His anger-reddened face now pale, de Revelle drooped under his dun-coloured blanket. ‘Do you expect me to believe this?’ he whispered hoarsely.
The coroner shrugged. ‘If you do not, then I’ll take my testimony elsewhere. The chief justiciar visits Exeter in a week or so – a man I know and respect from fighting under him in the Holy Land.’
The sheriff’s confidence began to return. ‘He will side with the Bishop, a patron of the de Bonnevilles,’ he said.
‘Patron of the dead Arnulph, you mean, whose true heir has been killed by his brother’s squire. Will Bishop Marshall condone that in the face of solid evidence?’ The sheriff could find no words before John went on, ‘I’ll go to Winchester and London with my witnesses, if I have to – even follow the King in Normandy and the Vexin. I’ll not let this rest, be assured of that!’
The sheriff, conscious of the undignified figure he cut in his blanket, pulled himself erect. ‘All this fantasy depends on these damned confessions you claim to have. I’d not put it past you to fabricate all of this.’
‘I was given a job to do in the King’s name and, by God, I’ll do it, in spite of all the bishops and sheriffs in Christendom!’
However high-sounding the words, their sincerity was like a blast of icy wind around de Revelle’s ears. ‘Who are these people you claim to produce?’ he growled.
‘They include my own officer, the inn-keeper of the Bush and her servant Edwin.’
Instantly revitalised, the sheriff gave a howl of derision. ‘What! Your own creature, that hairy Cornishman! A crippled potman, and your own poxy mistress, you adulterous knave! Who do you think will listen to one word from that lying crew?’
John would have dearly loved to knock his brother-in-law to the floor, but he restrained himself to deliver his coup de grâce.
‘And your own good friend Henry Rifford, one of our respected portreeves. I’m sure you’ll accept his testimony as truthful, however reluctant he may be to give it.’
‘You’re lying!’ hissed de Revelle.
‘All four should be downstairs by now. You can question them yourself, though I suggest you first put on some clothes,’ advised the coroner sweetly.
By the time the distraught sheriff had dressed, arranged with his chamberlain to smuggle the painted lady out down the back stairs and interviewed the four witnesses, the night was far advanced. De Revelle did all he could to convince himself that this was a nightmare or that his cursed brother-in-law was playing some devious trick or malignant conspiracy against him. If John’s evidence had merely been that of the three allegedly biased witnesses, he would have defied him and refused to give them any credibility – or even bother to listen to them. But the fact that his own crony Henry Rifford reluctantly corroborated the story made it impossible for him to dismiss the affair as a plot against his own authority.
The four witnesses had trooped into the dimly lit chamber where the sheriff, now hastily dressed in a dull brown tunic, sat behind his table to listen to them. He still felt disoriented, having been pulled from his bed and his woman to be sledgehammered by a story that made a nonsense of the perverse judgement he had perpetrated in his shire court that morning.
Henry Rifford, the waxy-faced merchant who was one of the two leading citizens of Exeter, was given a chair before the sheriff. The others stood ranged behind him, while the coroner hovered in the background, like a chantry-master with a troop of choristers.
The upshot of their evidence was that Edwin, the old tavern servant, had caught the words ‘Widecombe’ and ‘Southampton’ as he passed back and forth near the table where the pair from Peter Tavy were drinking. The other brother, Martyn, was away in his bed in a fit of fatigue and melancholy, leaving Gervaise and Baldwyn with their heads together over their ale.
Following Nesta’s instructions, Edwin had made it his business to eavesdrop on the other side of the wattle screen. What had grabbed his attention at once was Gervaise’s low voice saying, ‘You damned fool, Baldwyn! Whatever happens, Martyn must never know. He’s got no backbone in him, he’s too weak. The boy would go to pieces if he knew what had been done.’
At this point, Edwin had urgently looked about him and had seen Nesta leaning over Gwyn, who sat on a bench nearby, teasing him about the good times he could have now that his wife was away. The old potman had urgently beckoned them over and, as they had come near his side of the screen, had put a warning finger to his lips. They slid on to the bench left empty a few moments earlier when a group of noisy butchers had tipsily left.
‘Listen to this!’ Edwin whispered, jerking his thumb at the screen. The other bent their heads near the wattles and three pairs of ears strained to hear Gervaise telling his squire that, as long as he kept his nerve, no one need ever know what had happened on the moor seven weeks ago.
The quick-witted Nesta realised immediately that they needed a more heavyweight and reputable witness than themselves, and her eyes roved urgently around the big room until they fell on a party of leather merchants, celebrating a good contract with the Bretons. Prominent among them was Henry Rifford, whose great prosperity depended on the leather trade of which he was the undisputed leader in Exeter.
She hurried over and hissed into his ear, ‘Come at once – it’s a matter of life and death!’ At the same time she had pulled him by the arm and Rifford, though middle-aged and portly, was mystified but flattered to be so suddenly desired by a pretty woman. Like every man in Exeter, he knew the red-headed innkeeper and occasionally had lustful thoughts about her. The intensity in her voice now compelled him to go with her to the table next to the wattle partition.
With a finger to her lips, she indicated that he should listen to the voices on the other side. Now, in front of the sheriff and rather reluctantly, but pleased at being the centre of attention, the portreeve related what he had heard.
‘De Bonneville was telling this Baldwyn that he had been a fool to take that dagger from the body and that he should have buried it in the peat, as he had Aelfgar’s sword.’
‘Wait!’ snapped the sheriff, still desperate to find some way to discredit all this. ‘How do you know it was de Bonneville speaking?’
Henry Rifford looked impatient at having his moment of drama interrupted. ‘Of course I knew, Richard. I saw them at that table earlier, when the younger brother was with them. And afterwards I made it my business to pass near them to go out of the back door, to piss in the yard, so that I could confirm who they were.’
The rest of his tale, confirmed almost verbatim by the other less acceptable witnesses, was that Gervaise, his tongue loosened by the evening’s drink, was impressing on Baldwyn the need for constant vigilance. The squire, who seemed somewhat resentful of his master’s exhortations, replied in mainly monosyllables, but at one point, Rifford heard him say, ‘Sir Gervaise, remember that it was I who helped dispose of your brother. I’m hardly likely to put myself in jeopardy for something that happened when you were half a county away.’
The eavesdropping had ended when the two men on the other side of the screen had got up and walked out, either to drink at another inn or perhaps to seek female company, easily found on the streets leading down to the riverside gates.
When the tale was told, Richard de Revelle sat silent for a moment. ‘Henry, are you absolutely sure of this? You realise what it will mean if proved true?’