The Tinner's Corpse Page 13

  After self-importantly calling the assembly to order and declaring the Shire Court to be in session, he gave an obsequious bow to the sheriff, who, still in a bad temper over the tinners, acknowledged him with a curt nod.

  ‘Sir, the first matter is that of declaring five men outlaw, unless they answer to their names today.’ He read out a list of names, coupled with the charges alleged against them – theft, serious assault and counterfeiting. He paused and looked expectantly around the dismal hall, to be met with silence.

  ‘Have their names been called at the last three sittings of this court?’ snapped the sheriff.

  This time little Thomas de Peyne rose from his place, a parchment in his hand.

  ‘Yes, this will be the fourth occasion, as recorded in the coroner’s roll.’

  Now John de Wolfe rose to his feet, standing hunched over the table like some lean black bird of prey. ‘Then I declare them outlawed and instruct that they be now recorded in my Rolls as exigent, unless there are any two men here who will stand surety for their appearance at the next Shire Court, in the sum of twenty marks each. If they fail to answer to that final call, those pledges are forfeit.’

  He looked briefly around the hall, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone, even relatives, would wager such a large sum on the faint chance that the errant culprits would show up next time. They were probably living rough either in the forests or on Dartmoor, unless they had taken ship to France or Wales.

  A resounding silence followed the invitation to stand surety, and de Wolfe motioned to Thomas to enrol the names, then sat down for the next part of the proceedings.

  The self-important court clerk rose again and consulted his documents. ‘Now Edmund of Wonford brings an appeal against William Thatcher, claiming the said William Thatcher did feloniously slay Alfred, the brother of the said Edmund.’

  There was a commotion in the body of the court as a rough-bearded man, with hair like a horse’s mane, pushed forward towards the anxious-looking fellow whom de Wolfe had noted earlier. ‘He’s a bloody liar and a trouble-maker!’ he yelled, as Edmund shrank back from him. Sergeant Gabriel motioned to one of his soldiers, who moved quickly across and shoved the aggressor back a few paces.

  ‘What’s this all about? demanded the sheriff, in a voice that conveyed long-suffering boredom.

  The lawyer with Edmund, a thin, sour-faced man in a long black tunic with a thick book under his arm to advertise his learning, moved up to the foot of the platform. ‘Sheriff, as you well know, I am Robert Courteman, an advocate of this city. I speak for this Edmund, who claims he and his family have suffered a grievous wrong, and also the loss of the income of the dead brother Alfred, who was a tanner. He wishes to appeal William Thatcher, demanding either recompense of forty marks or a challenge by combat.’

  De Wolfe looked down at the timid Edmund, a small man of about forty, and then at William, who was built along the same lines as Gwyn of Polruan. ‘Trial by combat? Are you serious?’ he grated.

  The lawyer hurried to clarify the situation. ‘He would not, of course, take up the challenge himself, being in poor health, but he would employ a champion for the purpose.’

  De Wolfe snorted his disgust at such a solution. He had long thought that this method of settling disputes was ridiculous and was glad to hear rumours that the Church in Rome was considering banning it in the near future. It might not be so ridiculous if two men who had a serious issue to settle fought it out personally, but for one or even both to hire a proxy to fight for them made a nonsense of the whole system. He glowered down at Edmund and his lawyer. ‘Why was this matter not heard in the proper court? And what of a coroner’s inquest? I have no recollection of the case.’

  The lawyer, who seemed somewhat bored with the whole matter, explained languidly, ‘The death was a year ago, sir, before the office of coroner was instituted. The case was heard in the manor court at Wonford, but the steward dismissed our claim.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘He said there was a lack of evidence as to how my client’s brother came to his death. But we are sure he was slain by Wiiliam Thatcher in a drunken brawl.’

  John pondered for a moment. The system of courts was complex and he had a sneaking sympathy for folk such as these for whom the legal process seemed more a hindrance than a help.

  ‘Have you eyewitnesses or other good evidence, in spite of this being the cause for failure in the manor court?’ he asked, with a brusqueness that concealed his willingness to be helpful.

