Authors: Stephen Wheeler
Abbot's Passion (18 page)
So saying the flood gates opened and she burst into tears.
‘Whatever’s the matter with the woman?’ I said once we were out in the street again. ‘She seemed absolutely terrified.’
‘I kn-know these people,’ said Jocelin. ‘They’re f-frightened of their own sh-shadows. You can’t believe a word they t-tell you.’
‘Your bullying certainly didn’t help. Whatever got into you?’
‘I think I know why she’s frightened,’ said Jocellus. ‘The hue and cry.’
I frowned. ‘What about it?’
‘She’s worried that she didn’t raise the alarm.’
‘But she did raise the alarm. She screamed. She certainly alarmed me.’
‘Yes, but by law it is for the first-finder to raise the posse. If not she can be fined.’
‘Well it can’t be very much,’ I said putting my hand into my belt pouch.
‘F-forty shillings,’ said Jocelin.
‘
Forty -!’
I carefully removed my hand from my belt again. ‘Why that’s more than I earn in a year.’
‘Th-that’s the prescribed amount. It’s m-meant to ensure felons don’t escape the law.’
‘Yes well, it’s no wonder she was upset.’
‘M-maybe she’s seen the murderer since,’ suggested Jocelin. ‘M-maybe she does know but is too f-frightened to speak. M-maybe Chrétien isn’t the only one he’s threatened.’
‘I don’t think it’s fair to expect Alice to give evidence,’ said Jocellus. ‘She won’t tell any more than she told us.’
‘That’ll be up to the coroner to decide. When he arrives.’
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than we saw Gilbert hurrying down the hill towards us. He looked harassed and flustered.
‘Abbot Samson is back, master,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Heaven be thanked for that,’ I said.
‘But he’s not alone. He met up with the coroner on the London road. They arrived together.’
NO GREATER LOVE
It
is so often the case in life that even the most carefully laid plans are overtaken by events. I sometimes think this is God laughing at us pathetic humans and our puny preoccupations. We think we are eagles souring high above the treetops when in fact we are woodlice grubbing about on the forest floor. Every now and then our heavenly father flicks his little finger and the sturdiest of oaks comes crashing down to block our path. So it was in this case. The coroner arriving early like that stopped our investigation in its track. I had hoped to interview more people who were present in the marketplace that Sunday morning but Alice Nevus was to be the only one, and she taught us nothing we didn’t already know, except possibly that the murderer is even more ruthless than we thought. Now there is no more time. The abbot and the coroner are ensconced in Samson’s study and when they emerge it will be to try poor Hamo, find him guilty and hang him - done in less than a day. Hamo’s execution will be just one more minor annotation in the coroner’s notebook to be forgotten before supper.
The last murder trial held at the abbey had been two years earlier when Isaac Moy was accused of murdering Matthew the fuller’s son. That was a lamentable case and still fills me with anguish whenever I think about it. Not only was the accused man entirely blameless of the crime but the real murderer had gotten away with it merely because of his rank and family connections. In that instance the abbot had been the one to sit in the judge’s chair, but that was because it had been a religious matter subject to ecclesiastical law. No such religious overtones pertained this time, this was a straight-forward murder case over which Samson had no jurisdiction. Too bad for Hamo, for whatever else I might have said about our abbot I trusted in his integrity. His judgement may not be that of Solomon but it would certainly be that of Samson: impartial and honourable. I only wished I could have said the same about the coroner, but so far Sir Henry de’Ath was an unknown quantity to me. I didn’t even know what he looked like and had to ask Gilbert to describe him to me:
‘Old - very old,’ he frowned. ‘And bald. Like an egg.’
‘How old? Think, Gilbert, for it may be important. With age comes inflexibility. The elderly get pain in their joints and cramps in their bellies that colours their judgement. As old as Abbot Samson, perhaps?’
‘Oh no,’ he snorted. ‘Not that old. About your age I’d say.’
‘Child,’ I glared at him, ‘I’ll have you know this year at Lammas I will be celebrating my thirty-seventh birthday.’
He looked at me in amazement. ‘Will you really, master?’
I pouted. ‘What about his clothes?’
‘Sober - like a judge.’ He gave a rueful smile.
‘Colourful?’
‘If mud is colourful.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him that may indicate his temperament? Is he modest? Bejewelled? Did he ride an expensive mount?’
