De Wolfe had earlier told Gwyn of their clerk’s dramatic but futile attempt to end his life, and the big man had been noticeably upset, vowing never to tease the little fellow again — a promise that de Wolfe doubted he would be able to keep. ‘He seems much more contented, now that John de Alençon has convinced him that his deliverance was miraculous,’ said John, when the subject came up again.
Soon the tops of the great twin towers of the cathedral came into view, as Exeter’s northern crag appeared on the horizon. De Wolfe rehearsed his excuses to Matilda for his intention to report her brother’s further misconduct, as well as his unseating of Theobald Fitz-Ivo from the coronership, after she and Richard had connived at his appointment. ‘She’ll have the same old stick back to beat me with,’ he grumbled to Gwyn. ‘The one that says that being the only coroner means I’m always away from home, neglecting her.’
He realised again, sadly, that he no longer had the Bush Inn as a bolt-hole.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The lawyer’s musty office was hardly big enough to hold those who crowded in to hear Walter Knapman’s last testament read early on that Sunday afternoon. Robert Courteman was squeezed behind his table, with his son standing at his shoulder, pressed up against the shelves of parchment rolls lining the wall behind him. In front, a motley collection of stools and benches brought from the nether regions of the house was occupied by the Knapman family and their hangers-on.
The widow Joan sat directly in front of the lawyers, immaculate in a deep blue silk kirtle, its dark colour a gesture to her gradual, if rapid, shedding of funereal black. Instead of a white cover-chief and wimple, her black hair was neatly braided into two spiral rolls, held in place over each ear by fine gilded nets. Her hands rested demurely on a fur-lined woollen cloak, which lay across her lap. The new widow kept her eyes on her fingers for most of the time, but now and then she stole glances around the room from under her long dark lashes, trying to interpret the mood of the others at this crucial time.
On her left, her brother Roland sat in an almost aggressive pose, his big hands on his knees and his heavy features jutting pugnaciously towards Courteman, as if ready to challenge anything he said. As with all tanners, a faint but perceptiple aura of something rank hung about him, no doubt derived from the vats of dog droppings that were used to cure the leather. Fidgeting on Joan’s other side was her mother Lucy, skinny and bird-like in a grey gown, her hair hidden under a linen coif tied tightly under her chin. Behind them, Matthew Knapman perched uncomfortably on a rickety bench, his florid face bearing a worried expression. He picked nervously at loose skin around his fingernails, until his wife jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
Next to her Peter Jordan and his wife shared another short bench. The young man seemed calm enough, but Mistress Jordan glared indignantly at the backs of the trio in front of her, as if challenging their right to be there solely by virtue of Walter’s recent marriage.
The last person squashed into the small chamber was Paul Smithson, present seemingly as spiritual supporter of the widow, but interested, too, in anything that Knapman might have bequeathed to his church.
The only person not there who might well have been concerned at the outcome was Stephen Acland — but he could hardly have used his role as the widow’s paramour to justify his presence.
‘Are you well accommodated in Exeter, Mistress Knapman?’ began Robert Courteman, in his high-pitched voice, after he had shuffled enough parchments on his table to establish his legal credentials.
‘My mother and I are well housed with Matthew, thank you, through the kindness of his good wife. My brother is lodged in the Bush Inn, and Vicar Smithson has a bed in the cathedral precinct.’ Her quiet tones were firm, but devoid of expression. They seemed to imply that the lawyer should leave the niceties and get down to business. Perhaps Courteman took the hint, for he untied a leather thong from around a small parchment and unrolled it between his bony hands.
After clearing his throat a few times, he stared bleakly around the expectant group and began to speak. ‘This is the final testament of Walter Knapman, tin-master of Chagford in the County of Devon,’ he intoned unnecessarily. ‘It is dated the second day of April in the year of Christ eleven hundred and ninety-five.’
There was a sudden grating noise as the foot of Peter Jordan skidded on the stone floor. ‘What date did you say, sir?’
The dried-up features of the elder lawyer stared testily at the young man who had interrupted him. ‘The second of April, this year.’
‘But that can’t be right,’ began Peter, but he stopped short as his wife jabbed him in the ribs and hissed something fiercely into his ear.
After another disapproving glare at his son-in-law, Robert Courteman continued, staring at the parchment, though not reading it verbatim. ‘The roll has been sealed by myself as certifying that Walter Knapman assented to the contents on that day and his own seal has been appended in wax.’ He held up the curled skin briefly, to display two embossed blobs hanging from tape tags at the bottom of the roll, in lieu of signatures; less than one in three hundred people was literate. ‘The sealing was witnessed by two of my clerks, their signatures being here.’ Courteman jabbed at the document with a long forefinger and laid the roll down again.
‘The substance of the testament is this. The beneficence of Walter Knapman to the Holy Church leads him to donate twenty-five pounds to St Michael the Archangel, Chagford, to be used as the incumbent sees fit, as long as the use is approved by the Prebendary and Bishop.’
Smithson smiled broadly — twenty-five pounds was a large sum of money, and although it was not specifically earmarked for his stipend, it ensured the security of parish finances for a long time to come.
‘After this pious bequest is paid, the residue of his property and possessions is to be distributed thus, assuming his wife Joan survives him — as she thankfully does.’ The lawyer gave a humourless grin, exposing his yellowed teeth in the direction of the widow. His attempt at levity was met with stony silence.
‘The freehold demesne in Chagford is granted absolutely, without let or hindrance, to her, with all its goods and chattels.’ Courteman peered again at Joan and clarified his legal jargon. ‘In other words, the house, its contents and the land on which it stands are yours, Mistress Knapman.’
Joan gave a slight nod, as if to convey that she had expected nothing less.
He returned to his parchment. ‘All the residue, which includes his dozen tin-workings, including all stream-works, blowing-houses and boundings registered under Stannary Law but not yet worked, three freehold farms and mills and all other possessions such as horses, cattle and any other livestock, together with the contents of his treasure chest and all debts due to him yet unpaid, are to be divided into three equal parts between his widow Joan, his brother Matthew and his stepson Peter Jordan.’
There was an outbreak of whispering and muttering and heads closing together, as the audience tried to work out if they were pleased, satisfied or disgruntled, but the lawyer’s voice cut harshly across the murmuring. ‘There are two conditions upon this dispensation. First, the apportionment of his estate is dependent upon the agreement of all beneficiaries not to allow the break-up of the tin-workings by selling any part of them for at least five years.’ He stopped again to gaze around the room, as if seeking any opposition to this clause. ‘The testament provides that any beneficiary wishing to sell their share within those five years will forfeit it and it will then be shared between the other legatees.’