Desperately afraid that he had suffered a seizure, he tried to speak, but only gargling noises came. The congregation, standing below him, looked on curiously until the parish priest, aware that something was wrong, came across and led him back to a chair at the side of the chancel. Here Gilbert sat in dizzy terror until the incumbent had rapidly brought the service to an end and dismissed the intrigued congregation.
‘You had better sit there awhile and I will send down to the Close for the infirmarian,’ ordered the priest. A few minutes later, the monk who had been treating his boils arrived and, after prodding the canon, pumping his arms and legs, then pushing up his lids to stare into his eyes, he suggested that a litter be sent for to carry de Bosco back to his house. By now Gilbert was feeling better and though his speech was still affected by the drooping lip and numb tongue, he had only a tingling sensation in his left arm and leg, their mobility appearing to be almost normal.
‘I can make my way upon my own feet, thank you,’ he mumbled ungraciously and, leaning on the infirmarian and his own steward, who had also been sent for, he managed to stumble back to Canons’ Row.
For the rest of the day he lay on his bed, anxiety gnawing at him like a cancer, but as the hours went by, he seemed to recover almost completely, except for a slight floppiness of the left side of his mouth. The carbuncle progressed, however and the boils began to erupt like angry little volcanoes, oozing thick pus into the bandage around his neck. As he lay on his pallet late that evening, he could look out at the darkening sky through the window, unshuttered because of the heat. He dozed off and when he awoke a little later, he saw an egg-shaped moon, a little larger than the previous night, mocking him from above the cathedral towers.
On Monday morning the sheriff still had not returned from his manor at Revelstoke, which was on a lonely part of the coast a few miles east of Plymouth. John wondered whether Richard had decided that the game was up and had retired permanently to the country, leaving the shrievalty vacant, but on reflection rejected this attractive notion, as the wily sheriff was not one to abandon all his privileges and rewards without a fight.
John’s own functions had to carry on and he dispatched Gwyn to round up juries so that he could hold his inquests upon Henry de Hocforde and Bearded Lucy, as well as reopening those on Robert de Pridias, Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole. This should be a day to clear up a record number of cases, he thought with sombre satisfaction. By the ninth hour, all the jurymen and other witnesses were assembled in the barren chamber of the Shire Court, with John sitting on the low platform in the sheriff’s chair. Thomas was at a trestle table to one side, armed with quills, ink flasks and a pile of palimpsests, previously used parchments from which the old writing had been scraped off and the surface dressed with chalk. The coroner had no expense budget, having to find everything out of his own pocket, so his thrifty clerk rarely bought the much more expensive new parchment or even more costly vellum.
On the other side, Ralph Morin, John de Alençon and the castle chaplain sat along one of the benches. They had no official reason to be there, but the archdeacon felt that, given the circumstances, the cathedral chapter and the bishop should be represented, if only to show their concern. The castle constable was there in case there might be some further disturbance — and Brother Roger was just plain nosy. Gwyn lumbered around the people in the hall, like a sheepdog herding his flock, and Gabriel stood at the back with a couple of men-at-arms, keeping a wary eye out for any trouble.
Eventually Gwyn strode to stand on the dusty floor below the coroner and opened the proceedings with the formal calling summons, bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘All ye who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon touching the deaths of various persons, draw near and give your attention!’
De Wolfe’s first inquiry was into the death of Henry de Hocforde. His wife had died in childbirth many years before and his two adult sons stood at the back of the hall, apparently not in any deep state of mourning and anxious to get back to the mill, which was now theirs. The coroner avoided the issue of ‘presentment of Englishry’, as although it was patently obvious that de Hocforde was of Norman, not Saxon, blood, it would be impossible to levy a ‘murdrum fine’ on the whole of Exeter, as would have been done in a village.
The ‘First Finder’ was accepted as Avise Hamund, as although technically the first person to see Henry dead was Brother Saul, she was there at the moment of the fatal knife thrust. Of course, by definition, Cecilia was also there, as she held the knife, but de Wolfe thought it better to distance the culprit as much as possible.
The jury consisted of a dozen men and boys from the streets around Cecilia’s dwelling, where the death had occurred. John called the widow, her daughter and son-in-law, who all stuck firmly to their account of Henry’s angry descent on their household and his unprovoked assault upon the wife of Robert de Pridias, over the dispute about disposing of their mills. Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn of Polruan attested that the deceased man had made a dying declaration, but had not said anything that indicated that he had been attacked by Cecilia.
There being no further evidence, the jurors were marched out to one of the cart-sheds that leaned against the wall of the inner bailey, where they solemnly paraded past the body of Henry de Hocforde, which lay on the floor under a canvas sheet. Gwyn whipped this off and they were shown the fatal wound in his chest.
Back in the hall, John de Wolfe told the bemused twelve that death was undoubtedly due to a knife wound to the belly and that there was no evidence to contradict the story of the family witnesses that it was inflicted in self-defence. In tones that suggested that any argument would not be acceptable, he directed them to bring in a verdict of ‘justifiable homicide’, and after a few seconds of whispered discussion the man appointed foreman agreed and they left the court with signs of obvious relief.
The inquests on Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole were taken together and were equally brief. The jury included the First Finders and those who saw Hugh Furrel in the vicinity of Waterbeer Street and Fore Street around the times of the attacks, together with the same jurors who had been empanelled for the indeterminate first inquests. Once again, Gwyn and Thomas were called to verify the dying declaration of de Hocforde and to confirm that he admitted paying Hugh Furrel to murder them.
Both victims had been buried some time ago, but the same jurors had viewed the bodies at the earlier inquests, which satisfied the legal requirements. With no difficulty, the verdicts were returned as wilful murder by Henry de Hocforde and Hugh Furrel — and in due course the latter would be declared outlaw at the county court, except in the unlikely event of him showing up there.
Now trickier matters had to be settled. The first hitch was when the coroner enquired of his officer why Canon Gilbert de Bosco was not visible in court, as he had been requested to attend the inquest on Lucy. In answer, a young priest approached the dais and looked up nervously at John de Wolfe.
‘I am Peter de Bologne, vicar to Canon Gilbert de Bosco, sir. He has instructed me to tell you that he is not well enough to carry out your summons to attend this court — but also that, even if he had been in good health, he would have refused to come, as you have no jurisdiction over a member of the cathedral chapter.’
He stood back warily, as if afraid the messenger might be punished for bringing unwelcome news. John, with a face like thunder, pondered this for a moment. He did not know whether Gilbert’s impertinent claim was true or not, as he had never before needed to summon a senior cleric to an inquest. He turned to de Alençon, who sat near by. ‘John, what do you say to this?’