The boy thought. ‘One thing did strike me: he was being followed by a servant.’
‘What’s striking about that? He’s bound to need a servant.’
‘A poor man, bare-headed, walking ahead of the coroner and carrying his rolls and ink-pen before him.’
Oh dear. I’d heard about this. According to Jocelin, when the first coroners were commissioned their servants were made to walk before them as a mark of their office. The practice was quickly abandoned as being impractical. But if Sir Henry retained the habit it said a lot about the man. Sir Henry de’Ath sounded dour, colourless and conservative, not at all the sort of man we would want to hear our case. I could only pray that when he comes to giving his judgement on Hamo he will have a fair balance of humours. I wondered if I had time to throw his birth chart before the hearing.
We were a sombre little trio that sat down to supper in the refectory that night. Samson wasn’t at his usual place at high table, nor was the abbot-legate - both busy entertaining the coroner in the abbot’s private apartments with Eustache no doubt pouring out his venom. The trouble was we’d never had a coroner’s court in the abbey before and didn’t really know what to expect. As ever Jocelin had done the research:
‘Did you know the word actually c-comes from the Latin?
Custos placitorum coronas
, meaning “keeper of the crown’s p-pleas”.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Jocellus. ‘How exactly does that help Hamo?’
‘It d-doesn’t,’ Jocelin blushed. ‘I j-just th-thought it was interesting, that’s all.’
‘I think what Jocellus is asking,’ I said placatory, ‘is what is likely to happen tomorrow at the trial?’
‘S-strictly speaking it isn’t a trial,’ said Jocelin. ‘It’s an inquest. B-but just like a trial the coroner can c-call witnesses and examine evidence. What he can’t do is p-pass sentence. O-or at least, not normally. Only in exceptional cases can he do that.’
‘What sort of exceptional cases?’ said Jocellus.
‘If a man is c-caught in the act of committing the crime. Or if he confesses. Or if he r-runs away. It c-could be argued that Hamo did all th-three.’
Jocellus frowned. ‘What about his sanctuary? Does that not count for anything anymore?’
‘Unfortunately n-no. Hamo broke the rules - or r-rather, we broke them f-for him.’
‘Then I was right. It’s our fault he’s in the predicament he’s in.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Look,’ I said cutting across them both, ‘we don’t know any of this is going to happen yet. There’s no point trying to pre-empt things. We must just trust that the coroner is an honourable man and knows his business.’
‘What you’re saying is that Hamo could hang tomorrow?’ Jocellus persisted.
‘It’s a p-possibility, yes,’ agreed Jocelin.
Jocellus nodded. ‘In that case there’s only one thing to do. I’ll tell them I did it.’
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. ‘I’m sorry brother, tell them you did what?’
‘That I murdered Fidele.’
I nearly choked on my cheese. ‘If this is a joke, it’s not a very good one.’
‘No joke. I’m deadly serious. I shall tell the coroner tomorrow that I murdered Fidele.’
‘W-why would you do such a thing?’ asked Jocelin grinning faintly.
‘It’s like you said, brother, this is all our fault. Hamo would still be in sanctuary if it wasn’t for us.’
‘You do r-realise you’d be putting a noose around your own n-neck?’
‘It’s simple justice. We placed Hamo in this predicament. It’s up to us to get him out of it.’
‘It’s a noble gesture, brother,’ I said, ‘but a futile one.’
Jocellus frowned at me. ‘Why futile?’
‘Because nobody will believe you.’
‘They will when I give my evidence.’
I shook my head. ‘No they won’t. Evidence is given on oath, and when I give mine, as I am bound to do, I will have to tell them that you weren’t there when the murder took place. I’d sent you to fetch Reeve Alwyn - remember?’
‘That’s all right. I’ll tell them I didn’t go.’
‘What good will that do?’ I said with growing exasperation. ‘Compounding one lie with another isn’t going to help Hamo, is it?’
‘Letting him hang for a crime he didn’t commit won’t either.’
‘And you think this will prevent it?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve just told you why not,’ I said finally losing my patience. ‘Oh this is ridiculous. Jocelin, talk some sense into him will you?’
‘No, he’s right,’ said Jocelin quietly.
‘What?’
