They reached the Bush without incident, other than suffering curious and sometimes hostile looks from passers-by when they saw the old hag shambling past — but the presence of the menacing figure of the coroner loping alongside her prevented anything more serious than muttered imprecations.
At the Bush, de Wolfe left Lucy in the yard while he went in to explain the emergency to Nesta, whose sympathetic nature made her instantly agree to shelter the old woman until, hopefully, the danger had died down. When the Welsh woman had had her own acute personal problems a few months before, the bearded crone had done her best to help her, and now here was a chance to pay her back.
‘She can stay in the brewing-house for now. I’ll get a palliasse from the loft and hide it behind a row of casks. I’ll tell the maids and old Edwin to be sure to keep their mouths shut about her.’
John walked back to the Close in a better state of mind, feeling that yet another crisis had been overcome — and hoping that there would be a respite before the next one. Somewhat to his surprise, as he was a solitary man, he found that he greatly missed the company of Thomas and Gwyn, who though they often irritated him with their bickering, had become such a part of his daily routine that he felt almost lonely without them.
The thought of some companionship, as opposed to the frosty atmosphere that would undoubtedly reign in his house for the rest of the day, persuaded him to visit his friend the archdeacon. Late afternoon was the quietest period for the cathedral clergy, after all the many services had ended, until the cycle started again at midnight.
He spent a calming hour drinking wine and talking over the problems, though no new solutions presented themselves.
‘Those two women will surely hang later this week, John,’ said de Alençon sadly. ‘I tried to talk some sense into Gilbert de Bosco yesterday — and I had an audience with the bishop this morning — but both showed no interest whatsoever in softening their attitude.’
‘Even the bishop is against them, then?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘He professes a neutral attitude, saying that it is entirely a matter for the consistory court — not mentioning the fact that it was he who set it up, with Gilbert as chancellor! He also mouthed the expected platitudes that the Church must be ever vigilant against heresy and sacrilege and would listen to no argument of mine that those sins were not remotely involved in the matter of these poor good-wives.’ He sipped his wine abstractedly. ‘This has become a political affair, my friend. The bishop sees himself attracting merit from Canterbury and even Rome by putting himself forward as a guardian of Christian doctrine — and the proud canon sees advancement for himself as a champion against the works of the Devil. Both have little concern for the actual substance of the matter, but they have a cynical self-interest in promoting their own careers. I suspect that the same goes for the sheriff, though his eyes are turned more to the Count of Mortain than towards archbishops.’
Reluctantly accepting that there was nothing more that either he or John de Alençon could do for the unfortunate Jolenta of Ide and Alice Ailward, the coroner took himself off to his chamber in the castle, rather than endure Matilda’s wrath and sulks until supper-time.
He strode up to Rougemont in the early evening sunshine, for the weather had improved and manor-reeves and freemen were crossing their fingers and touching wood that there might be a reasonable harvest after all, if the rain held off for a few weeks. As he walked across the drawbridge and under the gatehouse arch, a worried-looking sentry banged his pike on the ground and stepped forward to mutter under his breath. ‘Crowner, if I was you, I’d go straight across to the keep. There’s a bit of trouble going on over there!’
John’s head jerked up and when he looked across the inner ward, he saw a few saddled horses near the steps up to the high entrance of the keep. One he instantly recognised as the big brown mare belonging to Gwyn of Polruan and knew that his officer and clerk had now returned from Winchester. With a groan, he realised too that his hour of respite from the recent crises was over and that his bloody brother-in-law was undoubtedly intent on making more trouble for him.
He hurried across and soon heard raised voices, indicating that the problem was not up in the keep but in the undercroft, its semi-subterranean basement. Part of this was used as the gaol serving the county court and for remanding prisoners for the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery and the Eyre of Assize, when they paid their infrequent visits to Exeter. For offenders taken to the burgesses’ court, there was another foul prison in one of the towers of the South Gate — and of course, the cathedral proctors had their own cells, where the two helpless women were presently awaiting their fate.
De Wolfe clattered down the few steps and ducked under a low lintel into the gloomy cavern that was the undercroft, roofed by arched vaults of damp, slimy stone that supported the keep above. A barricade of rusty bars on the left marked off the half of the chamber that contained the prison cells. The rest was partly a store and partly a torture chamber where the repulsively fat gaoler, Stigand, extracted confessions and applied the painful and mutilating tests of the ordeal.
Today, however, the main function of the place seemed to be as a forum for a heated argument between a group of men standing in the centre of the soggy earthen floor. As John marched up to them, he saw Gwyn confronting the gaoler, with Ralph Morin, Sergeant Gabriel and two men-at-arms clustered around them. Thomas de Peyne, looking like an agitated sparrow, pattered around the group, flapping his arms and crossing himself repeatedly. When he saw de Wolfe approaching, he ran to him, his peaky face distraught with concern.
‘Master, do something! They want to put Gwyn behind bars!’
Ralph Morin swung round when he heard de Wolfe coming. ‘No, we don’t want to, John. It’s the last damned thing we want. But that bloody man upstairs has ordered it and I am in a difficult position, to say the least!’
‘I’m not going to force my best friend into the lock-up,’ wailed Gabriel. ‘I’ll leave the garrison and go back to being a shepherd first!’
‘But that’s the rub, dammit,’ snapped the castle constable. ‘You’re still one of his men-at-arms and if you refuse you can be hanged for disobeying orders. So what the hell are we going to do, John?’
Before de Wolfe could assemble his thoughts to reply, Gwyn suddenly gave a roar and shook off Stigand, who was trying to pull him towards the gate in the iron fence that led to the cells. ‘You touch me again, you slimy bastard and I’ll knock your bloody head off!’ He raised his massive fist to the man, who cowered back, his slug-like features twisted in fear.
Thomas began squeaking in terror, Gabriel was yelling at the gaoler and the two soldiers were looking uncertainly at Gwyn, mutttering to each other about what they ought to do. John found his voice, a deep bellow that brought momentary silence. ‘All right, all right! Let’s deal with this calmly, shall we? First of all, what exactly has happened?’
Gwyn, his normally amiable face creased in concern, lowered his threatening arm. ‘Thomas and I got back not more than a few minutes ago and as soon as I dismounted in the bailey, these two soldiers grabbed me and said that I was wanted down here. The god-damned sheriff came and said I was under arrest for stealing part of the Cadbury treasure, but walked out before I had a chance to get my wits back. Then the constable and the sergeant here appeared and we have been arguing until you came. I’m damned if I’m going to be locked up, it’s the bastard sheriff who should be jailed!’