John bared his teeth in a sarcastic leer. ‘A good try, young man. But explain to me how your Baldwyn has a dagger belonging to a murdered man and how he knew he was from Totnes, when he claimed never to have heard of him?’
‘I cannot speak for what Baldwyn knows or doesn’t know – or what he may or may not have done. But I cannot believe he is an evil man.’
However, banking on the influence of his powerful friends in high places, Gervaise made no further objection to the coroner continuing with his legal processes. ‘You are making an error, sir, but if you have to seek better counsel over this in Exeter, I cannot stand in your way.’
Amid increasing confusion and excitement, the near hysterical Martyn now rushed out from his father’s death-bed. While his brother attempted to explain and to reassure him, the groggy Baldwyn was hauled on to a horse, tied to the saddle horns and led away, roped to Gwyn’s mare, for the first lap of the long journey, via a night’s stop at Sampford Spiney.
Chapter Seventeen
In which Crowner John attends a trial
The next afternoon, Gwyn lodged Baldwyn safely in the castle gaol, under the tender care of Stigand. He was lodged in a cell next to Alan Fitzhai, where he could hear the groans and curses of the mercenary, who though apparently now out of danger of death, was in constant pain and misery from his septic scalded arm.
The squire from Peter Tavy maintained a sullen, smouldering silence, as if he was bottling up his anger for a vengeful explosion once he was released – his master had promised that the full force of nepotism and undue influence would be mobilised for him, if this mad coroner persisted in trying to hang a murder charge on him.
The same mad coroner reached home and, to keep Matilda safely in her new state of tolerable temper, told her the whole story of the last two days’ events.
Matilda listened to his tale in silence. Then she asked, ‘You’ve arrested this squire. Now what are you going to do with him? And what of Gervaise de Bonneville? With his family connections, it’s surely very dangerous even to suggest that he was aware of what his squire might have done?’ He was strangely pleased that she took such a perceptive interest in his activities – he had been afraid that she would fly into an indignant tantrum at his audacity in tampering with the affairs of a notable county family.
‘This Baldwyn has accused himself, with his stolen dagger, the slip over Totnes – and, most of all, his attempt to run.’
‘But what about Gervaise? He had no dagger and he didn’t attempt to escape. You’ve no reason to suspect him.’
John imitated his brother-in-law’s nose-tapping routine. ‘Motive, Matilda, motive! Baldwyn had no reason to kill either of the two men except on the orders of his master who, with his elder brother dead, now inherits the whole of the de Bonneville estate.’
Matilda shook her head slowly. ‘You be careful, John. I know that house, they have powerful friends. They can make things difficult for you.’
Before he could show any appreciation for her rare concern, those difficulties began in earnest. There was a loud knocking on the street door, and before a flurried Mary could reach it from the yard, there was the sound of feet in the vestibule. The inner door to the hall was thrown open and Richard de Revelle burst in, closely followed by Precentor Thomas de Boterellis and Portreeve Henry Rifford. ‘Matilda, forgive us, but we must speak urgently to this husband of yours!’ The sheriff’s normally urbane voice was tense with rage and apprehension.
‘The Bishop is extremely distressed!’ brayed de Boterellis and, not to be outdone, the portreeve huffed and puffed about the outrage felt among the town’s burgesses.
John got up from his chair and stood between the visitors and the fire, as if protecting his hearth from the intrusion. ‘Couldn’t this wait until the morning, sirs?’ he grated. ‘I am taking my ease in my own home, not holding a public meeting.’
The sheriff crossed the flagstones ahead of the other men and wagged a long finger under John’s nose. ‘You’ve gone too far this time, de Wolfe! Starting a sword fight outside a death chamber and dragging an innocent squire away in bonds. Even worse, you pull the lord of a manor from his dead father’s side before the body is even cold to insinuate that he has knowledge of this killing!’
The other two twittered in the background, the words ‘scandal’, ‘Bishop’, ‘outrageous’, ‘city fathers’, ‘insane’ and ‘poor Arnulph’ figuring frequently.
The lean, dark figure before the hearth listened for a moment or two, then flung up his arms above his shoulders. ‘Be quiet, all of you, damn your eyes!’
The sudden eruption of this gaunt figure, who looked like some Old Testament prophet putting a curse on the Amalachites, instantly silenced the trio. ‘I presume you burst into my house to complain about my arresting Baldwyn of Beer? Well, I see it my duty to take on the tasks that the sheriff of this county should be performing in apprehending criminals. This man tried to flee when accused and wounded my own officer in the attempt. His actions betray his guilt and he must be tried for his crime.’
‘He is squire to the new lord de Bonneville, for God’s sake!’ retorted the Precentor. ‘The Bishop is livid with anger that you should so upset his friends at the time of their grief.’
John snorted in derision. ‘The King and his ministers and judges have sworn to dispense law and justice without fear or favour, principles set down by the two Henrys … and the Saxon kings before them, for that matter. Are you telling me that there is a different law for the Bishop’s friends?’
There was a pause, as no one wanted to commit himself by answering that question directly, but the Sheriff blustered his way through it. ‘All right, Crowner, you shall have your trial. It shall be tomorrow, to make this poor man’s incarceration as short as possible. Gervaise de Bonneville and his brother rode on your heels to bring us this outrageous news and to complain to the Bishop, who by good fortune is staying in his palace this next week to receive Walter the justiciar. So Henry Marshall will personally attend the court, together with all men of good will who wish to see redress for this shocking thing that you have done.’
He turned and marched out, forgetting even to wish his sister goodnight.
At the third hour after noon the next day, the court hall in the inner bailey of Rougemont Castle was filled to overflowing. Though the sheriff’s weekly court was always busy, either with litigants, witnesses or curious onlookers seeking entertainment, the word had somehow got round that a major confrontation was likely at the trial of Baldwyn of Beer.
The arrival of Bishop Henry Marshall and a bevy of his minions was a bonus for the audience, as no one could remember such senior clerics attending this secular court before. It must be an unusual matter that brought out the Bishop on this damp, cold afternoon.
The proceedings were brief and predictable. Sir Richard de Revelle courteously greeted the Bishop, who wore a long crimson cassock and a skull-cap, and settled him in a large chair at the side of the dais behind which assembled the Precentor, Treasurer, John de Alecon, a few canons and some lesser clergy.
On the other side, Gervaise and Martyn de Bonneville sat on smaller seats, looking strained and annoyed.
The sheriff flopped into his own chair, set squarely in the middle of the platform, with Ralph Morin, several bailiffs, sergeants and a few men-at-arms scattered behind him.
De Revelle cut an impressive figure, in his bright blue tunic with a short green cloak thrown back over one shoulder, fastened on the other with an ornate gold brooch. His black breeches were cross-gartered above stylish shoes with long, pointed toes. Above his hard, tight-lipped mouth, his narrow moustache had been freshly clipped.