‘I’ll t-tell them I committed the murder, too.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, and you must do the s-same, Walter.’
‘
What?
’
‘D-don’t you see?’ he insisted with mounting excitement. ‘If we all say we m-murdered Fidele they won’t be able to hang Hamo. You s-said it yourself, Walter: without another s-suspect Hamo will hang. But with another s-suspect - or rather,
three
suspects - he won’t. Not tomorrow at any r-rate. At the very l-least it would mean a p-proper trial. It’s b-b-brilliant. I d-don’t know why I didn’t think of it.’
Several brother monks were looking over and tutting with disapproval. Meals are meant to be taken in silence. I don’t know about silence, I wanted to take the pair of them by the scruff of their necks and shake them.
‘Brothers,’ I said having the greatest difficulty to keep my voice down, ‘this is not a game. And the coroner is not a fool. We’ll all be arrested for wasting the court’s time and Hamo will hang anyway. In fact he’s more likely to if you go ahead with this nonsense.’
‘But Hamo didn’t do it!’ insisted Jocellus.
I could see Brother Hubert at the rostrum looking as though he was about to come over.
‘We know that,’ I whispered urgently, ‘but this is not the way to prove it. We have to go through the proper procedures. We must all give our evidence to the coroner honestly and truthfully. I’m sure when Sir Henry hears what we have to say he’ll realise there’s sufficient doubt for the matter to go to trial. Have faith in the laws of England, my friends. That way lies our safest course.’
I said this with all the conviction I could muster. I only wished I could believe it.
THE INQUEST
The
notices went up later that day and the criers proclaimed that all who had an interest in the case of Hamo the mercer were to assemble at Palace Yard the following morning immediately after cock crow.
As it had been a warm April the intention was to hold the inquest in the open air, a proposal which I fully endorsed - better on the humours and certainly better on the nostrils. There is nothing more noisome than a herd of excited human animals sweating and farting in a confined space with no windows and little air. I had hoped there might be time beforehand to speak to Samson and apprise him of all that had happened while he’d been in London, but I know he likes to keep his distance at such times so that he can’t be accused of taking sides. And I mustn’t forget I am a witness in the case so I have to be careful, too. Indeed, I had already received my summons by messenger - the funny little clerk whom Gilbert had seen trotting behind Sir Henry’s horse. Why is it, I wonder, that men of power like to point it out by having others run around after them like that? Is it because they don’t feel as confident in themselves as they would like the rest of us to believe? Not for the first time did it occur to me that part of the reason for the elaborate dress of these people is to cover up the shallowness of what they are doing. If it were not the case their gravitas would be only too self-apparent.
Palace Yard, so-named because it once was the garden of the abbot’s palace before it was moved to its present location, lies between the cellarer’s gate, the church of Saint James of Compostela and the perimeter wall and is thus enclosed on three sides. As such it is ideally suited for this sort of gathering offering at the same time openness and security. A dais had been laid at the east end of the yard in order to raise the dignitaries above the spectators’ benches facing them. By mid-morning the area was packed with monks, guards, witnesses and ordinary townsfolk. And as soon as we were settled in our places the rain started.
We hadn’t had many showers for April but we certainly made up for it that day. Not a problem for the coroner and the panel, of course, who were seated beneath a canopy erected for just this eventuality. The rest of us were expected to get wet. And we did. There is something about the rain in England. It’s never very heavy but it goes on and on eventually soaking everything - including me despite my thick robe and hood. It soaked, too, the body of Brother Fidele which had been exhumed from its temporary resting place in the monks’ cemetery and put on prominent display directly in front of the dais. He was to be the silent witness to the proceedings and its focal point. The rain did at least help to dampen down the stench of rotting flesh - another good reason for holding the court in the open air.
The rain also put off all but the most prurient casual observers which left a space close to the dais that Jocelin, Jocellus and I managed to slip into. I was soon sorry that we had, though, for it gave me a more intimate view than I might have liked. Peering through the curtain of drizzle I was dismayed to see Abbot Eustache sitting immediately to Sir Henry’s right with Samson seated on the coroner’s left. I suspect this was a deliberate ploy by Sir Henry to stamp his authority onto the proceedings and let everyone, including Samson, know who was in charge. That Eustache was up there with the dignitaries was worrying since he was not only an interested party but also a witness and should have no special treatment despite his rank. Yet here he was already dripping poison into the coroner’s ear. Sheriff Peter was the least favoured of all being relegated to a stool at the far end of the table. Mind you, he did himself no favours. Dressed today in bright pink stockings, he looked more like a flamingo than ever. From the looks Sir Henry was giving him I’d guess his dress-sense did not correspond to the coroner’s idea of appropriate courtroom attire. Not that Sir Peter noticed or would have cared if he had.
