Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (16 page)

Behind him came half-a-dozen worthies and John recognised Godard of Antioch, the sheriff with whom he’d had dealings the previous week. Another taller man with a pointed brown beard wore a massive gold chain over a robe that had fur trimming, even in this warm weather. John assumed that this was Henry fitz Ailwyn, the first Mayor of the city of London. There were several other men who were unknown to him, as well as a couple of priests, one being Hubert’s personal chaplain and confessor.

Two clerks, complete with parchments and pens, sat at either side to record the proceedings. After some muted conversation and shuffling about, everyone sat themselves down, Hubert in the centre, the mayor on his right. The other chair was empty, but as the rest of the delegates arranged themselves on the benches, a new trio came marching up the main aisle and entered under the bar, lifted for them by the sergeant of the guard. These were William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, with his prior and another priest. The abbot took the vacant chair and John de Wolfe, at a sign from Hubert, perched himself on the end of one of the benches, near the door into the palace.

Gwyn and Thomas melted into the small crowd that was now gravitating to the bar and to the sides where the court was partitioned off between the first two pillars. John noticed that amongst the spectators were Renaud and his eye-catching wife, as well as Archdeacon Bernard and Ranulf of Abingdon.

The sergeant opened the proceedings by rapping the end of his pike on the platform and everyone stood while the chaplain gabbled a prayer in Latin. He made the sign of the cross in the air and everyone subsided again, as the Justiciar began speaking without any preamble.

‘The issues are clear and we need not detain ourselves overlong with them,’ he barked, marking his authority from the outset. ‘Almost two years ago, for a variety of reasons which need not concern us now, King Richard, on the advice of his Royal Council, appointed three knights in every county to keep the pleas of the crown. The system was promulgated at the Eyre held in Rochester in September of that year and has functioned well ever since.’

There was a scornful laugh from Henry fitz Ailwyn. ‘Functioned well enough for you to screw yet more money from the population!’

Hubert Walter looked with distaste at the man on his right.

‘It was a natural progression of the law reforms begun by King Henry,’ he said sharply. ‘The royal courts are gradually replacing the confusion we inherited from Saxon times and the coroner is a vital means of servicing them.’

‘The ecclesiastical courts are by no means in confusion, archbishop!’ objected William Postard from his other side. The abbot was a small man, who spoke and moved quickly and rather jerkily, reminding de Wolfe of a squirrel.

‘I was referring to the hotchpotch of secular courts, Lord Abbot,’ answered Walter in a conciliatory tone. ‘The manor courts, the hundred courts, the county courts, the forest courts – and we still have such primitive methods such as the ordeal, trial by battle and other pagan rites that have no place in a Christian realm!’

The abbot nodded, mollified by the archbishop’s exclusion of the canon law, still a sensitive subject since the murder of Thomas Becket a quarter of a century ago. ‘But what is the purpose of this meeting today?’ he asked.

‘A matter of jurisdiction – or division of labour, if you prefer,’ replied Hubert Walter. ‘I have to admit that the way in which the coronial system was set up, was somewhat sketchy.’

‘Damned right!’ muttered de Wolfe, but kept his voice inaudible, as the Justiciar continued.

‘Only one sentence, the twentieth Article of Eyre in Rochester, described the duties required by King Richard, which were to keep the pleas of the Crown. Unfortunately, these are open to various interpretations and we need to refine their meaning, especially in terms of jurisdiction.’

The mayor scowled up at the prelate. ‘Say what you mean, Justiciar. We’ve not got all day to sit here and bandy words!’

With an effort, Hubert contained his annoyance with the man’s rudeness. He looked on fitz Ailwyn as a rough tradesman, one who had made too much money too quickly and risen above his station in life, certainly from the point of view of diplomacy and social graces, in spite of being the leader of Europe’s richest city.

‘When the king accepted his Council’s recommendation to set up coroners, he was gracious enough to also accept your protestations from London, wishing to be exempted from the provisions of Article Twenty.’ He deliberately emphasised the royal element in the process.

