Crowner's Quest (30 page)

There was a pause, then her voice came, low but steadier than before. ‘I shall be at the the Shire Hall to support my husband.’

With a sigh, de Revelle turned away, wishing for a world made up only of men. Then his other troubles avalanched back into his mind and he wished himself anywhere but Devon, preferably Africa or Cathay.

The intermittent rain had turned to sleet as the wind went round to the east, but the cold and wet did not dissuade scores of people crowding into the Shire Hall before the tenth hour that morning. The large bare room, with its muddy floor, was crammed with spectators and many more pushed and shoved at the archway that was the only entrance. The low platform at one end was the only free space, with its couple of chairs, some benches and stools for the officials.

As the distant cathedral bell marked the hour, two small processions met outside the keep and merged to march the few yards to the courtroom. One came up from the undercroft, with Sergeant Gabriel leading John de Wolfe, followed by two men-at-arms. It tagged behind the other coming down the steps from the keep. Constable Ralph Morin walked before Richard de Revelle, then came Precentor Thomas de Boterellis and the two Portreeves, Henry Rifford – whose daughter had been raped a month ago – and Hugh de Relaga. At the end walked Matilda and Lucille, both heavily cloaked against the bitter weather.

Gabriel’s battleworn face was grim as he escorted a respected friend to what might be a fatal verdict. Though of a much lower station in life, he had been a soldier like de Wolfe, and had shared common experiences both in the Holy Land and nearer home. The old warrior did not believe that Sir John was guilty of anything and strongly suspected some plot of the sheriff, whom he detested. Thankfully, he had not been ordered to shackle the coroner to take him to the Shire Hall, as was the usual practice. He would have refused, even if it meant the most drastic punishment.

As it happened, Ralph Morin had bluntly told the sheriff beforehand that he was not prepared to put de Wolfe in chains and, with his weakening resolve about the whole conspiracy, de Revelle had not pressed the point.

When the procession reached the wide arch of the hall, the chatter of the crowd ceased and a path opened up as the onlookers drew back. The silence was unnatural, as prisoners were usually subjected to jeers and cat-calls, even missiles, and the respectful hush was far more impressive than cheers or shouts of encouragement. As the escort walked into the hall, a few hands went tentatively out from the throng to touch de Wolfe gently as he passed.

Pale-faced, the sheriff led the way on to the dais and stood in the centre, while other dignitaries, clerks and men-at-arms ranged themselves on either side. There was a moment’s confusion as de Revelle invited his sister to the platform, but she shook her head angrily and went to stand with her maid in the front row of the crowd, behind her husband, who was led by Gabriel and another soldier to a point directly below the sheriff.

The crowd packed in even tighter, those around the doorway shoving to get out of the icy rain and to be within earshot. John stood outwardly calm, his black hair dishevelled and bits of straw sticking to his crumpled grey over-tunic, as those on the platform shuffled and muttered among themselves, the two clerks to the court waving parchments at each other. Ralph Morin stood behind the sheriff, a head taller and with a face like thunder. On the opposite side of the hall to the door, Jocelin de Braose, Giles Fulford, Rosamunde of Rye and a furtive man, who was presumably the apothecary, stood uneasily within a ring of Morin’s soldiers, as if they were to be protected against the wrath of the crowd. Not far away, standing with Thomas de Peyne, Edwin and one of the maids from the inn, was Nesta, her face drawn and tearful.

After a few moments, the sheriff sat down on his central chair while the Portreeves and the Precentor subsided on to benches on each side. Then a thin figure in a flowing black robe pushed his way through the crowd at the door. The Archdeacon stepped up, uninvited, to the dais and sat down alongside Hugh de Relaga, his expression suggesting that he would tolerate no challenge to his right to be present.

Richard de Revelle raised a hand to his chief clerk to begin the proceedings. The sheriff was dressed more soberly than usual, as if he wanted to avoid drawing any more attention to himself than necessary. He looked very ill-at-ease and he studiously avoided eye-contact with his sister or her husband as they stood below him. The clerk cleared his throat and held up a parchment roll to read the indictment.