Sir Henry de’Ath, by contrast, lived up - or rather down - to his name. He looked every bit as deathly as Gilbert described: bald as a coot, stern, more corpse-like than Fidele, aged I’d guess in his mid-forties - Gilbert please note - although he’d contrived and succeeded in adding two decades to that. He wore the expression of someone who had just sucked a lemon and found it too sweet for his taste.
There was one other person seated on the dais. I’ve not met too many lawyers but this was undoubtedly one. His elaborate robes, his puffy translucency, his opaque eyes all spoke of a dusty indoor life squinting at arcane documents. I imagined he was there to give advice to the coroner on points of law.
So that was our panel. All five were sitting on a bench against a trestle table that had been brought across from the refectory for the purpose. On the canopy above was hung the royal standard while below and between the dais and the body was a smaller table with scribes already busily scribbling away - at what, only they and heaven knew. On the far end of the table was the great Bury Bible, a magnificent object two feet long, over a foot wide, nine inches thick and covered in the finest soft calf skin. It was a beautiful thing created over sixty years ago by Master Hugo, the same master craftsman who had built the great bronze doors at the west end of the abbey church. A true artist. His bible is normally kept chained to the lectern in the quire where I have been in awe of it for fourteen years. The fact that it had been brought out today showed just how weighty the proceedings were deemed to be.
At last everyone was in his rightful place and at a signal from Sir Henry the court usher stepped forward and speared the ground three times with his staff:
‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! All manner of persons having to do at this Court of Inquest holden here this day before his honour Sir Henry de’Ath, chief coroner for the county of Suffolk, draw near and give your attendance. God save the king!’
It was only now that the chief actor in the drama made his appearance. Necks strained and my pulse quickened to see Hamo being brought in, to my horror, like a caged animal. And it was indeed a cage he was in: a latticed cube no more than three feet high, wide or long carried in by four guards and placed next to his co-actor, Fidele. A gasp went up from the crowd when they saw him and I admit tears welled into my eyes. Fortunately he wasn’t to be left like that. The rods were drawn and the lid flipped open to allow Hamo to slowly stand up and stretch himself. He looked like a wild man with his hair sticking up, and he was filthy. I could also tell from the way he was standing that his leg was bad again. At the sight of him a cry went up from somewhere in the crowd. We all looked to see Cathrin and her two daughters huddled together, weeping. Not that Sir Henry deigned to notice. He was deep in discussion with the lawyer. I was willing Samson to say or do something - and, the saints be blessed, he did. He whispered something in the coroner’s ear.
Sir Henry looked up, nodded. ‘A chair for the prisoner!’
A guard grabbed the nearest empty chair.
‘Not that one, fool! That’s for the witnesses. Find another.’
Flustered, the guard found another tripping over his feet in the process, much to the amusement of the spectators. It was not a good beginning and it was about to get worse.
Hamo, his wrists and ankles still bound, hobbled over to the chair and slumped onto it and there he remained for the entire proceedings. At last Sir Henry cleared his throat:
‘We are gathered here today to enquire into the circumstances of the death of the monk...’ he glanced down at his documents, ‘...Fidele de Fly.’
A squawk from one of the spectators: ‘Fiddle-di-who?’
‘Fiddle-di-dee,’ replied a wag.
‘Silence!’ barked the usher.
Sir Henry continued: ‘At the end of which it will be determined whether the accused man, Hamo of Bow son of Arnold of Aldgate, will be indicted before the king’s justices.’ He looked again at his notes. ‘Call Margaret de Cove.’
Jocelin frowned at me. ‘Who?’
I shrugged. The name meant nothing to me.
‘I know who she is,’ said Jocellus. ‘She was the woman buying the gloves. The one Abbot Eustache chided.’
