abjure the realm.’
De Wolfe’s hawkish face creased in doubt. ‘I’m not sure an outlaw can do that,’ he growled.
‘Don’t see why not. Convicted felons can seek sanctuary,’ objected the Cornishman.
John rubbed his black stubble, a mannerism he had as an aid to thought, just as Gwyn scratched his crotch and Thomas made the sign of the Cross. ‘True. I know nothing against it, though I’ve never heard of it being done before.’
‘The sheriff will be against it, so soon after sentencing the fellow to death!’ observed Gwyn, craftily.
His master took the bait immediately. ‘Then that’s a good reason for me to grant it! Where has he taken refuge?’
Gwyn grinned impishly. ‘You’ll like this, Crowner. He ran straight to St Olave’s!’
John burst out laughing, a rare phenomenon for the dour knight. ‘God’s guts, man, my wife will have a fit!’ Then he quickly sobered up, giving another anxious glance up the steep stairs to Matilda’s solar, as a new thought occurred to him. ‘There’s to be a special service there tomorrow, for Robert de Pridias. My wife will be in a frenzy if she finds some ruffian clinging on to the altar cloth – or if we have to lay siege to the building to keep him inside. And it’ll be all my fault, no doubt!’
‘If we hurry, maybe we can get rid of him before then,’ suggested the ever-practical Gwyn. It was a faint hope, considering all the legalistic ritual that went with abjuration of the realm, but the sooner they started, the better.
The pair hurried out into Martin’s Lane and down the high street towards the tiny church dedicated to St Olave, the first Christian king of Norway, where Gwyn said that he had told their clerk Thomas to meet them. De Wolfe had recently had some acrimonious dealings with its priest, Julian Fulk, which had not endeared him to his wife, who revered the man only slightly less than the Pope or Bishop Henry Marshal.
Outside the door, which opened directly on to Fore Street, they found a small crowd gawping at the unexpected drama that had enlivened their afternoon.
Blocking the door was one of the two city constables, a bean-pole of a Saxon named Osric. Alongside him was Thomas de Peyne, Gabriel, the grizzled sergeant of the castle guard and two of the gaolers from the burgesses’ prison, from where the outlaw had escaped.
The crowd, a score of old men, grandmothers, urchins and cripples who had little else to divert them, parted to let the coroner and his officer through.
‘It’s that fellow Stephen Aethelard,’ grunted Gabriel. ‘I’ll wager he had the gaolers bribed, though these fellows deny it.’ He jerked his head at the two warders, brutish men with short necks and glowering expressions.
‘Weren’t us, Crowner,’ grunted one of them. ‘We only came on duty an hour ago and when we checked on who was being hanged tomorrow, this bastard was missing.’
‘And as usual, nobody knew nothing about it!’ added the other.
John ignored them and went through the small door into the church, Gwyn close behind. Thomas bobbed his knee and crossed himself repeatedly as soon as he entered this diminutive house of God. St Olave’s was little more than a large room, with a tiny chancel at the far end. This contained an altar, covered in an embroidered white cloth on which were a metal cross and candlesticks.
It now also contained a sanctuary-seeker, who looked even more scruffy that he had in the Shire Court that morning. Stephen Aethelard was sitting dejectedly on the step below the altar, staring at the floor and scratching at some sores on the side of his neck. Halfway down the nave, the resident priest, Julian Fulk, was standing with his back to the door, glaring at the intruder with a marked lack of Christian compassion.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ snapped John, after taking in the scene.
‘Be a damned sight easier just to let the fellow run back to his forest where he came from, to save all this rigmarole of
De Wolfe’s hawkish face creased in doubt. ‘I’m not sure an outlaw can do that,’ he growled.
‘Don’t see why not. Convicted felons can seek sanctuary,’ objected the Cornishman.
John rubbed his black stubble, a mannerism he had as an aid to thought, just as Gwyn scratched his crotch and Thomas made the sign of the Cross. ‘True. I know nothing against it, though I’ve never heard of it being done before.’
‘The sheriff will be against it, so soon after sentencing the fellow to death!’ observed Gwyn, craftily.
His master took the bait immediately. ‘Then that’s a good reason for me to grant it! Where has he taken refuge?’
Gwyn grinned impishly. ‘You’ll like this, Crowner. He ran straight to St Olave’s!’
John burst out laughing, a rare phenomenon for the dour knight. ‘God’s guts, man, my wife will have a fit!’ Then he quickly sobered up, giving another anxious glance up the steep stairs to Matilda’s solar, as a new thought occurred to him. ‘There’s to be a special service there tomorrow, for Robert de Pridias. My wife will be in a frenzy if she finds some ruffian clinging on to the altar cloth – or if we have to lay siege to the building to keep him inside. And it’ll be all my fault, no doubt!’
‘If we hurry, maybe we can get rid of him before then,’ suggested the ever-practical Gwyn. It was a faint hope, considering all the legalistic ritual that went with abjuration of the realm, but the sooner they started, the better.
The pair hurried out into Martin’s Lane and down the high street towards the tiny church dedicated to St Olave, the first Christian king of Norway, where Gwyn said that he had told their clerk Thomas to meet them. De Wolfe had recently had some acrimonious dealings with its priest, Julian Fulk, which had not endeared him to his wife, who revered the man only slightly less than the Pope or Bishop Henry Marshal.
Outside the door, which opened directly on to Fore Street, they found a small crowd gawping at the unexpected drama that had enlivened their afternoon.
Blocking the door was one of the two city constables, a bean-pole of a Saxon named Osric. Alongside him was Thomas de Peyne, Gabriel, the grizzled sergeant of the castle guard and two of the gaolers from the burgesses’ prison, from where the outlaw had escaped.
The crowd, a score of old men, grandmothers, urchins and cripples who had little else to divert them, parted to let the coroner and his officer through.
‘It’s that fellow Stephen Aethelard,’ grunted Gabriel. ‘I’ll wager he had the gaolers bribed, though these fellows deny it.’ He jerked his head at the two warders, brutish men with short necks and glowering expressions.
‘Weren’t us, Crowner,’ grunted one of them. ‘We only came on duty an hour ago and when we checked on who was being hanged tomorrow, this bastard was missing.’
‘And as usual, nobody knew nothing about it!’ added the other.
John ignored them and went through the small door into the church, Gwyn close behind. Thomas bobbed his knee and crossed himself repeatedly as soon as he entered this diminutive house of God. St Olave’s was little more than a large room, with a tiny chancel at the far end. This contained an altar, covered in an embroidered white cloth on which were a metal cross and candlesticks.
It now also contained a sanctuary-seeker, who looked even more scruffy that he had in the Shire Court that morning. Stephen Aethelard was sitting dejectedly on the step below the altar, staring at the floor and scratching at some sores on the side of his neck. Halfway down the nave, the resident priest, Julian Fulk, was standing with his back to the door, glaring at the intruder with a marked lack of Christian compassion.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ snapped John, after taking in the scene.
‘Be a damned sight easier just to let the fellow run back to his forest where he came from, to save all this rigmarole of
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