‘Whereas this woman, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, commonly known as Rosamunde of Rye, currently domiciled in the city of Exeter in the county of Devon, has brought her Appeal in the proper form to the Sheriff Court of the said County of Devon. The said Rosamunde alleges that she is aggrieved by the felony of ravishment, committed against the common law by one John de Wolfe, knight of the said county, within his dwelling in Martin’s Lane on the third day of January in the Year of our Lord eleven ninety-five. And that the said Rosamunde prays and appeals for justice for the said hurt against John de Wolfe, in the due manner prescribed by law.’

He stood back and rolled up his document, looking across at the sheriff for the next stage of the proceedings. With increasing reluctance, now that the awful consequences of his ambition were almost upon him, de Revelle rose to his feet and was about to open his mouth, when a familiar deep voice boomed from below him.

‘Before we even start this nonsensical charade, let it be known that these proceedings are invalid and above the law! The alleged crime of rape is now one against the King’s peace and is a Plea of the Crown, to be tried by the King’s Justices. All that could be done here is to record the so-called evidence and present it to them at the next visit of the Eyre of Assize.’ Having delivered his first broadside, de Wolfe fell silent but continued to scourge those on the platform with his deep-set eyes.

The two clerks clucked and shrugged, and looked again at the sheriff for enlightenment. He grasped at this legislative conundrum as a temporary diversion from the looming responsibility of condemning his sister’s husband to the gallows. He hauled himself to his feet to speak. ‘This court still has jurisdiction! Though there is now an alternative through the royal courts, this woman has chosen the ancient and traditional path of Appeal and she has every right to pursue it. Continue with the trial, clerk!’ He sat down again heavily, with his hand nervously plucking at his beard.

No one asked the prisoner whether he pleaded guilty or not and the clerk motioned for the soldiers to bring over the Appealer and the main witnesses, who stood in a line alongside de Wolfe, but with a man-at-arms between them and him in case a free fight developed.

The older clerk, a grey-headed man with a large red nose studded with old abscess scars, took up another parchment. ‘Do you, Rosamunde, daughter of Ranulph, bring your Appeal against this prisoner?’

The woman threw back her hood so that her eye, now blacker than ever, was clearly visible. ‘I do, sir! He ill used me by both assault and ravishment.’ Her voice was strong and bold, but instantly it was matched by another, harsh and just as loud.

‘You lying whore! Repeat that with your hand on the Scriptures and earn everlasting damnation!’

It was no priest speaking but Matilda de Wolfe. There was a buzz of consternation in the hall and the sheriff blanched even further. How could he accuse his own sister of contempt of court or have her ejected? His mouth opened and closed, but as she said no more he decided to ignore the interruption and carry on.

The witnesses were called one by one and lied solemnly and persuasively, apart from the leech, who was a bag of nerves. Neither de Wolfe nor his wife made any disturbance as the fabricated story unfolded. Rosamunde claimed that the previous evening, she had been going about her lawful occasions in the city, returning from devotions in the cathedral to the high street. If necessary, she declared, she could even call a priest as witness to prove that she had been kneeling at the altar of St Edmund at about the ninth hour. In the cathedral Close, she had heard footsteps behind her and, when passing through the narrow Martin’s Lane, a man called out to her. Knowing him for Sir John de Wolfe, the county coroner, she had no apprehension, even when he urgently asked her to step into his house nearby, on a matter of great importance to do with her friend, Giles Fulford. Worried and unsuspecting, she did so and as soon as they were inside, he fell upon her, kissing and groping at her bodice. She resisted fiercely and tried to scream, but he struck her in the face several times and forced her to the floor, tearing her upper clothing and scratching her neck.

Rosamunde sobbed dramatically before the court as she went on to describe how he had abused her bosom and then lifted her kirtle to ravish her forcibly against her will. She had kept up her screaming as best she could and was saved from further rapine and possibly death by her friends hearing her cries for help and bursting into the house.