  ‘We think we have, Crowner,’ replied the lawyer ponderously, the deep grooves at each side of his mouth suggesting that he suffered from permanent belly-ache. ‘But no doubt the first failure will dog us hereafter, if we pursue it through the courts. That is why we wish to settle the matter by combat.’

  The sheriff listened to this dialogue impatiently. ‘If that’s what they desire, let them proceed,’ he snapped. His court would get the fee for enrolling the battle and he wanted to prevent de Wolfe touting for business for the Justices in Eyre, which were the King’s courts.

  But the coroner aimed to do just that, not for any partisan need to bolster the royal Treasury but to avoid the futility of two strangers trying to kill each other in the name of justice. ‘If you think you have good evidence and can call witnesses, then the King’s judges will give you a fair hearing. They are due in Devon within the next month or so.’

  The lawyer turned to whisper to Edmund. After some agitated conversation, he turned back to de Wolfe. ‘Perhaps we may talk to you later of the procedure in this matter, Crowner. Meanwhile, my client has decided to abandon this appeal for the moment.’

  The alleged perpetrator, William Thatcher, gave a loud cackle of derision and let out a few choice oaths, for which he received a buffet from Gabriel, which he took with good humour. As Edmund slunk sheepishly out of the hall with his lawyer, some of the crowd also melted away, denied any drama over the granting of a trial by combat.

  Richard de Revelle stared at the two men in fetters, still standing directly below him. ‘Are these the approvers?’ he demanded.

  The clerk climbed to his feet again. ‘They are, Sir Richard. James Peel and Robert Brieux are desirous of giving evidence against their fellow-criminals.’

  Approvers were accused persons either awaiting trial or already convicted, who attempted to save their necks by giving evidence against fellow-conspirators in the same crimes. There was a laborious procedure for achieving this, part of which consisted of the coroner taking their confessions and details of others whom they claimed had also been involved in the crime.

  For the next half-hour, de Wolfe questioned them at length, while Thomas wrote it all down in his rolls for presentation to the Justices in Eyre, when they arrived in Exeter. This had been promised since last year and still the judges had not come. It made a mockery of the system, as the backlog of cases now made it almost impossible to manage the number of prisoners held while awaiting trial. The burden on the constables and city burgesses, who had to pay for the guarding and lodging of the prisoners, was such that many were allowed to escape and become outlaws, to the detriment of the peace and safety of the highways and countryside.

  Eventually, all the business of the court was done and the shackled prisoners were marched back to the cramped, filthy prison cells beneath the castle keep. As the court dispersed, the Sheriff and de Wolfe had some rather stilted conversation, in which de Revelle returned to his complaint about his treatment at the Great Court on Crockern Tor. Once more he blamed Walter Knapman for the affront he had suffered, leaving John to reflect that perhaps his brother-in-law was not as thick-skinned as he had supposed. When the sheriff finally stalked off, still smarting at the memory of the insult, John collected Gwyn and his morose little clerk and walked back towards their office in the gatehouse.

  At the guardroom, inside the arch of the castle entrance, Gwyn decided they needed bread, cheese and ale to stave off the pangs of hunger and went down to the
stalls on the hill to replenish their provisions. As Thomas climbed the stone stairway to the second floor, he timidly asked his master for a moment’s hearing on a personal matter.

  When they reached the dismal chamber above, de Wolfe slumped on to the bench behind the rough table and motioned his clerk to a nearby stool. ‘I think I know what’s on your mind, Thomas, but tell me anyway.’

  The little man perched nervously on the seat, pulling his threadbare black mantle closer around his narrow shoulders. ‘I have suffered more than two years of torment, Crowner, since they threw me from the bosom of the Church in Winchester. I have often wished to die since then, to get peace from both my poverty and my shame.’

  De Wolfe regarded him steadily, wondering how such a poor bodily frame could house so clever a mind – and one that had such a genuine love for his calling. ‘You have recovered well enough, Thomas,’ he chided, as gently as his normally abrasive nature would allow. ‘From near-starvation, according to your uncle the Archdeacon, you now at least have a roof over your head and a bed in the cathedral Close. I give you pennies enough for you to eat, do I not?’

