The Manor of Death (44 page)

'You mean put them in the Bush?' asked Gwyn incredulously.

'Why not? I know your wife is a capable, strong-willed woman and a good cook. She could run the inn as well as Nesta, for there's old Edwin and the two maids to do much of the work.'

Gwyn floundered for something to say. 'But why me? Why give a valuable property to a drunken old soldier like me?'

'An old drunk you may be, but you've served me for twenty years and saved my life more times than I can count on my fingers. It's time you had something to rely on for your old age.'

'I can't just take it, Crowner. How can I? It's not proper.'

John turned up his hands. 'I don't want to see the Bush fall into disrepute and end up a foul den like the bloody Saracen. If it eases your conscience, I'll keep the freehold myself and give you a rent-free lease for your lifetime, allowing you to keep any profit you make. That should see your wife and family secure.'

Thomas, who had been listening to this exchange with delight, offered his help. 'I can draw up a deed to that effect, master. Nesta told me that she has a parchment which her husband Meredydd obtained when he bought it, confirming his title to the land in Idle Lane. We just need to set out the new arrangement, everyone puts their mark upon it and have it entered in the burgess court to make it all legal! '

It took another half-hour of argument and discussion to convince Gwyn that de Wolfe was deadly serious in his intentions.

'Will your wife agree to this?' asked Thomas solicitously. 'It is she who will have the burden of the place, if we are gallivanting off to London.'

Gwyn, finally reconciled to the idea, began to revel in its implications. 'Free food and ale for life!' he chortled. 'Of course Avisa will agree. Anything that gets her and the boys out of that hovel in St Sidwell's will be like a gift from heaven! She has a sister in Milk Street, with a great lump of a daughter, who can help her when needs be.'

John, who was trying to submerge his sadness in boundless activity, stood up and announced that he was going over to talk to the sheriff. 'Then we have work to do in Stigand's cesspit,' he reminded them. 'Gwyn, you go home and talk to your wife about my proposition. I have no wish to force this upon you, but I see nothing but advantage for everyone.'

His officer could walk through the East Gate back to St Sidwell's in a few minutes and be back well before the bells rang for Prime at about the ninth hour. Gwyn clumped off down the stairs, whistling cheerfully, and left Thomas and the coroner looking at each other.

'That was a very kind and generous act you did for him, sir,' offered the clerk, a rather bold speech for him to make to his master, but he was full of admiration for John's generosity.

'He has been my best and sometimes only friend for almost half my life, Thomas. It is time I did something in return.' He looked keenly at the little priest. 'And I will not forget you, when the time comes.'

Thomas looked acutely embarrassed. 'You have already saved my sanity and my very life by your kindness in taking me as your clerk when I was destitute, sir. And my needs as a priest are small. There is nothing I desire, other than to be able to serve you.'

John grunted and rumbled a little at this close shave with emotion and after a few nods at his clerk vanished down the stairs.

De Wolfe spent some time with Henry de Furnellis discussing the events of the previous two days and trying to make sense of what they knew of the suspects incarcerated below their feet. John told the sheriff nothing about the recent developments in his private life, feeling that they had better settle their official problems first.

'What about this damned lay brother from Loders?' grumbled Henry. 'Someone must have informed his prior by now. We'll soon have an army of monks besieging us to get him released.'

'I suppose we can't be as hard with him as the others, if the need arises,' said John. 'It depends on what we can learn from them as to his involvement. If he's clean, which I doubt, then we'll have to let him go.'

'I'll wager my money on this agent Crik,' mused de Furnellis. 'He had the best opportunity to set up this conspiracy, being the agent for
The Tiger
and having contacts for getting rid of the stolen goods.'

'If that's so, he and Martin Rof must be close accomplices. They are the two who need to be squeezed the hardest.' .

The distant bells sounded from the cathedral, and they made their way out of the sheriff's chamber into the hall and then down the wooden stairs to the inner ward. As they turned into the low doorway of the undercroft, John asked the sheriff what had happened to the two shipmen from
The Tiger
.

