Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [260]
It had seemed the sensible thing to do.
While the buzz of excitement and surprise continued, the warden considered the interruption carefully.
“You accuse Godric Body of killing a second animal in the forest?”
“I do.” There was triumph in the tanner’s eye.
“If the slaying occurred within the forest bounds,” the warden said, “then it falls within the consideration of this court.” He glanced around and down at Godric. He was conscious that time was passing. “Very well. We’ll hear both charges together. You have witnesses?”
The tanner grinned. And when he pointed at Mary, the face of Godric Body fell in disbelief.
While the tanner took his place before the warden, and all eyes were upon the squinting girl, Le Portier moved quietly to where Godefroi was standing. Unobserved, he removed the small bag of coins from his belt and dropped it into the knight’s hand. Shaking his head he murmured:
“No hope.”
The trial of Godric Body before the justices of the Forest Eyre did not take long.
On the first day of December, as a light rain was falling, he was led out to the gallows erected the day before in the market place in the castle. Godefroi and Nicholas were in the crowd who were watching; so was Mary. But as he stood on the platform under the gallows and the rope was slipped over his head, it was not at her, but at his dog Harold, now duly lawed and brought there at his special request by his uncle, that he sadly gazed.
There was no sound from the crowd – neither the cry of triumph which it reserved for a villain, nor the moan it gave for a popular man – as the gallowsman gave him the shove that sent him off the platform to drop and dangle in the air. His small, hunched body jerked helplessly as the noose did its work; and as his pale, pinched face grew purple, his desperate eyes, even as they started from their sockets, never once left the dog.
It was soon over.
Just after he had gone, Harold suddenly slipped his collar and lurched across the cobbles to where his master’s body hung, so that Nicholas had to drag him away.
In the month of December 1139, several events of significance took place in the castle of Sarisberie.
On December 10, as he was visiting the market, Godefroi heard terrible cries coming from the bishop’s house, as though a madman were raging through the place. After a few moments, a servant ran out and the knight asked him what was amiss.
“The bishop, sir. The quartan fever has grown worse. I think it is a crisis. Four men are trying to hold him down and he’s quite delirious.”
It was now a month since Roger had been seen outside his house, and the whole town knew that the sickness had taken control of his massive frame.
“What is he shouting about?”
The servant grimaced.
“His castles and his treasure, sir. It’s the loss of them that caused the fever I think.”
Godefroi stared up at the house sadly. Its thick stone walls, decorated so beautifully in the zig-zag patterns Roger particularly favoured, were a tribute to his taste and wealth.
“Does the thought of God and his Church give his mind no relief?”
“No, sir.”
There was a crash from within.
“Dear God I think he’s broken loose again,” the man exclaimed, and hurried away.
On December 11, Bishop Roger died.
The next event, which followed soon afterwards, was the visit of the king. A truce had been arranged for the holy season and in his customary easy-going way, Stephen treated it as though it were a lasting peace.
He rode into the castle in high good humour, inspected its solid walls, the bishop’s fine house and the stout tower. The treasure he found there astonished him.
“I think the bishop was richer than I!” he cried. And he took it all.
Nor was this all. The canons of the cathedral had decided to buy an exemption from the ancient geld tax