‘We have our own way of going about things,’ growled the mayor. ‘For centuries, the city has been self-sufficient, we need no petty rules imposed upon us from outside.’

‘I trust you are not calling the king’s command a petty rule, Sir William?’ said Hubert in an icy tone. This was an effective brake on the mayor’s outspokenness – however much the city railed against outside interference, an outright rejection of royal writ could be construed as treason. Godard of Antioch sensed the rashness of the mayor’s manner and tried to tone it down.

‘Our sheriffs had always undertaken the keeping of the peace in the city,’ he observed. ‘We saw no need to have a system designed for the peasantry of the shires imposed upon us.’

Next to him, a swarthy man in a green tunic under a yellow surcoat joined the argument. ‘And as the city has always looked after the county of Middlesex, we desire to continue to do so.’ This was obviously Robert fitz Durand, the second city sheriff.

Abbot Postard jumped to his feet. ‘Except for the Liberty of Westminster, sir!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘The writ of the county of Middlesex does not run here, though we are embedded within its boundaries. My enclave bows its head to no one except the king – not even Canterbury!’

De Wolfe knew of the special situation of Edward the Confessor’s great church and the extensive lands that it owned, which bore allegiance only to the Holy Father in Rome.

Hubert Walter held up his hands in a gesture of conciliation.

‘Of course all of this is true, there is no dispute about it. But a recent case, one of murder no less, has shown that confusion and acrimony may arise when jurisdictions overlap. This has been accentuated by the king’s direct command that a coroner be appointed to deal with cases that arise within the verge of the court, wherever it may be.’

He went on to expound on the problems that could arise when an itinerant court moved through different jurisdictions. ‘This produces no clash of interest when well away from London, as I have made it clear to all county sheriffs that the Coroner of the Verge has total control of incidents within the twelve mile range.’

He looked to each side to see if either the mayor or the abbot were about to raise objections, but they seemed indifferent to the problems of the rural countryside.

‘The main problem lies here along the Thames,’ he continued. ‘Because all of London and most of Middlesex lie within the Verge when the court is here at Westminster, then theoretically, all deaths, fires, rapes and the rest of coroner’s business could be considered to be within the purview of Sir John de Wolfe here.’

He waved a hand at the coroner, who sat stolidly staring at his feet.

‘Then that’s patently damned ridiculous!’ rasped fitz Ailwyn. ‘There are thirty thousand souls in the city and a few thousand more in the surrounding county.’

Hubert raised a placatory hand. ‘I know, I know. We need to come to a compromise, to avoid the unpleasantness that I hear occurred last week. What seems obvious and eminently sensible, is to differentiate between types of victim and events, be they murders, accidents, rapes or serious assaults.’

‘What exactly do you mean, Justiciar?’ asked Godard suspiciously.

‘If the victim is connected with the court or the Palace of Westminster, be they a courtier or a cook, then they fall within the coroner’s ambit, irrespective of where the body lies. In the case of Westminster itself, then of course if the victim is closely connected with the abbey, be he priest or lay worker, then the Lord Abbot may deal with it, if he so wishes.’

Surprisingly, William Postard now seemed less keen to burden himself with extra duties.

‘I would have no desire to waste the time of my proctors upon some drunken stabbing in a local alehouse! As long as I retain the right to decide if I need to be involved, your coroner is welcome to pursue his duties within my manor of Ide.’ This was the name of the extensive lands that included and surrounded the town of Westminster.

The archbishop nodded sagely. This was at least one difficulty avoided, so he turned to the mayor – a more belligerent problem.

‘Have you or your sheriffs any objection to my proposal, which is to concede jurisdiction to you except where the victim is clearly connected with the royal palace?’

Henry fitz Ailwyn glowered around at the faces before him, unwilling to concede anything, but feeling isolated by the common sense of the proposal and the ready acceptance already offered by the abbot. Red-faced, he leaned forward towards his two sheriffs, who sat on the bench nearby and began a muttered debate with them.

