For a jury, Gwyn had collected almost thirty men, as although the minimum was accepted as a dozen there was no maximum. In fact, the law stated that in the countryside, every man — which meant all over twelve years of age — from the four nearest villages should be empanelled. This was physically impractical, and in towns and cities impossible. The men Gwyn had rounded up were from among those who had been at the Bush when it was besieged and burnt. Some were mere spectators, others helpful fire-fighters, but some of the instigators and rioters were also reluctantly present. One of them was the man with the torch whom John had felled with the flat of his sword, who appeared with a grubby bandage still around his head.
One of the last to arrive was Gilbert de Bosco, on his own two feet, rather than a hurdle. He looked awful with a red, swollen face, dotted pustules around his jaw and a wide bandage swathed around his neck. His stroke seemed to have subsided, although there was a slight droop to one side of his lower lip. He was helped into court by his vicar and steward, who found a stool for him at one side of the hall below the dais.
On this low platform were already assembled a few chairs, some benches and stools, with a trestle table where Thomas de Peyne was already settled with his writing materials. The ubiquitous Brother Rufus was lurking at the back along with a few clerks from the castle and the cathedral, none having any business there apart from their own curiosity.
Then the official party arrived, the men-at-arms thrusting the crowd back with their staves, to leave a path for the coroner, who led the King’s Marshal and Walter de Ralegh to their chairs. Behind them came Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, the city’s two portreeves and in the rear the tall figure of Ralph Morin, guardian of Rougemont.
As agreed, de Wolfe took the central chair, flanked by the two visitors from Winchester, the others finding stools and benches on either side.
‘Where’s Richard de Revelle?’ demanded Walter de Ralegh, glaring around the spartan hall. As if his words had conjured him up, the sheriff appeared at the door, dressed in his finest outfit of green linen, gold embroidery at the neck, hem and wrists, with a blue silken cloak draped over his shoulders, secured across the breast with a gold chain. At his heels was Roscelin de Sucote, wearing a plain but elegant black tunic with a gold cross on his breast.
De Revelle stalked in and, without looking to right or left, made to step up on to the dais, until a barked command from William Marshal stopped him in his tracks. ‘You are a witness in this matter, sir. Your place is down there!’ William pointed to the double line of jurors and witnesses who stood shuffling between the line of soldiers and the front of the platform.
Richard coloured instantly and protested. ‘I am the sheriff of this county, sir! This is my court and indeed that is my chair you are occupying!’
William Marshal was not one to be contradicted. ‘A court is not a building, it is a legal device which is constituted according to its function. Today, you are in the same position as any other of the King’s subjects.’ He relented a little, for the sake of Norman solidarity. ‘However, you may have a stool to take your ease, if you so wish.’
De Revelle’s fury increased and he turned to glare at Roscelin, who stepped forward towards the platform. ‘I must protest, sir! Sir Richard is the King’s representative in this county and it is intolerable that he should be treated in such a way.’
‘The King’s representative, as you put it, appears to have been embroiled in instigating a riot that ended in arson and a death. So be quiet, or I will have you put out!’
So much for being asked to conduct the proceedings, thought de Wolfe wryly — so far he had not had a chance to say a word.
Now the slighted lawyer was as angry as the man he was there to protect. ‘You cannot speak to me like that! I am Roscelin de Sucote, a priest and an advocate, chamberlain to Prince John, Count of Mortain and the King’s brother!’ he shouted.
‘And I am William, the King’s Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Striguil. Now be quiet, d’you hear?’
It was not strictly accurate for him to call himself Earl of Pembroke, but no one was likely to object. It was true that the King had given him the hand of Isabel de Clare, daughter of ‘Strongbow’, Earl of Pembroke, but as the lands were to be kept in royal hands for another ten years, William was not yet entitled to the earldom. Still, everyone knew him by this name and a Devon inquest was not the place to dispute it.
Glowering, the two men subsided and stood trying to strike a defiant pose while Gwyn yelled out his opening lines.
John rose to his feet and declared that he was enquiring into the death by fire of one Lucy, a dweller on Exe Island. ‘And as coroners are obliged also to enquire into fires in a town or city, whether or not there is a death, that is also an issue,’ he added. Glaring around the packed court, he carried on in his deep, uncompromising voice. ‘As to a First Finder, it cannot apply to the fire itself, as this conflagration began before the eyes of half a hundred people. As to the death, then I call Adam Kempe, a carpenter of St Catherine’s Gate.’
The craftsman came to the front of the court, as the coroner’s officer humped the sack of bones to dump on the earth at his feet. Then Gwyn rooted inside the bag and pulled out the scorched skull and a couple of bones, which he held out to Adam. The man studied them and nodded. ‘Yes, Crowner, these were the remains which I recovered from the ashes of the Bush.’
As Gwyn paraded along the row of jurymen, displaying the grisly relics almost as if he were offering them for sale, de Wolfe continued. ‘It is well known, and witnessed by a hundred pairs of eyes, including my own, that the woman known as Bearded Lucy was in the tavern during the fire. No one else is missing and therefore I am satisfied that these remains belong to her.’
Once again he ignored the issue of Englishry and proceeded to the cause of the fire. ‘The conflagration was started deliberately and maliciously by rioters in the streets, some of whom flagrantly carried burning torches. I personally felled one of those miscreants!’ He scanned the hall with piercing eyes and then jabbed a finger at someone trying to look inconspicuous as he edged towards the entrance archway. ‘Hold that man!’ he bellowed, and Gabriel and two soldiers forced their way towards him and dragged him before the coroner. ‘You were that man, damn you!’ he shouted at the fellow, whose dirty bandage wrapped around his head was now like a badge of shame. ‘You were not the only evil-doer that day, but you will do! I commit you in custody to the next session of Gaol Delivery. Sergeant, get this wretch to the cells, my clerk can record his details later.’
As the man was dragged away, hollering with fright, as he would surely be hanged in due course, de Wolfe called for his next witness. ‘Where is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard?’
There was a scuffle towards the back of the hall and several people prodded the skinny woman with the wry neck, who at first refused to move, until another man-at-arms went and pulled her by the wrists to the front. She stood shivering before the coroner, her eyes swivelled up to regard him fearfully. Her husband, a burly man with a pugnacious expression, pushed through the crowd to stand behind her.
John glowered down at her, aware that this was the creature who had tried to add Nesta to the list of women who went to the gallows. ‘Heloise Giffard, did you visit Nesta the landlady of the Bush Inn several weeks ago, on the pretext of seeking a cure for the affliction of your neck?’
‘It was not a pretext, sir. I wanted a cure. And I had warts on my hands.’