‘Is he badly hurt?’ interrupted de Wolfe, lurching to his feet.
The bailiff shook his head. ‘He was knocked out, but soon recovered, though with many scrapes and bruises. But the man he struck was still senseless when I left and I fear he may die. The tinners have bound your man and have taken him prisoner.’
Justin Green explained that Gwyn had been slightly wounded by a dagger and then went on to say that the crowd had hanged the old Saxon forthwith, stringing him up from a rafter of the coinage shelter, amid yells and jeers from the inflamed tinners.
‘And where was the sheriff when this outrage was taking place?’ roared the coroner.
‘The tinners demanded that he should convict and condemn Aethelfrith, as their Warden of the Stannaries — but he would not. Neither did he try to stop the execution, having but half a dozen soldiers with him against that ugly mob.’
‘The rest of the men returned with the constable a few hours ago,’ volunteered the young man-at-arms from behind.
De Wolfe kicked over his bench in rage and stormed into the middle of the chamber. ‘Damn the sheriff, the God-forsaken coward! He should have tried to stop them. The Stannaries have no jurisdiction over violent crime.’
‘That’s what your Cornishman yelled at them — and got stabbed for his pains.’
‘Where is he now, the rash fool?’
‘On his way to Lydford, lashed to the rail of a horse cart, with the man he felled lying at his feet. The sheriff and his men, with Sir Geoffrey Fitz-Peters and a score of tinners from around Lydford, are riding with them.’
‘Why in the name of the Holy Virgin are they all going to Lydford?’ demanded de Wolfe, becoming progressively more agitated as the story unfolded.
‘The tinners insisted on taking him to the new prison at Lydford and the sheriff made no protest. They say that if the other man dies they will hang Gwyn for murder.’
John groaned — it was already early evening and Lydford was well over thirty miles from Exeter, around the northern bulge of Dartmoor.
He could set out this evening, but would not get far before darkness fell. ‘How came you to ride here with the news?’ He thought that surely the sheriff would not have wanted to advertise his sorry part in this affair.
‘Sergeant Gabriel managed to speak to me secretly in the confusion when they were hanging the Saxon. He wanted me to urge on you the gravity of the matter, especially where your officer is concerned.’
‘I need no convincing of that — but many thanks for your speedy summons. When are these hot-heads likely to get to Lydford with their cart?’
‘They left soon after noon and it’s about eighteen miles from Chagford. That wagon is less cumbersome than an ox-cart, but they’ll still take at least until dark to get there.’
De Wolfe stared blankly through one of the window slits as he worked out the best plan of action. ‘I’ll ride tonight and get as far as I can, then continue at dawn,’ he growled. ‘You get a bed in a tavern here, then go home, with my thanks.’ He was already collecting his cape and broadsword from pegs on the wall. ‘I’ll get a palfrey or post-horse from the garrison stables. It will be swifter than my heavier destrier.’
De Wolfe strode to the doorway, slipping the baldric over his shoulder and buckling up his sword-belt. ‘And God help them if they’ve harmed my officer.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In spite of de Wolfe’s urgent need to reach Lydford quickly, fate conspired against him. The palfrey he had hired cast a shoe near Tedburn St Mary, a hamlet no more than a quarter of the way to Lydford. By the time he managed to rouse a farrier in the village it was pitch dark and he could go no further. He spent the night wrapped in his cloak on the floor of the forge next to the banked-down furnace, and continued on his way at the first glimpse of dawn. Riding was slower than he had anticipated, for the track was muddy with rain and the remnants of melted snow, some of which still lay along the verges.
The road ran in a wide semicircle north of Dartmoor, which loomed high on his left hand. It was almost noon when he rode at last into Lydford, which lay half-way between Okehampton and Tavistock at the western margin of Devon. An ancient Saxon burgh, the little town had two castles: one was a ruined timber structure, dating back to the Conquest, which sat on the edge of the deep gorge that protected one side of Lydford; the other was a brand new square stone tower at the opposite end of the old castle bailey. It had been finished only a month earlier, to serve mainly as the Stannary gaol, though the lord of Lydford had quarters on the top floor. The main hall below this was used as a court and guardroom, the gaol being underneath. It was lacking door or window, reached only through a trap-door from the hall. Already, in the short time the prison had been in use, it had gained an evil reputation for its awful conditions.
John de Wolfe rode wearily up to the rebuilt wooden gatehouse that sat in a stockade that ran along the bank and ditch of the earlier fortifications. A crowd of men was clustered outside, with a fringe of curious women and children. As John walked the palfrey through the archway, a guard stepped forward to challenge him, but a snapped, ‘King’s coroner!’ left him standing with his mouth open.
There were more rough-looking men milling around the courtyard who, de Wolfe guessed rightly, were tinners. A thatched stable block was against the inside of the stockade on his left, with many horses and ponies tethered to rails. He left the palfrey with a dim-witted stable-boy, then strode towards the wooden steps that led up to the main floor of the tower.
At the top, there was such a press of people trying to get into the hall that he had to pull shoulders aside to get through. Inside the doorway a solid plug of bodies brought him to a halt. ‘What’s going on in here?’ he growled in the ear of a grey-bearded fellow jammed against his left side.
‘A crowner’s inquest — a local tinner who died here last night, after that affair in Chagford.’
For a moment, de Wolfe was mystified, as well as anxious. Then he realised that the territory given to Theobald Fitz-Ivo included Lydford. Even though the tinner had been injured in Chagford, which was de Wolfe’s responsibility, he had died in Lydford, so Fitz-Ivo rightly had jurisdiction. He forced his way inside, ignoring protests and threats until he had a clear view of the large chamber.
A low dais to one side carried a few benches and chairs, as in the Shire Court at Exeter. On these sat the obese Fitz-Ivo and the dapper sheriff, together with a couple of clerks and Geoffrey Fitz-Peters. Behind them stood a couple of men-at-arms, a priest and a few tinners. Immediately below the dais, a low bier rested on the floor, carrying the body of the black-bearded tinner, covered with a sheet up to his neck.
But de Wolfe’s attention was riveted elsewhere. Directly in front of the platform the huge figure of Gwyn of Polruan was pinioned by two soldiers. His officer looked even more dishevelled than usual, his hair tangled and ominously matted with dried blood. The part of his face that was not covered in whiskers was red and bruised and his left eye was half closed, the lid swollen and dark. As if they feared the giant would break free from his captors, heavy metal fetters were clamped around his wrists and ankles, joined together with a rusty chain.
Appalled and angry, de Wolfe shoved further forward until he stood in a free space at one end of the dais, the rest of the small hall being packed with a few score tinners, presumably both jury and spectators. Fitz-Ivo was leaning forward to speak, hunched over his paunch. The inquest must have been well advanced, for he was haranguing the jury by way of a summing-up.