Then Giles Fulford, who described himself as Rosamunde’s ‘protector’, and his master Jocelin de Braose, gave a melodramatic account of how they had arranged to meet the woman at the corner of High Street and Martin’s Lane, but she had failed to appear at the appointed hour marked by the bells. Then they heard violent screams from a nearby dwelling and entered to find de Wolfe in the act of ravishing the girl. Finally, the weedy, shifty-eyed apothecary falteringly described how the other witnesses had brought Rosamunde to his apothecary’s shop in Curre Street
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for her bruises and scratches to be bathed and anointed. He catalogued these and said also that, as they demanded, he examined her nether regions and confirmed rough usage and bleeding. He even produced a crumpled piece of cloth with small bloodstains, which he said he had used to clean her thighs, as the law on rape required physical evidence of venereal injury. There was a murmuring in the Shire Hall when the evidence was finished, some impressed with this lucid tale of lust, the majority regarding it as a transparent fabrication.

The sheriff, who had been chewing the inside of his lip to shreds during this recital, dared to drop his eyes to meet the brooding gaze of John de Wolfe. ‘You have the right of reply to this charge,’ he croaked.

The coroner drew a deep breath, ready to blast his brother-in-law from the platform with an overwhelming denunciation of his witnesses and his loyalty. Even though it might not be believed at first, it would sow the seeds of doubt about the sheriff’s integrity and help to delay matters until Gwyn could mobilise support for the Lionheart from the county. He refused even to countenance the possibility of being summarily convicted and hanged. But he was about to receive one of the greatest surprises of his life, as the nervous de Revelle repeated his question. ‘What do you say to this serious charge?’

‘He need say nothing – I will say it for him!’ The grating voice of Matilda rose high-pitched above the murmuring as she thrust aside a man-at-arms with her burly shoulder and, dragging Lucille behind her, stood alongside her husband. ‘This harlot and these so-called witnesses are audacious liars and must be punished for flagrant perjury!’

Richard de Revelle felt as if an iron band was squeezing his head. What was he going to say to his own sister, who only yesterday had left her husband because of his adultery and was now trying to excuse his rapine?

He struggled to get his mouth working. ‘I realise that it is only natural that a faithful wife should attempt to––’

‘Shut up, brother, or you will hear more than you desire! I say now that this is a foul conspiracy and that all these people are lying. There never was any ravishment of this strumpet. She insinuated herself into our house by deception while her accomplices lurked outside to bear false witness.’

There was a general clamour in the court, which the castle constable quelled by the powerful use of his lungs, aided by some of his men who laid about them with staves. When relative quiet had been restored, a furious Jocelin de Braose shouted at the bench, ‘She should be thrown outside! What value is the braying of a wife about her husband’s innocence? What does she know about it? She was not there.’

Matilda de Wolfe turned majestically upon the angry speaker, her square face jutting like the prow of a ship. ‘Indeed I was there, you evil man! You chose the wrong night to perform your tricks – and the wrong house. Had you but known it, there is a window-slit high up on the wall between hall and solar. And I was in that solar and heard all that passed – and saw much of it, too.’

A buzz of consternation rippled through the crowded hall.

‘The woman insinuated herself into my house on some pretext about this de Braose swine assaulting her,’ continued Matilda, in a voice like a rusty nail being drawn across slate. ‘She wanted my husband to obtain justice for her, and began to show him her fabricated injuries. He was too gullible to see what she was about until it was too late. The harlot pulled down her clothing, which she had already torn, and fell to the floor shouting, ‘Rape!’ Her accomplices must have been waiting at the door for her signal, as they entered within the space of a few heartbeats!’

Again a wave of gasps and murmuring passed across the hall like a squall at sea, but soon subsided so that they could hear the next act in this drama.

De Braose was sneeringly dismissive. ‘A likely tale! The desperate gamble of a woman who tries to save her husband from a hanging. Why do you waste our time listening to this, Sheriff?’

That was too much even for de Revelle, though he was a creature of those who employed de Braose. ‘Be silent, sir! That is my sister of whom you speak in such a rude manner! Though I agree that the testimony of a wife in these circumstances, though laudable, cannot be accepted without good proof.’

‘I will give you proof, brother Sheriff,’ snapped Matilda, with quivering passion. ‘First, let the Archdeacon or Precentor, as senior men of God here, make me and these villains all swear an oath on the Testament that what we say is true. It may well be that hell-fire holds no terrors for them, unredeemable sinners as they are – but have you ever known me break a vow to Christ?’