  The clerk almost fell off his stool in his eagerness to show his gratitude. ‘Sir, you and my uncle have been kindness itself. Without you, I surely would have died. Yet sometimes I wish that I had been allowed to slip away, for my ejection from the Church, which has been my life since I was seven years old when I first went to school, has been unbearable.’ His dark eyes filled with tears. ‘Especially as the charge brought against me was false. That girl, she teased me and led me on. I did nothing but give her a kiss – and then she screams, “Rape!” I am in despair, Crowner!’

  De Wolfe fidgeted in embarrassment. Fearless in battle, indomitable in a fight, he was hopeless when faced with raw emotion, especially from another man. He cleared his throat loudly, and his hands scrabbled aimlessly at some parchments lying on the table. ‘This state of affairs has been with you a long time, Thomas. What now has changed?’

  ‘I have changed, sir. You are right, the needs of my flesh, food, drink and sleep, are provided for well enough, for I require little. But food for my soul is a different matter. I am starving without my beloved Church.’

  He gulped and passed fingers across his face to wipe away the moisture from his eyes. ‘Living in the Close makes it worse. I thought the company of priests and acolytes, with the fabric of the sacred building so near, might make up for some of my loss. But all it does is emphasise it. I am a sham, living within an enclave of God yet no more a true part of it than the mice who share my abode.’

  De Wolfe looked down at his servant with mixed feelings. He had never had a son, and God forbid he would ever have one like Thomas, a scrawny elf with a lame leg, a slight squint and a crooked back. But the teasing fingers of paternal instinct touched him as this young man, who was totally dependent on him, sought his help as the only one who could raise him from his despair.

  ‘What would you have me do, Thomas?’

  ‘Speak to my uncle, John of Alençon. Ask him if there is any way in which I might seek redemption and, eventually, reinstatement in Holy Orders.’

  De Wolfe looked doubtful. ‘The decision in Winchester was very definite, from what the Archdeacon once told me. It seems you were lucky not to be hanged. Only your cloth saved you.’

  ‘But the evidence was false! They relied upon the word of that evil girl, who denounced me merely for sport,’ sobbed Thomas, in anguish. ‘For the sake of some moments of excitement to spice up her dull life, I am condemned to ruination until I die. Please speak to my uncle, Crowner, I beseech you.’

  De Wolfe grunted his assent, as much to end his clerk’s unwelcome exhibition of emotion as desire to help him. ‘I will bring the matter up with the Archdeacon but I place little hope on the outcome, Thomas. Without fresh evidence to clear your name, I fail to see why the Church should wish to reopen the issue. But I will speak to your uncle.’

  And there the matter had to lie for the moment. Thomas was effusive in his thanks, and one small bonus for de Wolfe was that his clerk’s face became less doleful than before, even if there was little prospect of a favourable outcome.

  At a dinner table some sixteen miles to the west, one stool remained empty, to the puzzlement and concern of the household. It was mid-afternoon, several hours past the usual time for the main meal of the day in the Knapman residence, but Walter had not returned.

  ‘Where did he go this morning?’ asked his brother Matthew, who had just arrived. He came about once a month to confer with Walter about the disposal of tin, arranging transport to Exeter and reporting on sales both at home and abroad.

  Joan Knapman answered, annoyance at the lateness of their meal adding a sharper cadence to her voice. ‘He set off early, saying that he was riding to his mill near Dunsford, but would be home in time for his dinner,’ she said, with more than a touch of petulance.

  ‘It’s not like Walter to be this late for his food. He’s an able trencherman,’ added her mother, looking expectantly at the door to the yard, where the kitchen-shed lay.

  Matthew reached across the table to top up the wine cups of the two ladies, then filled his own. ‘That’s strange. If he went to Dunsford. I came that way little more than an hour ago, but saw no sign of Walter. Are you sure it was Dunsford?’