Ah yes, I remembered her now - a pretty young woman of refined manner. She would certainly lift the tone of the proceedings and I awaited her appearance with eagerness. So we were all disappointed when a burly middle-aged man lumbered in and sat down heavily on the witness chair.
‘Well Margaret, you’ve let yourself go,’ said the wag.
‘Silence!’ barked the usher again.
The man clapped a calloused hand on the bible and intoned his own garbled version of the oath:
‘I swear by God to speak true, so help me.’ He sniffed and sat back in the chair to await the court’s pleasure.
Sir Henry looked at the man through hooded eyes. ‘Who are you?’
‘Serle de Cove, your worship. Mercer in this great city of Bury. Margaret is my wife. I will answer for her.’
‘Your
worship
,’ whispered Jocelin next to me shaking his head. ‘Sir Henry w-won’t like that. The correct f-form of address is “your honour”.’
The coroner leaned towards the man: ‘Sir, where is your wife?’
‘At home, your worship.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘Margaret?’ he snorted. ‘Not her!’
‘Then why is she not here?’ asked Sir Henry with evident irritation.
The man leaned confidentially towards the coroner. ‘She is but a girl, your worship - eighteen summers. My second wife. I married her when my first wife died of the flux. A fine wench, but too delicate for public showing.’
I remembered Hamo’s banter with the lady in question just before the murder. She wasn’t averse to public showing then. Hamo mumbled something I didn’t catch which caused some laughter among those who heard.
Sir Henry rounded on him: ‘No sir, you do not speak. You may have your say later. For now you remain silent.’
Hamo looked as though he wanted to say more but had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. There then followed an exchange of whispers between the coroner and the lawyer. Sir Henry then returned to the man seated on the witness chair:
‘You may go.’
A groan of disappointment from the crowd at this. The man himself seemed aggrieved that his moment of fame seemed to be slipping from him.
‘Don’t you want to hear what Margaret had to say?’
‘We do, but not from you.’
‘But I can answer for her.’
‘No you cannot. But you can pay her fine for non-compliance. Three pence.’ He nodded to the clerk to make a note. ‘Next witness.’
But the man remained seated. ‘No, no, I don’t accept that.’
Sir Henry looked up. ‘You don’t?’
‘I do not.’
‘Then you will be fined too. Also three pence.’
The man folded his arms. ‘I won’t pay it.’
‘Very well, six pence.’ The coroner raised expectant eyebrows at the man. ‘Any more?’
Serle de Cove growled and stomped off the dais to much jeering from the crowd. There then followed another lengthy period of consultation between the coroner and the lawyer. It was all going rather slowly and the crowd was becoming fidgety. At least the rain had eased off although it left me feeling damp and cold.
Next it was Abbot Eustache’s turn. In typical fashion he chose not to sit on the witness chair but stood in front of the trestle table to address the panel which he did entirely in French. I couldn’t follow or even hear most of what he said but it appeared to be more of an address than an interrogation. To my dismay Sir Henry seemed entranced. He kept smiling and nodding. Next to me Jocellus was muttering:
‘This is not good. Not good at all.’
When Eustache had finished Sir Henry thanked him, also in French, and the abbot-legate returned to his seat alongside him. There then followed a brief discussion while the panel digested the business so far. When Sir Henry was ready to resume again I heard the words I had been dreading:
‘Call Walter de Ixworth.’
I stepped up onto the dais and placed my hand on the bible to swear the oath - the correct one this time:
‘As God is my witness, I swear to tell the truth whole and true, Amen.’
Coroner de’Ath frowned over his notes: ‘You are Brother Walter de Ixworth and one of three brothers who accompanied Legate de Fly and his clerk to the marketplace?’
‘It is and I am your honour.’
He looked up. ‘Tell us in your own words what you saw, if you please brother.’
This was going to be easy. I’d taken the trouble that morning to go over what I’d written on my statement and could see now why Samson had been so keen to have us make them. In the event I could recite the original virtually word for word:
‘Brothers Jocellus, Jocelin and I went with Abbot Eustache to the market. The legate addressed the populous from the market cross on the perils of avarice. An argument broke out between him and the glove-seller.’
‘What was the nature of the argument?’ interrupted the coroner.
‘Hamo - that is, the accused - was aggrieved that he had just lost a customer and blamed the legate.’
‘This was Margaret Cove - the witness who failed to appear earlier?’
