The Noble Outlaw (41 page)
'We decree that this dispute is narrowed down to the ownership of the manor of Hempston Arundell, the other issues of improper outlawry and the deaths of persons during armed combat being dismissed inasmuch as they are not contentious between the parties.' The heavy features of de Ralegh were turned first towards the table where de Arundell sat, hardly daring to draw breath - then across to de Revelle and Henry Pomeroy, who sat uneasily awaiting whatever was in store for them.
'We further declare that this single issue be resolved by the Ordeal of Battle, where Nicholas de Arundell will engage in combat with Henry de la Pomeroy and Richard de Revelle in succession. If he is vanquished by either, then the manor of Hempston is lost to him.' There was a shocked silence, then a hubbub broke out, both on the dais and down in the body of the court. Joan de Arundell screamed and threw her arms around her husband, howling that this was just a stratagem to have him killed. Nicholas, however, gently disengaged himself, as Gillian hastened to comfort her cousin.
He stood up, and in a loud voice accepted the challenge with all his heart, confident that right would be on his side.
On the defendants' table, Joscelin de Sucote rose to his feet and began making protests, but de Wolfe suspected that his heart was not in it - the judgement did not affect him personally, and if these Devon barbarians wanted to hack each other to pieces, then let them get on with it, he had done his best for them.
Alongside him, the barbarians in question showed very different reactions to Walter's decision. The burly, pugnacious Henry de la Pomeroy, who had fought in several campaigns and was fond of jousting and hunting, was confident that he could more than hold his own against the slighter Nicholas de Arundell, as long as there were no bowmen in the offing. Richard de Revelle, on the other hand, looked pale and shocked, his hand nervously caressing his pointed beard. De Wolfe saw him tugging at Joscelin's sleeve and gabbling urgently at him, which merely provoked the lawyer into repeated shakings of the head, as he presumably told Richard that there was nothing he could do at that point to reverse the decision of the judges.
As the chatter and catcalls from the floor grew louder, Ralph Morin signalled to Sergeant Gabriel to restore order. With stentorian shouts, buffets across the head and a few blows from their cudgels, the garrison soldiers soon calmed the audience down, allowing Walter de Ralegh to finish announcing the details of the trial by battle.
'As the disputants are all of noble birth, they shall fight with the short sword, rather than with the half-staff of the commoner,' he declared. 'Sir Nicholas, as one man against two, will have the choice as to who shall face him first. If he triumphs at the first bout, there will be an hour's respite for recovery before the second contest.' John, though worried at the outcome of this affair, grinned to himself as he saw his brother-in-law's face blanch at the prospect of facing de Arundell, whether it be at the first or second bout. But Henry de la Pomeroy was a different matter, thought de Wolfe uneasily.
'I must go up to Raden Lane and offer some comfort to Lady Joan,' fretted Matilda over the dinner table a short while later. John felt like telling her to stop fussing and to mind her own business, but he wisely held his tongue. He knew that she was well-meaning and also that she was worried herself, as her own brother, who until recently she had idolised, was going to be on the receiving end of a sword wielded by a hardened campaigner who had had his physical skills honed by a couple of years' hard living on Dartmoor.
He did his best to reassure her about the outcome.
'This need not be a fight to the death, Matilda. This has been boiled down to a dispute over land and they are not going to hang the losing survivor. A disabling strike with the sword - or a submission if one man is being soundly defeated, will suffice to satisfy honour.'
He did not add that there was nothing to stop one combatant killing the other if he could - and by the angry look in de la Pomeroy's eye, it seemed he would be happy to spill Nicholas's life blood all over the ground.
'When is this barbaric ritual to take place?' demanded his wife.
'The first contest will be at the eighth hour tomorrow morning, in the inner ward of Rougemont,' explained John. 'The second will be an hour later, the actual time depending on how long the first one lasts. Usually, few continue for more than a couple of hours, unless the pair are evenly matched in skill.'
His wife clucked her tongue and bemoaned the bloodthirsty tastes of bestial men, compared to the gentler sensibilities of her own sex. 'If Sir Nicholas perishes, that poor wife of his will be devastated,' she said with genuine concern.
