He was angry at the thought of losing his position and de Wolfe steered him away from the subject. ‘Talking of communes, I’ve had some dealings with the Chagford tinners lately. I met Walter Knapman — they say he has a brother in the same trade here in Exeter.’
‘Yes, Matthew, he’s his twin, though he looks nothing like him. I don’t know him well, as the tinners reckon they don’t need guilds like the rest of us.’ Rifford shook the rainwater off his expensive otter-skin cape.
‘Is he in business with his brother?’ De Wolfe had learned in the past that the two portreeves were a fount of information about the commercial life of the city.
‘I understand that Matthew arranges the sale of the tin after it has cleared the second smelting. Most of it goes by ship, either direct from the quay or on barges for transhipment at Topsham. He has a few men working for him — one is the stepson of Walter, I believe, a young fellow called Peter Jordan.’
They talked on as the heavy rain continued unabated for another quarter of an hour. The thatch opposite was now a sodden, steaming mass, beginning to disintegrate as the thin rafters smouldered through and collapsed under the weight of saturated straw. The risk of a fire-storm in the city had vanished and when, a few minutes later, the rain eased to a steady drizzle, the shoemaker and his family, with helpful neighbours, began salvaging what they could from the upper floor.
Gwyn came across, from where he had been sheltering and gossiping with a couple of soldiers, to see if his master was ready to go up to Rougemont. When they reached the castle, the perverse weather had changed once more, and though the wind had blown up again, the clouds had cracked apart to show blue patches here and there, though gusty showers still lashed down at intervals.
They trod through the mire of the inner ward to reach the Shire Hall, a bare stone box on the left of the main gate, more like a barn than a court-house. It had a slated roof, as thatch inside a castle was always a target for fire arrows when under siege. There was a single large doorless opening on one side and few bare slits high on the walls to let in more light. Inside, the earthen floor was bare, apart from a low wooden platform along one end wall, on which were two trestle tables, a bench, a wooden armchair and a few stools.
A couple of the sheriff’s clerks were setting out their writing materials at one table, at the end of which Thomas de Peyne was already hunched on a stool, glumly cutting a new point on a goose quill with a small knife. In the body of the hall, a few men-at-arms ambled among the few members of the public who had come to see the proceedings. This was a routine session and probably all the spectators were relatives or victims of the main players.
De Wolfe sat on the bench at the central table, and Gwyn took himself off to chat to one of the soldiers while they awaited the opening of the court. A few minutes later, Richard de Revelle came across from the keep, escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and two more men-at-arms. He was his usual dapper self, attired in an expensive tunic in his favourite green, the neck and hem banded with gold embroidery. A darker green mantle of heavy serge was draped over his shoulders and his neat moustache and goatee beard had been freshly trimmed. The clerks hauled themselves to their feet until the sheriff had sat down in the only chair, ready to preside over his court.
There was no sign yet of the subjects of the proceedings and de Revelle condescended to favour his brother-in-law with some conversation. They discussed the house-fire and its fortunate extinction for a few moments, then de Wolfe brought up Saturday’s meeting on Crockern Tor. ‘These tinners seem a fiercely independent lot. I suppose they’ve been favoured by kings for centuries, because of the taxes they bring in to the Treasury,’ he observed provocatively.
The sheriff’s face darkened. ‘Damned arrogance, I call it. Wanting to oust me as Lord Warden, when I’m there by right as the King’s representative.’ He was almost apopleptic with anger at the memory of the Great Court.
De Wolfe wondered which king de Revelle wished to represent, given his partiality to Prince John’s cause.
‘Walter Knapman’s behind this!’ went on the sheriff. ‘He wants to be the emperor of the Devon tinners and he’s been stirring them up for many months, so my spies tell me. Lord Warden indeed! He’s just a tin-shoveller who’s risen above his station in life.’ His hands balled into fists on the table before him, as if he had Knapman’s neck between them. ‘This business of the headless overman — I’d not put it past Knapman to have arranged it himself, just to aggravate the tension amongst the tinners for his own ends.’
This was something the coroner had not considered, but he dismissed it as a fantasy of de Revelle’s fevered imagination. He realised with some surprise the depth of the sheriff’s feelings at the challenge to his authority over the Stannaries. He must have been putting more of the tin coinage into his own coffers than de Wolfe had suspected, to be so incensed about even a remote chance of losing this lucrative position.
Further delving into the Stannary problem was prevented by the appearance of a small procession at the hall entrance. Ralph Morin, the burly castle constable, led in a pair of dejected-looking men, dirty and dishevelled with heavy shackles to their ankles. Two more soldiers prodded them along from the rear, followed by a rather frightened-looking fellow accompanied by someone de Wolfe recognised as a prominent local lawyer. The last two peeled off and stood in the front of the small crowd, while the men-at-arms and the two prisoners came up to the foot of the platform, facing the coroner and the sheriff.
The clerk of the court, plump and pompous with a shiny bald head, stood up at the side table with a roll of parchment in his hands.
After self-importantly calling the assembly to order and declaring the Shire Court to be in session, he gave an obsequious bow to the sheriff, who, still in a bad temper over the tinners, acknowledged him with a curt nod.
‘Sir, the first matter is that of declaring five men outlaw, unless they answer to their names today.’ He read out a list of names, coupled with the charges alleged against them — theft, serious assault and counterfeiting. He paused and looked expectantly around the dismal hall, to be met with silence.
‘Have their names been called at the last three sittings of this court?’ snapped the sheriff.
This time little Thomas de Peyne rose from his place, a parchment in his hand.
‘Yes, this will be the fourth occasion, as recorded in the coroner’s roll.’
Now John de Wolfe rose to his feet, standing hunched over the table like some lean black bird of prey. ‘Then I declare them outlawed and instruct that they be now recorded in my Rolls as exigent, unless there are any two men here who will stand surety for their appearance at the next Shire Court, in the sum of twenty marks each. If they fail to answer to that final call, those pledges are forfeit.’
He looked briefly around the hall, knowing that it was highly unlikely that anyone, even relatives, would wager such a large sum on the faint chance that the errant culprits would show up next time. They were probably living rough either in the forests or on Dartmoor, unless they had taken ship to France or Wales.
A resounding silence followed the invitation to stand surety, and de Wolfe motioned to Thomas to enrol the names, then sat down for the next part of the proceedings.
The self-important court clerk rose again and consulted his documents. ‘Now Edmund of Wonford brings an appeal against William Thatcher, claiming the said William Thatcher did feloniously slay Alfred, the brother of the said Edmund.’