  ‘Of course it was,’ replied Joan irritably. ‘How many corn-mills do you think he owns? He’s a tin-master, not a miller. I can’t see why he bothered to buy it last autumn, only it was going cheap when the miller died.’

  ‘I want my dinner,’ whined the old lady. ‘Are we going to wait for ever for Walter? Matthew has ridden for almost three hours and he needs some food.’

  Matthew was certainly hungry, and even this good wine was no substitute for a full stomach. He was so unlike Walter in appearance that they would hardly have been taken for brothers, let alone twins. Matthew was two hands’ breadths shorter and had sparse gingery hair in place of Walter’s springy fair thatch. His face was fatter and there were unhealthy-looking brownish patches on his otherwise pink skin, which bore the scars of old acne scattered across it. He dressed expensively, but not well, with a clash of colours between his bright red tunic and blue surcoat. His manner displayed a shifty type of bonhomie, superficially amiable and courteous but leaving the impression that he would be gossiping about someone the moment his back was turned.

  Joan heartily disliked him, though she was beginning to dislike everything to do with the Knapman clan, apart from their money. She signalled to their steward, who lurked anxiously in the background. ‘We will eat, Alfred. God alone knows when the master will come.’

  He hurried out, and within minutes returned with one of the maids, bearing trenchers of bread, bowls of onion broth and a fat roast goose.

  As they ate, Joan wondered how soon she might risk getting away to meet Stephen Acland. Unfaithfulness was always difficult to pursue in a small community like Chagford. Her mother knew what was going on, and was terrified that her daughter’s marriage to the rich tinner might be in danger, if Walter discovered that he was being cuckolded. However, she covered for Joan when she needed excuses to go out and claimed to chaperone her on walks around the town and into the surrounding countryside, as well as on some fictitious visits to the church.

  Joan remained abstracted during the meal and her garrulous mother kept a conversation going with Matthew, who as time went on began to express his increasing concern at Walter’s absence. ‘There’s much business to discuss, especially as the next coinage session is due here within a few days. That means a great deal more tin being ready for shipment down to Exeter – and I need to know how much and its likely quality for pricing.’ He was careful not to add that he needed the same information to calculate how much extra he could skim off the top of the commission he earned for arranging its sale and export.

  By the time they had eaten their fill, there was still no sign of Walter and Matthew suggested sending a groom to the mill to see what had befall
en him. Alfred, the steward, dispatched a stableman on a good horse, with orders to follow the track through Moretonhampstead, the next large village, and on through Doccombe towards Dunsford. The mill was at Steps Ford, on the Teign, about six miles from home, less than an hour on a good horse.

  Some three hours later the man was back, leading another stallion on a long rein behind him as he clattered into the yard. He ran breathlessly to find the steward and gabbled out his ominous story on the back steps of the house. ‘I was within half a mile of the mill when I met the master’s horse wandering home, riderless. I went down to the mill, looking in the road to see if he had fallen somewhere, but there was nothing.’

  ‘Had the miller seen the master?’ demanded the steward, poised to take the news indoors.

  ‘Yes, he had been there and done his business long before, then left as usual, well before noon. We called out the men from the mill and searched each side of the track and into the woods a fair way, from the mill to where I saw the stallion, but there was nothing. I left them widening the search – but he’s gone! Vanished!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Nesta makes a declaration

  While Chagford was thrown into consternation by the disappearance of one of its most prominent townsmen, the King’s coroner was carrying out his promise to his clerk. In the endless round of devotions that were the life-blood of cathedrals, the quietest period was in the late afternoon when the service of Compline, the last of the canonical hours, had ended, and there were a few hours for eating and sleeping before Matins at midnight. These Offices meant little to de Wolfe, but he chose a time when his friend John of Alençon would most likely be free.

  There were four archdeacons for the different areas of the diocese and John of Alençon was responsible for Exeter itself, as Bishop Henry Marshal’s senior assistant for the city. Like most of the twenty-four canons, he lived in the cathedral precinct and had the second house in Canons’ Row, the road that formed the northern boundary of the Close, a continuation of Martin’s Lane.