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 Alencon 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.
Now a blast by the inexpert trumpeter heralded the arrival of the two royal judges, who came down the steps from the keep with their clerks and a couple of court servants. The constable held up the rope for them to pass under, and they walked to the centre of the square, the rest of the participants gravitating towards them like iron filings to a piece of lodestone.
As the king's representative in the county, Henry de Furnellis again had the responsibility of managing the ritual, and he marshalled the various players into their proper places.
Nicholas was stood facing his two opponents, who were a good dozen feet apart, their respective squires standing behind them. The archdeacon, the garrison chaplain and the two justices grouped themselves between the disputing parties, and the sheriff beckoned to John to join them. As he walked across, he saw that Joscelin de Sucote also attempted to enter, but was brusquely warned off by Walter de Ralegh, who told him he had no part to play in this particular drama.
The first act was, not surprisingly, religious. Firstly, John de Alencon offered up a general prayer to seek God's mercy on all present and to plead that His wisdom would ensure that justice would be done that day. Then Brother Rufus stepped forward with a psalter in his hands and set about safe guarding the proceedings from any unfair advantage derived from witchcraft or the machinations of Satan! He advanced on each of the three duellists in turn and made them repeat a solemn oath after him, with both of their hands resting on the holy book, which he held out to them. Nicholas was first, squaring his broad shoulders as he made the sign of the cross and then followed Rufus's words in a strong, confident voice.
'Hear this, ye justices, that I have this day neither eat, drink nor have upon me neither bone, stone nor grass nor any enchantment, sorcery or witchcraft whereby the law of God may be abased or the law of the devil exalted. So help me God and his saints.'
The monk then went across to Pomeroy and repeated the ritual, Henry bawling out the words at the top of his voice in a pugnacious manner. Indeed, de Wolfe wondered if he had been drinking, in spite of the assertion in his oath, for he seemed to be in an abnormally excited mood.
Once again, there was a marked contrast when Rufus took his psalter to Richard de Revelle. Though the weather was cold, de Revelle's fur-lined cloak of green wool should have kept him from shivering, yet John saw his jaw quivering as he hesitantly repeated his oath.
When the chaplain stepped back after completing his task, the sheriff gestured at de Arundell. 'Sir Nicholas, it is your prerogative to choose your first opponent in this wager of battle. Tell us, who do you name?' Without hesitation, Nicholas pulled off his right glove and threw it on to the ground before Henry de la Pomeroy.
'I will fight that man first and may God give the strength of righteousness to my arm.' His voice was strong and clear, provoking a ragged cheer from the throats of the men who had shared his exile on Dartmoor. His wife, supported on each side by her cousin and Matilda, turned even paler and held a kerchief to her mouth to conceal her anguish.
Henry de Furnellis now waved at Ralph Morin, who stood near the rope, and he and Sergeant Gabriel marched across, each carrying an armful of equipment.
'To ensure that you are evenly matched, you will be given identical arms. You will have a short sword, a shield, a helmet and a jerkin of leather.'
The sheriff watched as the two squires examined the articles to make sure that no unfair advantage could be introduced. Then they went to their masters and helped them to remove their cloaks and strap on the short armless tunics of stiff leather, which were almost an inch thick and had been boiled until they had almost the texture of wood. The swords had blades about two feet long, unlike the great weapons that were used on horseback or in battle. Similarly, the shields were much smaller than the oval ones used against lances; these were round bucklers of hardwood covered with thick leather. The helmets were the standard issue, a round iron basin with a nose-guard, tied under the chin with thongs.
When the two men had been equipped, the others left the centre of the arena, apart from the sheriff and chaplain, who stood between the combatants. As de Wolfe loped back to the perimeter, he noticed his brother-in-law wiping his brow with the back of his hand, as if to remove a sudden sweat that, in spite of the frost, had overtaken him when he realised he had at least a short respite — and possibly a reprieve from fighting if Henry de la Pomeroy's boasts about his inevitable victory came true.
The sheriff gave the last formal instructions to the fighters.
'You will fight with might and main until one of you is vanquished, either by death or by being forced to the ground by the point of a sword at your throat or vitals, when the victor can have you hanged. To submit, then the loser must cry 'craven' in a loud voice!' De Furnellis stepped back, his duty done, and the monk had the last word. Raising his hand in the air he made the sign of the cross and cried out, 'May the blessing of God the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit descend on these weapons, to discern the true judgement of God.'