At the gap in the moss-covered stone wall that surrounded the neglected churchyard, John found that the surly village priest was directing everyone across the overgrown area to another opening on the far side, which led to the large tithe barn, standing lower on the sloping terrain.
'I thought it more seemly for your deliberations to take place there, rather than in my consecrated church,' growled Father Walter, who seemed ill disposed to offer any help to the representatives of the Crown. 'I had the bodies laid out there, together with the new one that you sent.' With that, he loped off to indicate that he wanted no more to do with them.
'Useless old bugger!' growled Gwyn, who had little time for clergymen, other than his friend Thomas. 'I'll wager he's off to find a skin of wine, even at this time of day.'
'That's why he's stuck in a God-forsaken place like Ringmore,' replied John. 'The bishop and his archdeacons send the drunks and deadbeats to places like this, where they get even worse.'
After the manor-house, the tithe barn was the best structure in the village. It was a substantial building of massive oak frames, boarded with panels of woven hazel withies plastered with cob, a mixture of clay, dung and bracken. The steep roof was thatched with oat straw, mottled with moss and growing grass. There was a pair of doors tall enough to admit all. ox-cart piled with hay, and now, at the start of winter, the barn was half full of this sweet-smelling fodder. Heaps of turnips and carrots lay on the floor and piles of threshed oats occupied a boxed platform raised up on large stones in an attempt to keep the rats away. Though a tenth of all this was destined for the church, the contents of the barn represented most of the winter stores that the village hoped would keep them alive until late spring.
Floor space was limited, and the four corpses were laid in a row just inside the wide-open doors. The coroner stood in the entrance to conduct the proceedings, which were opened by Gwyn in his role as coroner's officer.
'All ye who have anything to do before the King's Coroner for the County of Devon, draw near and give your attendance!' he roared in his bull-like voice. With his wild red hair and whiskers, he cut a fearsome figure in his coarse woollen tunic, over which his worn leather jerkin fell open to reveal the huge sword hanging from a wide belt, supported by the leather baldric over his shoulder.
His audience consisted of a score of men from the village, rounded up earlier by the bailiff to act as a jury. In theory, all the males over fourteen from the four nearest villages should have attended, in case any of them knew anything about the deaths under investigation. In a hardworking farming and fishing community this was patently impossible. Though the object of a jury was to provide witnesses, as well as adjudicators, finding so many men and boys from such a wide area was quite impracticable in the time available. John knew this very well and was content to carry on with the handful of men who might know something about the matter, which included Osbert, the fishermen and the crabber. Even old Joel, the recluse from the island, was there, a tall, thin man who looked like an animated skeleton dressed in a ragged robe of hessian, with a poorly cured sealskin cape stinking around his bony shoulders. In spite of his scarecrow appearance, he held himself erect and had the remnants of authority about him, which made the ever curious Thomas wonder as to his past history.
De Wolfe knew full well that his inquiry would be futile at this early stage, but being a man who stuck rigidly to his royal mandate, he pressed ahead with the formality of the inquest. The first matter was that of 'Presentment of Englishry', which again was a foregone impossibility, given that a hundred-and-thirty years after the Norman invasion, intermarriage had blurred the distinction between Norman and Saxon. And if proof could not be produced, a murdrum fine was levied, so 'presentment' had become merely a cynical device for extorting money from the population, especially as all deaths other than those from obvious disease were eligible, even if they were due to accidents or the occasional suicide.
John de Wolfe still had to apply the out-dated procedure, however, and he began his inquest by glaring around the bemused villeins and freemen of Ringmore, demanding to know whether anyone could prove the identity of the corpses. As the dead men were strangers washed up on a nearby beach — and presumably came from Dawlish, over thirty miles away — there was little chance of anyone present knowing anything about them, but one fellow spoke up in a rather truculent voice.
'I hear that one of them is called Thorgils, so with a name like that, how can he be anything other than of Saxon blood?'
From the size of his bulging arm muscles and his leather apron scarred with burns, John assumed that he was the village blacksmith. The coroner knew that the smith was doing what he could to avoid the murdrum fine — usually of several marks — being imposed on the village, as they would all suffer from having to scrape together the hundreds of pennies needed. He replied, but tempered his words with a reassurance.
'A good point, but I need much better proof. In the absence of any family, then presentment cannot be made and my clerk will so record the fact.' He jerked his head towards Thomas, who was sitting on a small stool just outside the doors, with his writing materials before him on an empty keg. 'But no murdrum fine will be imposed until the Justices in Eyre consider the matter, which might be a year or two in the future. And if the true culprits of this heinous crime are found before then, you will not be amerced.'
A murmur of relief rippled round the half-circle of jurors, echoed in the background by the group of anxious wives who were clustered around the gateway into the churchyard. Women had no voice in these matters, but they suffered just as much when penalties were imposed on their village.
The few witnesses were called one after the other, to haltingly say their piece. Osbert described how he had been called to view one body and then found another two. The fishermen repeated their story about discovering the dying boy and the mysteriously intact curragh. The hermit Joel, who had a surprisingly deep and cultured voice for such a wreck of a man, related how he had heard the word 'Saracens' pass the lips of the dying lad, but he could add nothing more of any use. Then John instructed Gwyn to march the jury past the four pathetic corpses, so that they could see the wounds on three of them.
'It was a large knife, with a wider blade than the usual dagger,' he pointed out in his sonorous voice. 'The younger lad has no wounds, but you have heard how he soon expired from the effects of the sea, being half drowned when they found him on the shore.'
Gwyn marshalled the men back into line outside the barn, so that the coroner could address them again.
'There is much more to be learned about this affair, but I must reach a verdict now, so that the dead men may be given a Christian burial. There is no doubt that three of the seamen have been stabbed to death. It is impossible to be sure what happened to the boy, but common sense would suggest that he managed to jump over the side of the vessel when they were attacked. Thus he escaped injury, but perished in the waves.' He glowered along the line of men, his dark head thrust out like a vulture. 'So make up your own minds and get one of you to tell me what you decide.'
There was a muttered discussion lasting less than a minute, then the blacksmith stepped forward. 'Crowner, we go along with what you said. The three men were slain, but we can't be sure about the lad.'
De Wolfe nodded his agreement. 'It shall be so recorded. Now I have to consider an easier matter, that of the vessel. The Mary and Child Jesus, a trading cog out of Dawlish, was owned by Thorgils, one of the murdered men. It was washed up on the shore at the mouth of the Avon and as no living thing survived aboard, I now declare it a wreck of the sea.'