After a couple of moments, the mayor turned back to Hubert Walter. ‘It depends on what is meant by being connected with the palace,’ he blustered. ‘Some wherryman who happened to have come from your pier, then falls into the river, is hardly a candidate for your Coroner of the Verge.’

This obviously puerile niggle caused a few covert smiles around the dais and someone down in the small crowd of onlookers gave a cackle of derision, but the insensitive fitz Ailwyn ploughed on. ‘Like the abbot, we would demand the right to decide in each case, not give some blanket approval that could be flouted whenever it suited Westminster.’

The argument carried on for several more minutes, but it was apparent that by continuing to object to what were very reasonable proposals, the mayor began to look foolish. Godard and Robert fitz Durand were obviously discomfited by their leader’s obdurateness and after more muttering, a grudging agreement was reached.

‘But only if we retain the power to decide, Justiciar!’ snapped the mayor as a parting shot, before the group broke up. The city delegates departed with ill grace, hurrying down the colonnade to find their attendants and horses, but William Postard accepted the archbishop’s invitation to join him for refreshments in his chambers. As John stood with everyone else when the Justiciar and abbot rose to leave through the rear door, Hubert Walter gave John’s arm a nudge. ‘That should have fixed the bastards,’ he whispered as he passed.

The short meeting had cut into the dinner hour and de Wolfe and Gwyn were keen to get back to the Long Ditch for their main meal of the day.

‘Let’s hope Osanna’s not got bloody eels or salmon again,’ growled Gwyn as they turned off Thieving Lane to reach their house. But as they neared it, they saw the fat housekeeper standing in the doorway, in a state of some agitation.

‘You’ve come at last, sirs!’ she gabbled. ‘There are three visitors awaiting you inside!’

John looked at his officer in surprise. ‘Visitors? Who the hell knows we are here?’ For a moment, he wondered if Hawise d’Ayncourt had decided to force her favours upon him, but the time of day and the fact that there were three callers made that unlikely. He pushed past Osanna and peered around the gloom of the main room, dark after the sunshine outside. A man was standing in front of him and he suddenly recognised Roger Watts, the master of one of his own merchant ships. Before he could speak, Watts stood aside and there behind him was a tall, shapely woman, smiling and holding out her hands.

‘Hilda! By God’s bones, it’s you!’ He lurched forward and indifferent to spectators, threw his long arms about her and hugged her to his chest. Then he seized her by the shoulders and leaned back, so that he could get a good look at her. ‘Hilda, you are a sight for my weary eyes and my lonely soul! But how came you here?’

The tall blonde took his hands in hers and beamed back at him, radiant in her happiness at seeing this dour, dark man again.

‘I came with Roger on the
St Radegund
,’ she said gaily. ‘Far better than wearying myself on a horse for a week!’

The
St Radegund
was one of the vessels that belonged to the wool-exporting partnership of Hilda, John and Hugh de Relaga, one of Exeter’s portreeves.

Roger Watts, a stocky, weather-beaten mariner, stepped forward and touched a finger to his forehead. ‘Mistress Hilda persuaded me to bring her, Sir John. I took a full cargo of your wool from Topsham to Bruges, then came back to London with finished cloth from the Flanders weavers. We must sail for Exeter the day after tomorrow, I’m afraid, for your partner has another load ready there bound for the Rhine.’

‘So we have a whole day tomorrow, John, for you to show me the sights!’ murmured Hilda, squeezing his hands with hers.

‘And two whole nights,’ thought John rapturously. Her English was heavy with the accent of South Devon, music to his ears.

Gwyn loomed behind him and as soon as Hilda released John, the Cornishman seized her in a bear hug. For almost twenty years, he had watched her grow from a lanky girl into the beautiful woman she was now and he loved her himself in his avuncular way. ‘It’s like a breath of fresh air to have you here in this miserable place!’ he boomed.

John was now aware of a smaller figure lurking behind Hilda. This was Alice, her little maid, a girl of about thirteen, one of the sailor’s orphans that Hilda cared for in Dawlish. She came forward now to bob her knee, shy in the presence of this forbidding man. She knew her mistress was enamoured of him and blushed when he took her hand and bade her welcome.