They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
‘Can I come to see what happens at this abjuration affair tomorrow?’ she asked.
He gave one of his rare grins. ‘Why not? The rest of the town will be there, I’ll bet.’
At noon the next day, the cathedral bell boomed out its message to the town as a large crowd gathered in the Close. It was Wednesday, so there was no rival attraction at the gallows and several hundred of Exeter’s five thousand population were clustered around the West Front of the great building to see the entertainment.
Nesta was there and John had been surprised to receive Matilda’s announcement at their early meal that she intended to watch the proceedings too. He could not decide whether she wanted to be there from sheer curiosity or to see her own husband the centre of civic attention.
Though the de Bonnevilles were not well known in the city, coming from the distant lands at the other end of Dartmoor, the fact that a Norman gentleman was in such disgrace was an unusual attraction to pull in the crowds. It was a secular ceremony, even though the concept of sanctuary had religious origins, so the clergy were keeping a fairly low profile. The Bishop had decided to keep away but the Archdeacon and the Precentor stood in one of the doorways of the West End to keep a watch on the formalities.
The sheriff was also notable by his absence, the sergeant and a few men-at-arms the only token of the forces of law and order, apart from the coroner. John, with the abjurer, was the focal point of the ritual.
As the bell tolled midday, the Coroner led a drab figure out of the north tower and down the nave towards the cathedral doors. The great central oaken door was never opened except on high festivals or for the rare visitation of the Archbishop or the King, so one of the lesser flanking doors was used to allow them out into the daylight.
Gwyn of Polruan followed closely behind the fugitive, his face suggesting that he hoped de Bonneville would make a run for it as soon as they got outside the weaponless zone of the cathedral so that he could cut him in half with his sword. However, as Gervaise was shortly to be released alone on to the high road, there was little point in him escaping anywhere and Gwyn had to be content with a threatening attitude and an occasional prod in the back. Thomas de Peyne trailed along behind, carrying his bag of writing instruments.
Gervaise’s clothing had already been listed for sale, as the abjurer now wore a shapeless tube of hessian, the ragged hem of which came to his ankles. He was barefoot and his long curly hair had vanished – Gwyn had arbitrarily decreed that it be cut off – leaving an irregular stubble over his scalp, which looked worse than if it had been fully shaved. As far as John knew, there was nothing in the rules on abjuration that insisted on shearing the hair, but he was in no mood to deny Gwyn his last chance at humiliating the man.
As they lined up outside the door, there was a chorus of jeers from the crowd and a few rotten vegetables were thrown. As they were as likely to hit the officials as the villain, the sergeant roared at the culprits and smacked a few heads with his mailed hand; he was dressed up to show off for this occasion, in chain-mail hauberk to his knees and a round helmet with the usual nose-guard.
The shouts and catcalls died down and the coroner began the ceremony. Gwyn had dragooned a dozen men to be a jury and they stood in a double semi-circle behind John, to witness Gervaise’s confession. The two cathedral priests also joined the group.
‘On your knees before the King’s coroner,’ yelled Gwyn.
The wretched de Bonneville sank to the ground. His humiliation was all the greater for the contrast with his former station in life – good clothes, horses, money and aristocratic elevation above his fellow men.
‘You will now confess your crimes to me,’ grated John. ‘Unless it is full and genuine, your confession will be invalid.’
At this point the Precentor upstaged the Archdeacon by throwing in a further warning of eternal damnation. ‘And the mercy of the Church and perhaps your eventual absolution also depend on your contrition and truthfulness. Otherwise the fires of hell await you.’
Haltingly and reluctantly, de Bonneville came out with the story.
It had begun many months earlier when a soldier fresh from Outremer had brought the news to Peter Tavy that Hubert hoped to be home before long. ‘We had thought Hubert dead, either in Palestine or on the arduous journey,’ murmured his brother. ‘Many of those who took the Cross never returned home, so my expectations of being heir to my father’s honour had been accepted by all.’ His voice rose in almost petulant defiance. ‘I ran the manors, did all the business when my father was struck with the palsy, it was to have been mine by right. I had earned it through three years of Hubert’s absence.’
Gervaise, who had long resented his brother’s seniority and superior attitude, had seen his hopes of becoming his father’s heir diminish to almost nothing. The only vestige that remained was that Hubert would not survive the homeward journey, as more Crusaders fell prey to disease and other dangers of travel than to the weapons of the Mohammedans. He admitted now that he had often talked to Baldwyn, his squire and confidant, about this possibility. Somehow it developed into an open hope that some fatal accident might befall his elder brother, though there seemed little that they could do to foster the likelihood of this happening.
Then, by sheer chance, Baldwyn had been in Sampford Spiney some eight weeks ago, visiting a woman he knew there, when he heard that a man staying at the tavern was on his way home from the Holy Land. Anxious to know whether this traveller might have more recent news of Hubert de Bonneville, Baldwyn sought him out and was amazed to discover that this Aelfgar was actually his servant-cum-squire. He was on his way to Peter Tavy to announce that his master was in Southampton and would be home in about two weeks.
‘Baldwyn kept his identity secret from the man, then rode home and told me of what he had discovered,’ announced Gervaise, in a flat, hopeless voice.
After a few hours of agonising discussion, they had decided that Aelfgar could never be allowed to deliver his news to their manor. Although Sir Arnulph was incapable of understanding, Martyn, the cousins and all the manor inhabitants would know of Hubert’s imminent return and any plan to usurp him would be frustrated.
By now, Gervaise was purging himself of his misdeeds in an orgy of penitence. Still on his knees in the mud, with the jury and a sizeable part of the townsfolk of Exeter hanging on his every word, he carried on his confession, in a voice that varied from a dull monotone to cracked emotion. ‘We decided to kill Aelfgar and somehow prevent Hubert from coming home, which was far more difficult.’
Baldwyn knew that the Saxon was coming from Sampford Spiney the next day, after his horse had recovered from lameness. ‘I provided my squire with money and he soon found a rough outlaw begging on the rim of the forest above Tavistock who, for a couple of marks, was willing to help him dispatch the Saxon.’ There was an outraged murmur from the front rank of the crowd.
‘Baldwyn and the ruffian lay in wait for Aelfgar on the road out of Sampford Spiney. The two easily unhorsed him, stabbed him and Baldwyn cut his throat. They threw his body over his horse and took it to that nearby tor, where they hid it in a cleft.’
His voice rose suddenly in plaintive justification. ‘I had no part in it, I was miles away at our other manor. Baldwyn was keen to do this thing. Without me as lord of Peter Tavy, he would never have advancement under Hubert, who disliked him and would have put in his own man as seneschal.’