, his short legs not matching the long stride of the coroner. ‘This used to be sheriff’s business. How does he take your meddling in his functions?’
John made a sour face. ‘Not happily, but he has to put up with it. He’s torn between dislike of me and my appointment and the wishes of his sister, my dear Matilda, who likes the idea of a law officer for a husband.’
De Relaga shook his head sadly. ‘Be careful of Richard de Revelle, John. He can be a devious, spiteful man, as I know to my cost.’
‘I’ll watch him, never fear,’ John replied grimly. ‘He’ll not get the better of me – since the Holy Land campaigns I have some powerful friends.’
‘But they are not in Exeter, John.’
By now they had entered the busy inner ward and passed the little chapel of Mary on the right of the gatehouse. Straight ahead was the Shire Hall, a plain building with a roof of stone slates. It had one large room with shuttered window openings each side and two wide doors. There was nothing inside except a wooden dais at one end, on which were a few stools. Here the sheriff held his county court every two weeks. The borough court of the burgesses, under the portreeves, was held in the Guild Hall in the high street, and the ecclesiastical court was held in the old wooden chapter house of the cathedral, signalling the jealously guarded divisions that held sway in the town.
Inside the bare hall, people were already milling around. Gwyn of Polruan was marshalling them as best he could, with a voice that could shatter a clay pot at twenty yards. He had assembled all those who had been within sight of the Saracen the previous evening, together with half a dozen men and boys from each of the four quarters of the town. Several burgesses had also turned up, partly out of curiosity and partly from a sense of civic duty. One was the other portreeve, Henry Rifford. He was a large, red-faced, self-important fellow, with a town house and a large manor out at Clyst St Mary, on the Exmouth road. A crony of the sheriff, Rifford had been hostile to John’s appointment and the coroner was as wary of him as he was of the Bishop, another of de Revelle’s men. In fact, as far as John was concerned both town and cathedral seniors were split down the middle.
The crowd parted as two soldiers trundled a two-wheeled cart through the door, on which was a body, covered with bloody canvas. This was for the numerous jurymen to view, according to the new legal procedure.
John stepped onto the platform and the two portreeves, though they had no official function, followed him and sat on two stools to observe the proceedings.
Through the other door, four soldiers, wearing conical iron helmets with nose-guards, dragged the two miscreants, hands bound securely behind their backs. To ribald jeers from the jury, they frogmarched them to stand below the centre of the dais.
Just as John was about to begin, there was a blast outside from a horn and two sergeants strode in, followed by Richard de Revelle and another two soldiers as a ceremonial rearguard. Just behind the Sheriff walked Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont, appointed by the King. He was a large man, with a mane of grey hair and a flowing beard to match. John had fought alongside him in Ireland and knew him to be fair and impartial.
The sheriff, though not in armour, wore his bright armorial surcoat, white linen with a crimson griffin front and back. He climbed onto the platform and stood centre stage, almost pushing the coroner aside.
The crowd fell silent. The sheriff was by no means a popular figure, neither for his office nor his personality. He represented authority as a tax collector, a harsh judge and the fount of fiscal and capital punishment.
Richard de Revelle looked at his brother-in-law and smirked, his thin, handsome face conveying a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘Pray carry on, Sir Crowner!’
John scowled at him, but said nothing. The sheriff had the right to be present if he so wished, although his attendance was not necessary to the proceedings.
As Gwyn finished bellowing his introduction, the coroner and sheriff subsided on to stools, mainly to mark their status as everyone below the dais had to stand. Ralph Morin waited unobtrusively at the back of the platform, his eyes missing nothing.
As at Widecombe, the multitude of the jury had to view the corpse. They jostled and stumbled past the cart, where one of the guards had whipped off the canvas from the body, displaying the mangled remains of the head. Though late in the season, a few opportunist bluebottles had already yellowed the eyes and mouth with clusters of eggs.
John stood up and briefly set out the events of the previous night. The injured man, Eadred of Dawlish, was too ill to be brought to the castle even on a litter, so the coroner described his injuries. Gwyn had previously picked one man from each of four town wards to act as spokesmen for the large jury and had taken them to the Saracen to inspect the wounded man. They had reported what they had seen to the rest of the jury.
Two men from St Sidwell’s, a cluster of houses beyond the East Gate, swore that the corpse was that of their brother Osric, a carter who had lived in an alley off Rock Lane, near the Watergate. The whole family was obviously Saxon and thus no question of a murdrum fine arose. Then several witnesses gave their account of the affray, and Gwyn gave the deposition of the injured Eadred that the hairy one had struck the deceased to rob him.
Within minutes, the jury had given their unanimous verdict that Osric the carter had been slain against the King’s peace by Tostig, the fellow now in front of them.
John summed up. ‘There is no doubt that he was killed by a mace blow to the head, and equally little doubt that this Tostig is the culprit.’ He pointed down at the hairy rogue gripped by the two soldiers. The man struggled, swore and spat defiantly towards the dais, and received a crack on the head from one guard’s spear shaft for his insolence.