Gervaise de Bonneville, dishevelled, his cheeks and chin stubbled below his fair moustache, looked up in terror at the officer’s bellow. He convulsively seized the altar-cloth even more firmly and crouched nearer the square table, which carried a gilded crucifix flanked by two candlesticks. He stared fearfully at the archway, unable to see clearly who was standing there in the gloom.
‘Who’s there? I claim sanctuary, whoever you are.’
His voice was tremulous with fear, as if he could already feel the coarse rope around his neck.
‘It’s the King’s coroner, John de Wolfe, whom you well know by now. We met last half-way through the night, sir. If you’d not been so craven a coward, you’d have seen me spit your man Baldwyn on the end of my sword.’
The man from Peter Tavy rose slowly to his feet as the other came fully into the chamber. He kept one hand firmly on the altar of the Holy Cross.
‘Baldwyn? Baldwyn is wounded?’
‘Wounded? Baldwyn is dead – with my sword through his chest. But at least he stood his ground to fight, sacrificing himself to let you escape. You ran like a frightened rabbit and left him to die.’
De Bonneville’s head sank to his chest and he subsided to the floor in front of the altar. They could only just hear his voice from across the wide room.
‘Baldwyn – oh, God, have mercy on him!’
‘And on you, Gervaise de Bonneville,’ boomed the coroner, ‘for you’re a cold-blooded killer, a murderer of your own brother, for which you’ll rot in hell.’
The fugitive held his head in his hands as he leaned against the base of the altar, mumbling something inaudible.
The coroner called to him again. ‘De Bonneville, will you come out of this place and surrender yourself to me or to the constable?’
Without looking up, the man at the altar screamed, ‘No, never! Leave me in peace. I am in sanctuary, I claim the protection of this holy place.’
Before John could reply, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Morin behind him in the doorway. ‘I was about to tell him a few truths about sanctuary,’ said the coroner.
The constable backed away a little into the arch, to look over his shoulder down the nave. ‘You’ll have to wait on this lot before you do that, John. Here’s a procession of priests. I saw them assembling outside the cloisters. A full delegation of God’s henchmen – and our dear sheriff with them.’
The coroner put his head out of the doorway to see an impressive group approaching with a stately, measured tread. First came a canon’s vicar bearing a high processional cross, then the Archdeacon, John de Alecon, with a black cloak thrown over his chasuble and alb. He walked solemnly in front of Bishop Henry Marshall, who was in full regalia of embroidered cope over his other vestments. He carried his crosier – the gilded shepherd’s crook – and his lofty brow bore the mitre as if he was attending some major ceremony at the high altar.
He was closely followed by the Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, who walked with Richard de Revelle. The sheriff was in his best finery, wearing a dark red silk tunic to his knees, covered by a long cloak of green linen. A matching green capuchin was around his head, the tail falling elegantly to his left shoulder. John thought he looked more like a baron at court in Winchester than the law keeper of a far-western county, but perhaps his outfit reflected new political aspirations.
The vanguard was brought up by the cathedral Treasurer, John of Exeter, and a posse of prebendaries and assistant clergy. The coroner assumed that the personal friendship between the Bishop and the late Arnulph de Bonneville had led to this unprecedentedly grand delegation – and perhaps, also, it was an attempt to cover the sheriff’s embarrassment at having protected Gervaise and his squire at the court the previous day. Normally, a sanctuary-seeker would be lucky if a mere canon or vicar came to check that the secular authorities had not violated the ancient right of temporary shelter for fugitives. It was unheard of for a bishop in full regalia to intervene – but, then, it was not every day that the lord of a manor sought sanctuary for conspiring to murder his own elder brother.
The coroner, his men and the castle constable stood aside, Thomas de Peyne jerking like a marionette as he attempted to cross himself repeatedly and bow low at the same time. The canon’s vicar dipped the cross to get under the arch and led the episcopal convoy into the transeptal chamber. Here they contemplated the miserable figure crouched at the altar of the Holy Cross.
There was a heavy chair against the opposite wall and two junior clergy hastily dragged it across, placing it behind the Bishop. His throne was up in the chancel near the High Altar, but it would have taken ten men to shift it. Henry Marshall sat on this lesser seat and arranged his voluminous cope carefully around his legs.
The rest of the entourage formed a semi-circle behind him and John’s group came in to stand in the background. When the Bishop was settled, there was an expectant silence. His long chin turned towards the apprehensive figure crouched in the far corner. ‘Gervaise de Bonneville, come here,’ commanded the high-pitched voice of the prelate.
The figure slowly got to its feet, showing himself to the onlookers as a blond young man of average build. He was dressed in a crumpled dark green surcoat that reached to his knees over a lighter green tunic and trousers. The lower part of his legs, gartered above stout shoes, was splattered with mud from his flight last night through the filthy lanes. He stood, but made no move to go forward, keeping a firm grip on the edge of the altar.
‘I said come here – and kneel at my feet,’ snapped the Bishop.
De Bonneville’s mouth opened and closed a few times indecisively. Then he said, ‘I claim sanctuary, your grace, so I am afraid to leave this holy altar.’
Henry Marshall showed his impatience. ‘You stupid boy, you have no need to cling to that table as if it were a raft in the ocean. The whole cathedral – indeed the whole Close – is included in our ancient mercy of sanctuary. You can go out and stroll in it just as safely, so come away from there!’
Only partially reassured, Gervaise let go of the altar-cloth and slowly walked across the few yards of flagstone towards the Bishop’s chair. He sank to his knees and bowed his head.
The prelate restrained himself from holding out his hand for his ring to be kissed – he had a politician’s wariness of siding with losers.
‘It saddens me to see you in this state,’ he said sonorously. ‘I was a friend of your father for most of my life. To hear within such a short time of his death, then the death of his eldest son and now your mortal predicament is almost too much for me to bear.’
John thought that in spite of his words the Bishop seemed to be bearing up quite well.
Then the Archdeacon took up the interview. ‘De Bonneville, you say you seek sanctuary, so do you confess your sins?’
Gervaise shook his head vehemently. ‘Of course not, Father. I am innocent. I am the victim of circumstance and conspiracy. My squire, Baldwyn of Beer, may have been a villain, though I can hardly believe it. But it is a foul conspiracy to claim that I am involved. You already have a culprit proven by the Ordeal, this Alan Fitzhai.’
His voice almost cracked with emotion. Then there was a long silence. The Bishop chewed his lip. Should he continue his previous ardent championship of de Bonneville with the risk of it all falling about his ears? Or should he throw him to the wolves and wash his hands of the whole affair?
He decided to try a middle path, leaving his options open until the matter became clearer.
‘I am not concerned with the secular authorities – but whatever the eventual truth, I will defend to the death the inviolacy of sanctuary.’ He looked hard at the sheriff, the custodian of secular power in Exeter. Everyone present still had the spectre of Thomas Becket’s murder hanging over them and bishops were always happy to rub the noses of royal servants in the memory of that epic breach of sanctuary only twenty-four years before.