'If he is defeated, he loses his home and his land and everything that goes with it,' pointed out de Wolfe. 'He would be destitute, yet another landless, penurious knight let loose upon the country. He might as well go back to being an outlaw on the moor, thanks to your brother and his grasping friend from Berry Castle.' For once, his wife had no caustic answer to throw back in his face.
That afternoon, John and his officer and clerk went back to the coroner's chamber in the gatehouse to refresh themselves with bread, cheese and ale - though Thomas drank cider, for which he now grudgingly admitted he was getting a taste. The little priest pulled his quills and parchment towards him, ready to start writing duplicate copies of inquests, but the other two seemed in a talkative mood, wanting to pick over the significance of the proceedings that morning.
'I had hoped old Walter and this new judge would have just hanged those two sods - or at least banished them from the realm or imposed a massive fine that would cripple them,' growled Gwyn, from his usual seat on the window ledge.
De Wolfe, sitting behind his trestle table, shook his head. 'They have too many powerful friends for that, Gwyn. John de Alençon told me afterwards that, on reflection, he felt it was unwise of him to suggest that the bastards could be excommunicated for cheating a man on Crusade, as the bishop is well known as a strong supporter of Prince John and will probably have strong words to say to the archdeacon when he hears about it. And you saw how the prince sent his clever lawyer down to aid them.'
'But what does this strange verdict of Ordeal by Battle mean, Crowner?' asked Thomas, his sharp nose almost twitching with interest. 'What on earth can that achieve?'
The coroner rasped a hand across his stubble thoughtfully. 'It was a clever move, assuming Nicholas wins. It would show that God as well as the king's justices agree that de Arundell was the wronged party, though that seems bloody obvious to everyone. But at least, by invoking the Almighty, it would prevent those who support the prince from claiming that the result was rigged by the Justiciar and his justices.'
'And if he loses?' grunted the Cornishman.
De Wolfe shrugged. 'Political expediency, it's called. Hubert Walter certainly wants Nicholas to triumph and to see de Revelle's nose rubbed in the dirt once again - but if it fails, then he can say that it shows that he was impartial.'
'Will he win, master?' asked Thomas. 'It doesn't seem fair, asking one man to fight two opponents.'
'Some of these ruffians who turn approver have to fight up to five of their accomplices to save their necks,' replied Gwyn. 'As long as there's a decent interval between bouts to allow them to recover, I don't see it makes much difference.'
De Wolfe went back to answer Thomas's first question. 'Who will win? I hope to God that Nicholas can vanquish Henry de la Pomeroy, who is a hard bastard and well used to fighting. De Revelle is a chicken-hearted coward and should be no problem, though I hope Nicholas doesn't kill him, as Matilda will blame me for the rest of my life.'
Gwyn swallowed the rest of his quart with a gurgling noise like a barrel being emptied. Wiping his moustache with an upward sweep of his hand, he became inquisitive.
'I've seen many of these trials by combat, but I still don't understand why bashing your opponent's head with a staff or skewering him on a sword should be a means of solving a legal dispute.'
Their clerk, a fount of knowledge on so many matters, was eager to show off his erudition. 'As the judge said, it's an ancient ritual, though new minds at the Vatican are becoming impatient with what they see as pagan magic, even though Almighty God is invoked.'
'How ancient?' asked de Wolfe, also curious about this odd practice, even though everyone was familiar with it as a part of English legal procedure.
'Ordeals of fire and water go back to ancient times, even in far-off places in the East, but as for the Ordeal of Battle, as the justice said, William of Normandy brought it to England at the time of the Conquest,' explained Thomas. 'But it was originally a German invention or even possibly developed by the pagans in the Northlands.'
Gwyn scratched his crotch vigorously. 'Wherever it came from, let's hope our man Nicholas has the stronger arm tomorrow, after all the effort we've made to help him.'
'Amen to that,' said Thomas, crossing himself devoutly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In which Crowner John sees justice done
Though the crowd in the Shire Hall might have been small the previous day, Exeter's gossip grapevine ensured that far more people climbed Castle Hill the next morning to see three knights and manor lords fight it out, possibly to the death.
