As soon as they arrived in Exeter, John lost no time in putting his plan into effect. They rode straight up to Rougemont and collected Thomas from the gatehouse, to act as witness and recorder. Mystified, the little ex-cleric hobbled after the other two, across the inner bailey down into the undercroft.
Gwyn roused the dozing Stigand from his pile of straw and prodded him across to open up the gaol gate. Inside the passage, which stank of damp, mould and human ordure, de Wolfe peered through the door grilles until he found Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford in adjacent cells. The blubbery gaoler, his face still mottled from the bruising he had suffered a few days before, went to unlock Jocelin’s door, but the coroner stopped him. ‘What I want to say can be done from here!’ he grated.
Peering through the bars, he saw the man sitting on the slate slab, hands on knees, staring towards the voices. He was filthy, and a reddish stubble grew on his cheeks inside his rim of beard. As soon as he saw the coroner, he leaped to the door and shook the bars, screaming abuse at him. From the next cell, Giles Fulford also began yelling at his master to know what was going on. Stigand battered with his cudgel on Fulford’s door for quiet, and gradually the pandemonium subsided. The coroner waited patiently until he could speak.
‘Jocelin de Braose, you will certainly be hanged if the due processes of law are applied to you. Your crimes are Pleas of the Crown and the usual course would be to present you before the King’s Justices when the next Eyre of Assize reaches the city. The sheriff wanted to try you in the County Court, as you so foully engineered for me – and that would mean a hanging within a week.’
Jocelin’s foul language had abated as he considered this menu of certain death. Then he said, ‘The sheriff! De Revelle wouldn’t let me be harmed. We have powerful protectors in the country.’
‘Not any longer, young man. The sheriff has seen the error of his ways and is now fully a king’s man. And your patrons in Berry Pomeroy and Totnes will be too anxious to save their own skins to concern themselves with you. They now have a rebellion that is as flat as a griddle cake on Shrove Tuesday.’
There was silence from inside the cell, but from next door Giles Fulford called out angrily, ‘I heard that, Jocelin! It’s a trick, don’t believe them.’
De Wolfe walked a few steps further up the passage and glowered through the next grille. Another grimy face beneath tousled fair hair glared out at him. ‘I should keep a still tongue in your head, Master Fulford,’ said the coroner evenly. ‘It was that same tongue that condemned your master, with a little lubrication from some cold water.’
‘It was a lie! You forced me under duress. None of it was true.’
‘Tell that to the hangman! Maybe he’ll believe you, for I won’t,’ snapped de Wolfe. He moved back to de Braose’s cell. ‘But there is a third way for you – for both of you.’
De Braose looked suspiciously at the coroner, his round face scowling. A prison louse was crawling down a hank of red hair hanging near his left ear but he ignored it, though his neck and hands were spotted with bug bites from the infested straw.
‘What new trick is this, Crowner? If we’re going to be hanged, then leave us in peace. Don’t come gloating and tormenting us.’
For reply, de Wolfe fished in the inner pocket of his riding cloak and pulled out a glove. It was an old one he had brought from home for the purpose. Reaching through the bars, he lightly smacked Jocelin’s face, dislodging the louse, then he dropped the old glove at his feet. ‘I challenge you, Jocelin de Braose, to trial by combat to the death. If you win, you and your squire may go free.’
The auburn-haired man stared at him through the square aperture. ‘They all said you were a madman and they were right! How, in the name of Mary Mother of God, can a crowner challenge a prisoner to trial by battle?’
Fulford yelled from next door to know what was going on, and de Braose answered, at the top of his voice, ‘This crazed man wants to fight me to the death!’
‘It’s better than hanging,’ shouted Fulford.
De Braose glared at the coroner and waved a hand dismissively, turning to go back to his stone slab. ‘Go away, leave us in peace.’
De Wolfe explained calmly, ‘I have just challenged you, not as crowner or even as a law officer of any kind. I did it in my role as champion for an aggrieved party who has laid an Appeal against you.’
De Braose came back to the door. ‘A champion! How in hell can you be a champion? For whom?’
‘A minor who, because of his tender age, can’t prosecute his Appeal in person. You must know as well as I that it’s normal practice for women, the infirm and those under age to appoint a champion.’
‘I know that, Crowner! But whom do you claim has made this ridiculous gesture?’
‘Robert Fitzhamon – for you foully murdered his father and he wants both justice and revenge.’
There was momentary silence. ‘I deny it, there’s no proof at all of that. My squire’s so-called confession was made under duress.’
‘Then you can prove that in combat. Fight me and win, and you demonstrate your innocence by my death – it’s a common procedure. Forget that I’m coroner, just think of me as an old Crusader, slow in the mind and weak in the sword-arm!’
Jocelin was thinking of the fight near Dunsford church a few days before and had no illusions about de Wolfe’s prowess with a broadsword.
‘I will allow you to use Fulford as your squire. My officer Gwyn of Polruan will be mine.’
‘Are you really serious about this, de Wolfe?’
‘You killed an inoffensive old priest after beating him up for the sake of treasure and then made a young lad fatherless to suit your scheming masters. I can’t fight them at the moment, so I’ll make do with you.’
De Braose was scornful. ‘You’d not catch me by surprise again as you did in Dunsford. I’d kill you, Crowner.’
De Wolfe was philosophical. ‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Let’s see, shall we?’
‘How is this to be played, then? The challenged has the choice of weapons.’
‘Choose what you will – but lance and shield are usual. If we’re unhorsed, then let the sword decide it.’
‘That suits me, Crowner, if you let me use my own horse. I’ll kill you on the spot.’ He raised his voice. ‘D’you hear that, Giles? We’re going to be free, thanks to the crowner’s wish to commit suicide.’
The reply was an exultant stream of foul language, but held a note of sudden optimism, natural from a man whose only expectation five minutes before was of having his neck stretched on the communal gallows.
As they climbed the steps out of the undercroft, de Wolfe muttered to his two retainers, ‘Now to convince Richard de Revelle that it’s legal – not that he’s any expert on legality.’
Matilda was still holding out at her cousin’s house and de Wolfe made his usual pilgrimage to the Bush tavern that evening. The news of the trial by combat had not yet leaked out, though he knew that by tomorrow the whole of Exeter would be agog with the prospect of their coroner fighting a man accused of two murders.
Nesta was distraught at the thought of her lover putting his life in danger. ‘He’s so much younger than you, John! From what I saw of him in the Shire Hall, I’d not put him above twenty-five years.’
They sat as usual at his table by the side of the hearth. He put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her. ‘Are you convinced that I’m senile and past it, my love?’
She looked up at him with her big hazel eyes, worry creasing her smooth face. ‘You could be killed, John. What would I do then?’