'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.