'The one your monk took away to St John's died, as they expected. The other one seems to have survived - at least until we hang him.'

A group of people were already waiting for them in the dank, dismal cellar. Only feeble light came through the doorway and from a couple of slits in the walls opposite the grating leading to the cells. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, John saw that Gabriel and half a dozen of his men-at-arms were lined up, with Ralph Morin, Gwyn and a reluctant Thomas standing behind them. There were another two persons whom he failed to recognise for a moment, then realised that they were Robert de Helion and his wizened chief clerk.

Henry de Furnellis marched over to the merchant, who stood with a rich red cloak pulled closely about him in the clammy cold of the undercroft.

'I'm not sure that you have the right to be here, de Helion,' he said. 'This is king's business and we have to seek the truth from the prisoners by whatever means proves necessary.'

'I'm a knight like you and de Wolfe here,' responded the ship owner tartly. He was not used to being told what he could and could not do. 'I've done my share of fighting and seen plenty of violence, so don't concern yourself with my feelings. I heard that my servant Crik had been caught up in your snare and I also want to know if any of these people know where my ship has got to.'

The sheriff nodded. 'Very well, but your agent seems to be the most suspect of the lot, apart from your shipmaster. '

'If Crik was involved, then he must be punished,' countered Robert.

'If Crik's involved, he'll be hanged,' was the sheriff's laconic response.

The corpulent gaoler came out through the rusted gate in the row of iron bars that went from floor to roof in the centre of the undercroft. Stigand waddled up to the sheriff, jangling a ring on which were a collection of keys. 'Do you want them brought out yet, sir?' he said thickly, his round, waxy face with the hooded eyes reminding de Wolfe of a large toad.

'Yes, let's get on with it,' grunted Henry and motioned to Gabriel.

The soldiers filed through the gate after the sergeant, and after a great deal of clanging, scuffling and a barrage of shouting and cursing the prisoners were led out in a line. They were in a sorry state, dirty, dishevelled, their clothes soiled and scattered with stalks of filthy straw. Several faces showed numerous recent bites from lice and other vermin. All wore leg irons to prevent them from running away, but their hands were free, which they used to shake furiously at their captors as they raised a cacophony of protests and demands to be freed.

De Furnellis stood this for a moment or two, then bellowed for silence. He was only partially successful, and after a moment Morin signalled to his sergeant, who walked along the line of prisoners with a short staff, whacking the shins of the noisiest offenders until they subsided into sullen silence. The last one to obey was Henry Crik, who seeing Robert de Helion shrieked out for him to save him. He got no response from a stonyfaced de Helion, and another crack from Gabriel's stick shut him up.

'As you are so talkative, Crik, we'll start with you first,' said the sheriff.

John again marvelled at the new-found energy that the old knight was displaying, after months of letting the coroner do most of his work.

The agent was jerked forward by two of the soldiers and stood before de Furnellis, who looked him up and down before starting his inquisition.

'Tell us how you and Martin Rof worked this criminal conspiracy, which has cost the lives of many innocent seamen,' he began sternly.

'I've nothing to say, for I am innocent,' growled Crik sullenly.

The sheriff repeated the question in various ways several times; Crik either ignored him or snarled that he had nothing to say. Eventually, de Furnellis gestured to the soldiers, who held Crik by the arms and led him across to an alcove beneath an arch a few yards away. The sides of the undercroft were formed by these stone arches, green with slime and mould. Most of the alcoves were used for the storage of building materials and old timber, though one held the squalid living quarters of Stigand. The area that Crik now faced was empty apart from an unlit charcoal brazier, but had four rings set into slabs in the damp earthen floor, positioned in a square. Everyone listened as the sheriff began to speak again.

'Henry Crik, I declare you wilfully 'mute of malice'. The law has prescribed a treatment for this sad condition, the
peine forte et dure
.' He waved a hand at the gaoler. 'Show him the plates, Stigand.'