The constable of Rougemont had been up at dawn to organise the arrangements. The weather was cold, with a leaden sky, but there had been no new snow, and only dirty remnants of the last fall lurked at the foot of the high curtain walls. Sergeant Gabriel and his soldiers from the garrison had cleared the centre of the inner ward of the usual obstructions, such as empty ox-carts, archery targets and heaps of refuse. The pigs and goats that normally snuffled about the bailey were chased down to the outer ward, and a man was stationed at the gate to make sure that they did not return.
Gabriel paced out the requisite square of sixty feet on each side and his men hammered in stakes at intervals, ropes being strung between them to keep the combat area clear of spectators. A dozen men-at-arms spaced out outside this barrier made doubly sure that there would be no interference to the ritual.
By the time the cathedral bell tolled to announce the office of Prime, just before the eighth hour, about a hundred people were gathered in the inner ward. At the end farthest from the gatehouse, towards the squat keep, the supporters of de la Pomeroy and de Revelle gathered along the rope, mainly the bailiffs, reeves and other manor officials. The opposite side of the marked-off square was reserved for de Arundell's men from the moor, together with his wife Joan. Nicholas and her cousin had tried to persuade her to stay away, but the resolute lady adamantly refused, saying that if her husband was to be wounded or killed, it was only right that she should be with him.
Resigned to the stubborn woman's resolve, Gillian le Bret stayed closely by her, and to de Wolfe's surprise, his own wife Matilda insisted on accompanying them. He tried to dissuade her also, saying that it was not proper for a woman to witness bloodshed, injury and possibly death, but taking her cue from Joan de Arundell, Matilda shrugged off his protests. John wondered to what extent she was there in case her brother Richard suffered the same misfortune, so with a sigh he abandoned his attempts to keep her away. He could not stay at her side, as he had his own duties as coroner whenever an ordeal was in progress, and Thomas had to keep a record for eventual presentation to the royal justices of the General Eyre when it arrived, sometime in the future.
At the eighth hour, the major figures in the drama began appearing.
As the Church, however reluctantly, had to participate in this appeal to the Almighty to see justice done, Archdeacon John de Alençon arrived, though the garrison chaplain, Brother Rufus, a jovial Benedictine, actually officiated. The fat monk came out of the tiny chapel of St Mary, which was adjacent to the gatehouse, and waddled across the hard mud of the bailey to greet de Wolfe, with whom he was firm friends. Together they ducked under the rope and stood waiting with the archdeacon for the combatants to arrive.
Henry de Furnellis came across from the keep with Ralph Morin, just as Nicholas de Arundell appeared from the guardroom in the gatehouse, where he and his 'squire' had been waiting. The squire acted as the fighting man's second and in this case was not unnaturally his steward Robert Hereward, the gaunt Saxon who had so faithfully stood by his master.
The pair joined his other retainers along the rope and Nicholas slid a reassuring arm around his wife and kissed her tear-stained face as they waited, until the sheriff strode up to John and his companions.
'Where are these damned men ... do you think they've run away?' he demanded.
As if in answer, they heard the sound of hoofs on the drawbridge across the dry moat and five horses trotted into the inner ward. The riders went across to the stables against the further wall to dismount, then walked back to the central arena. John saw that Pomeroy and de Revelle were accompanied by their suave lawyer, and followed by Ogerus Coffin. The other arrival was an elderly man with a very wrinkled face, who he recognised as Richard's steward from his manor of Revelstoke, in the far west of the county. He was Geoffrey de Cottemore de Totensis, and he had a haughty manner in keeping with his ponderous name.
The new arrivals ducked under the barrier and, studiously avoiding the de Arundell camp, strode stony-faced to stand at the opposite end of the arena, next to their few supporters. De Wolfe saw that Henry de la Pomeroy walked with aggressive enthusiasm, his big body exuding confidence and indeed arrogance. His fleshy face seemed redder than usual, in spite of the cold breeze that blew between the castellated walls. In contrast, Richard de Revelle trailed behind him, his usual mincing gait reduced to a reluctant trudge. If he noticed his sister standing with his opponents rather than supporting her own flesh and blood, he made no sign of even acknowledging her presence.