De Revelle began muttering some feeble excuse about a terrible error, but the Marshal overrode his words. ‘Not content with that, you attempted to silence the coroner’s promise to expose you by veiled threats to cause harm to a woman, who, not to put too fine a point on it, was his favoured mistress.’
‘Sir Richard strongly denies that!’ broke in de Sucote.
‘Let him speak for himself, his mouth has been active enough in other directions!’ rasped Sir Walter. ‘He may deny it all he wants, but what we heard in the court today convinces me that he set a trap for Sir John de Wolfe, paying his whore to get her sister to falsify evidence of witchcraft to that gullible canon.’
As the catalogue of de Revelle’s misdeeds was expanded, the sheriff seemed to sag in his chair, convinced now that all was lost and that he would end on the gallows, perhaps after being mutilated and disembowelled for the greater crime of treason. Walter de Ralegh’s finger went down a list on a parchment roll, stabbing a series of items that recorded actual and suspected misdemeanours on the part of Richard, the most serious being his involvement some months earlier in an abortive rebellion on behalf of Prince John, in which the de la Pomeroy family were once again embroiled. When his finger reached the bottom, Walter threw the list aside with a flourish and leaned forward threateningly towards de Revelle.
‘Do you call that honourable behaviour for a Norman knight, and a servant of your king, to whom you swore an oath of allegiance when you were elected sheriff, eh?’ He leaned back and looked across at the Marshal, as if handing over the baton to him.
William shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot tell what is to become of you, de Revelle. We know you claim to have influential friends, some right here in Exeter and perhaps some in Mortain. But I can assure you that you have none in Winchester or London.’
He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, his long face grave as he stared at the stricken Richard, much as a ferret immobilises a rabbit before pouncing.
‘We have discussed this matter with others in the council and have their full authority, especially that of Hubert Walter, to act as we see fit when we have heard all the evidence here in Exeter.’ He paused and looked at de Ralegh, who gravely nodded his assent. ‘What happens to you eventually will depend on further deliberations between the members of the Curia and ultimately what the King wishes to be done. In that, I have no doubt that your own sponsors, if they do not cast you aside, might have some say. That is none of our concern today, whether you ultimately live or die!’ His voice hardened even more. ‘But what is crystal clear and as certain as night follows day is that you are no longer fit to be sheriff of the county of Devon.’
He rose to his feet, a tall, spare man, with an aura of authority about him that had fortified him in the special role he had played in the history of England.
‘Richard de Revelle, from this moment forth you are no longer the King’s representative in this county. Henceforth, you will have no more authority or privileges than any other man in the city streets. The justiciar has given me the power to appoint Sir Henry de Furnellis as sheriff, until such time as the will of the King and his council is known as to a permanent successor.’
He sat down heavily, leaving a paralysed de Revelle sunk on his chair.
‘This is not the end of the matter, sirs,’ brayed Roscelin. ‘The Prince will soon hear of this.’
William Marshal flung an arm towards the inner door. ‘Just get out of here — and take him with you!’ His eyes dropped to meet those of the deposed sheriff. ‘And if you take my advice, you will collect your chattels from here and quickly get yourself to one of your manors and lay as low as you can, for as long as you can! Maybe then they’ll forget to hang you!’
As the room cleared in an atmosphere of suppressed embarrassment and excitement, John de Wolfe felt one major emotion — not elation at the final defeat of his long-term adversary, but anxiety about how he was going to report this to Matilda in a way that would cause her the least anguish.
John was not present at the last chapter of that Monday’s climactic story, but had to rely on his friend the archdeacon for an account of what went on in the bishop’s parlour at the palace. In the evening, when the oppressive heat seemed even more cloying than before, the three archdeacons who happened to be in the city, plus the more senior members of the cathedral chapter, were called to the palace to witness their prelate deliberate on the behaviour of their fellow-canon, Gilbert de Bosco.
The sun had set when the coroner called upon John de Alençon at his dwelling in the Close. The approaching dusk was made more gloomy by black clouds that had rolled in from the Channel and, as on many of the previous days, a grumble of thunder rolled in the distance every few minutes.
This evening they sat in the small garden behind the house. Although the usual outhouses and privy were farther down, de Alençon had had a small area fenced off with woven hurdles, where sparse grass grew and a couple of benches flanked a small table. It was an unusual elaboration for a yard, which was usually just a functional addition to a house, frequented only by servants, but the archdeacon had once lived in a priory where gardening was considered a virtue and solitude a blessing.
They sat at the table to drink wine and talk, giving the occasional glance up at the heavens to gauge whether they needed to run from a sudden thunder-shower.
‘This has been an eventful day, John,’ observed the priest. ‘We have lost one sheriff and gained another. You have cleared up several slayings in the city — and we now have another vacancy for a canon in the chapter.’
De Wolfe rubbed his stubble wearily. It had certainly been a stressful day. He had just left Matilda, who took the news of her brother’s disgrace stoically at first, then retired to her solar, where through the slit that joined it to the hall, he heard her sobbing as if her heart would break. She had slipped the bolt on the door, so he was unable to go in to try to comfort her in his stiff, awkward way and he decided it would be best to leave her alone, until she was ready to face the world again. He knew that her loss of prestige among her many friends, now that she was no longer the sister of the sheriff, would hurt her cruelly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
‘So what happened to the witch-hunter?’ he asked de Alençon.
The archdeacon turned his wine cup delicately with his long fingers, as he recalled the scene in the palace an hour or two earlier. Henry Marshal had entered his parlour, the large room where he held all his audiences, in a black cassock with a large silver cross on his breast and a round cap on his head. Gloved and beringed, he sat on an ornate chair placed on a dais at the end of the room. His chaplain, a young priest destined for rapid advancement in the Church owing to his high family connections, stood behind him ready to attend to his every wish.
Facing them in the room on hard benches were Thomas de Boterellis, the precentor, John FitzJohn, Archdeacon of Totnes, Anselm Crassus, Archdeacon of Barnstaple, John of Exeter, the cathedral treasurer, and archivist Jordan de Brent, as well as several of the older canons, including Roger de Limesi and William de Tawton. Two of the proctors and their servants stood at the back of the room, having already led in Gilbert de Bosco, who sat in the centre of the front row of benches.