The obese man went to the side of the alcove and, wheezing with the effort, picked up a heavy iron plate about eighteen inches square. He took it over to the sheriff, and de Furnellis hit the rusty metal with the hilt of his dagger, producing a dull thud.

'To encourage your memory to return and to loosen your tongue, we can tie you down to these rings and place this plate upon your chest. If you still feel unable to tell me what I wish to know, then Stigand here can fetch another - and another. We have no shortage of iron, I assure you.'

'You can't do this to me, it's not allowed!' howled Crik, turning pale with fright.

De Furnellis made a show of turning around and staring about the undercroft. 'Can you see anyone here who says I can't? I am the sheriff of this county and there is no one this side of Winchester who can prevent me.'

Crik made one more attempt to call his bluff, but at a sign from the crafty old sheriff Stigand dropped the plate with a clang and went to pick up some lengths of rope, which he began to thread through the rings on the floor. Sweating, Henry Crik began to weigh up which form of death he must choose. He, like most people, knew exactly what the
peine forte et dure
meant - increasing pressure on the chest, inability to breathe, blueness of the face and lips, burst blood vessels in the face and eyes - and eventually a horrible death from asphyxia.

If he confessed, he would be convicted and hanged - but because of the tardiness of the courts, that might be some time away, and many prisoners escaped, either by bribing the gaolers or escaping to claim sanctuary or to vanish into the forest to become outlaws. As his guards jerked him towards the rings, he suddenly broke and screamed out that he would talk.

'Too late, Crik. I can't deprive my gaoler of his sport. He might lose his touch if he fails to get enough practice.'

The wily sheriff had no intention of torturing the man, but he knew that an extra dose of terror would ensure that Crik did not change his mind.

Just as Stigand held up a rope to tie around the screaming man's wrists, the other Henry clapped his palms together to halt-the charade.

'Give him once last chance, then. Crik, I want everything you know, or you'll be tied down on that floor! '

It took the rest of the day to squeeze the truth from the crowd of suspects and for Thomas to write down all the facts and confessions on his rolls. Once Crik had broken and implicated others, it was just a matter of time and threats to extract the truth about the long-running conspiracy in Axmouth.

The proceedings were interrupted in the afternoon by the arrival of the Prior of Loders with his chaplain and cellarer. They had ridden as fast as their horses could travel to bring them to the rescue of their brother Absalom. Behind him was Archdeacon John de Alençon, whom the prior had roused out of the cathedral before coming to the castle. Robert of Montebourg was in a state of high indignation at the arrest of his servant, and when he saw him in such a bedraggled state, shackled like a common criminal, he became incandescent with rage.

'Release him at once, sir! He is a cleric, albeit in lower orders, but still immune from the secular power! What are you thinking of, treating him like a felon!'

Henry de Furnellis was unmoved. 'Because he is a felon, prior! He has admitted it from his own mouth, and you are welcome to read the confession that Brother Thomas here has written for consideration by the king's justices.'

The prior angrily scanned the parchment that Thomas handed to him, then deflated like a pricked pig's bladder. He strode over to the hapless lay brother and glared at him. 'Is this true, Absalom? Have you been deceiving me?'

The man's sullen scowl and his silence were enough for the prior. He gave Absalom a resounding slap across the face and marched back to confront the sheriff. 'Nevertheless, it is not seemly that one of the priory's brothers should be held in this place. I want him released into my custody,' he demanded.

'And that would be the last we or the court would see of him, eh?' said de Furnellis stubbornly. 'He is party to piracy and murder. He must be called to account, like the others.'

As it seemed an impasse, John de Alençon stepped forward to intervene. 'I see both points of view, gentlemen. I suggest that this clerk is transferred to the custody of our cathedral proctors. We have secure cells in the cathedral Close and robust men to guard them, until the bishop and the prior come to some agreement as to how the matter should be resolved.'