After a moment’s cogitation, the fugitive decided to cooperate. ‘What do I have to do, then?’ he muttered.
‘First of all, we need a jury,’ replied John. He told Gwyn and Gabriel to go outside and call in all the men over twelve years of age from the crowd outside. More must have drifted to the church since John had arrived, as within a few moments a dozen men and boys sidled into the nave, driven by the two officers like sheep before a dog.
They were marshalled into a semicircle around the chancel step and the tall, brooding figure of de Wolfe gave them their orders. ‘You are here to witness the confession of this man, who has sought sanctuary and wishes to abjure the realm — so pay attention!’
He turned back to Aethelard, grabbed him by the shoulder of his soiled tunic and pushed him to his knees on the flagstones. ‘This is supposed to be done at the gate or stile of the churchyard, but as we don’t have one, this will have to do.’ He looked across at the priest. ‘We need the use of a holy book, Father.’
Only too pleased to help in getting rid of the unwelcome intruder, Fulk hurried across to his aumbry, a carved wooden chest against the north wall of the chancel, and took out a heavy book bound in leather-covered boards. ‘Here is my copy of the Vulgate. Be careful with it, I beg you.’
De Wolfe took the testament, laboriously handwritten on leaves of parchment, and handed it to Thomas, who, after crossing himself once again, held it out to Stephen.
‘Place your hand on that and repeat my words,’ commanded the coroner.
Haltingly, the outlaw muttered a confession to having broken into the dwelling of John de Witefeld in the vill of Dunstone on the eve of the Feast of St Michael and All Angels and stealing fifteen shillings. He stubbornly refused to confess to having assaulted his daughter Edith, but the coroner decided that a longer confession would make not the slightest difference to the process, so did not pursue the matter.
‘Now repeat the oath of abjuration after me,’ boomed de Wolfe and Stephen stumbled through the ritualistic words.
‘I do swear on this holy book that I will leave and abjure the realm of England and never return without the express permission of our lord King Richard or his heirs. I will hasten by the direct road to the port allotted to me and I will not leave the King’s highway under pain of arrest or execution. I will not stay at one place more than one night and I will diligently seek a passage across the sea as soon as I arrive, delaying only one tide if that is possible. If I cannot secure such passage, then I will go every day into the sea up to my knees, as a token of my desire to cross. And if I cannot secure a passage within forty days, then I will put myself again within a church. And if I fail in all this, then may peril be my lot.’
At the end of this, Thomas handed the vulgate back to the priest, who with obvious relief locked it back in his aumbry.
Now John had to issue instructions to the abjurer. ‘Tomorrow, you will leave this place, casting off your own clothing.’ Looking at the man, who had spent months in the forest and weeks in a filthy gaol, John felt that the loss of his rags would be a blessing. Legally, they should have been confiscated and sold for the benefit of the Crown, but it was doubtful that a beggar would have bothered to pick them from a midden. ‘You will wear a garment of sackcloth and walk bare headed, carrying a cross of sticks which you will make yourself. You will tell passers-by what you are and you will not stray by so much as a foot from the highway. I charge you to go to Topsham to seek a ship and you will be given sufficient coins to pay for a passage to France. If you ever set foot in England again, your life will be forfeit.’
Thomas thought that his master was being too magnanimous in nominating Topsham as the port of exit, as it was only a few miles down the river. He knew that many coroners acted perversely in sending their abjurers vast distances — some from the North Country had been sent all the way to Dover, for example. But John himself knew that it was irrelevant which harbour he nominated, as he had a shrewd suspicion that as soon as Aethelard was out of sight of the city, he would throw away his cross and vanish back into the trees to make his way back to his outlaw comrades, which probably happened to more abjurers than actually reached their ports. As Gwyn had suggested earlier, it would have saved all this trouble if the fellow had been allowed to run out through the city gates and vanish into the forest.
While Thomas fumbled pen, ink and parchment from his shoulder bag to record the event and get the names of the ad hoc jurors, Julian Fulk approached him. ‘So how soon can we get rid of this fellow?’ he asked peevishly.
‘As soon as you can find him a length of hessian and two sticks for him to make his robe and his cross. I’ll leave that to you, as you’re so keen to see the back of him.’
‘And who is going to give him his passage money to Cherbourg or St Malo?’ huffed the priest, suspicious that the burden might fall on him.
John winked, keeping a straight face. ‘I should forget about that. I’ll wager that Topsham will not see hide nor hair of him. But once he’s out of the city, our duty is done.’
CHAPTER FOUR
John de Wolfe managed to avoid a return visit to St Olave’s the next morning, although his wife pestered him to accompany her to the private obsequies over the body of Robert de Pridias. He claimed that his official presence at the Thursday hangings was inescapable, which was almost true — but he had to compromise by agreeing to attend the funeral service at the cathedral later that day.
He had risen at his usual early hour and made his way to his chamber high in the castle gatehouse. Here Gwyn assured him that Stephen Aethelard had been seen off from the church in his sackcloth at dawn, leaving on the road to Topsham as soon as the city gates were open. The fact that the abjurer had not even asked for his passage money confirmed John’s suspicions that the man would melt into the woods before he had gone a mile from the city, but that was of no concern to him. He had not yet told the sheriff of Stephen’s escape, keeping that until after his second breakfast, looking forward to it as a comforting item with which to irritate his brother-in-law.
It was the custom of the coroner’s team to gather each morning in their barren room, to arrange the day’s work and to have a little sustenance, especially as Gwyn seemed unable to survive for more than a few hours without refuelling his large body with food and drink. The usual fare was a fresh loaf of coarse rye bread and a hard chunk of cheese bought from a stall at the bottom of Castle Lane, washed down with either ale or rough cider from a gallon jar that the Cornishman kept in the office. Thomas usually nibbled at the food, but avoided the drink. In better days he had been used to wine, but now, in his near-destitution, he reluctantly had to make do with ale at his lodging in the Close, but baulked at the cruder liquid that Gwyn purchased from a nearby tavern, which to him was a cross between vitriol and horse piss, with shreds of what looked like rotted sea-weed swirling at the bottom.
‘Is that widow still pestering you to hold an inquest?’ asked Gwyn, between mouthfuls of bread.
‘No doubt she will this afternoon, unless I can keep clear of her,’ replied the coroner glumly. ‘Though I doubt I’ll manage that, with Matilda hovering over me, anxious to aid and abet her.’
Thomas’s beady eyes settled on his master’s face. ‘I have seen some strange things over the years, Crowner. I’d not dismiss witchcraft too readily,’ he said uneasily.
‘That goes for me, too,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘In Cornwall, there are many fey women — and some men, too! I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end.’
The coroner glared sourly at his acolytes. ‘What are you two trying to do — scare me into taking this death under my wing? We’ve all seen strange things, but I’m damned if I’m going to turn up at the next Eyre and present the King’s justices with a death by magic! I’d be the laughing-stock of the county.’