Figure of Hate

by Bernard Knight

  As the coroner pushed his way through the throng at the South Gate, he appreciated anew the massive increase in population that this week had brought. He hoped that there would not be a similar increase in crime during the next three days. Drunkenness, fights, brawls and assaults were inevitable, but he prayed that there would not be too many deaths for him to deal with, though yesterday's corpse was a poor beginning.

  Outside the gate was a straggle of timber houses, where the thriving city overflowed its old boundaries.

  To the right, the ground dropped away steeply towards the quay-side, and to the left gardens and meadows stretched around the city wall, forming the acres known as Southernhay.

  Just beyond the gate the road forked, one branch going straight on, marching above the river towards Topsham and the sea. The left branch struck off at an angle to form Magdalen Street, a country road that headed out past the gallows to become the main highway east to Honiton, Yeovil and eventually Winchester and London, though these places were too remote for most people even to contemplate. In the angle between the two roads was Bull Mead, common land that was the venue for tomorrow's tournament.

  As de Wolfe stepped out towards the mead, he looked to his left and saw that almost the whole of Southernhay was now covered by stalls and booths, mostly flimsy structures under gaily coloured awnings. The majority were little more than a trestle table with four poles supporting a sagging roof of striped cloth, though a few were more substantial with Wattle or planked walls.

  The stalls were arranged in lines parallel to the city wall behind them, and stretched outwards for a hundred paces, the rows running for most of the distance between Exeter's south and east gates. As John looked at them, he was reminded of an ant-hill or a hive of bees, for although it was early in the morning the fair was already crowded with people. Many were the traders and their families, but visitors, both local and from far afield, were ambling up and down the rows, hoping for an early bargain. He stopped to watch for a moment, and saw that in the centre of the fairground the rows of stalls had been interrupted to leave a wide space around a raised platform, which had high screens at the back. At the moment it was empty, but he knew that this was where various entertainments would be staged, from jugglers and tumblers to musicians and the miracle plays, which the Church insisted on as an antidote to the otherwise totally mercenary nature of the fair.

  De Wolfe was brought back to earth from his contemplation by a sudden snarling and had to yell at Brutus, who was involved in a nose-to-nose confrontation with a skinny cur that was helping a shepherd to drive a score of sheep along the road towards Southgate and the slaughtermen beyond. Reluctantly, his own hound lowered the bristling fur on the back of its neck and slunk after him, as he strode on to get Brutus away from further temptation. Another few hundred yards along the crowded road brought him to the gap in the rough fence of hazel pa4ings that fronted the twenty acres of Bull Mead. Turning in, he entered the undulating common land and made for the centre, where a scattering of workmen were hammering in posts and rigging up a rope barrier to mark out a large square where the actual contests would take place. At one end was a crude stand for privileged spectators, little more than three levels of planking nailed to some stout posts.

  At each side were some small circular tents that did service as pavilions for the contestants, and at the other end of the enclosure were a few more, together with some open-sided booths, similar to the stalls in the fairground. Though the whole set-up was flimsy and obviously designed to survive for no more than a day or two, a brave effort had been made to brighten it up, with flags flying from poles and coloured pennants streaming above the tents.

  The coroner walked towards the front of the stand, where a small group of men were huddled in discussion. He could see at a distance from the bright colours of his clothing and the gaudy floppy hat that one was Hugh de Relaga. Next to him was a much more sombre man, fellow portreeve Henry Rifford, older, heavily built and almost totally bald. When John joined the group, he found that two of the other men were burgesses' clerks, together with the master of works, who clutched a parchment roll bearing details of the tourney field.

  After greetings all round, Henry Rifford asked de Wolfe about the organisation of the jousting the next day.

  'I know that de Courcy has taken charge of the arrangements for us,' he said in his mournful voice.

  'But is everything going smoothly, de Wolfe?' John shrugged. 'I've only been foolish enough to agree to be a referee, so I know little of the organisation. But from what I know of Reginald de Courcy, he'll have everything under control.'

  De Courcy was a wealthy knight and landowner in the county and a staunch King's man, like Guy Ferrars, a greater baron who was also a patron of the tournament. In fact, it was these two who had suggested its addition to the fair, and Ferrar's prominence in the affairs of state would deflect any official disapproval of the tourney, which strictly speaking was illegal, because it was not being held at one of the King's authorised sites and no licence had been obtained from Winchester to hold it. It was well known that there were many such small events across, England, however, and as long as they did not degenerate into uproarious mélées, a blind eye was turned, especially if the palms of senior Treasury clerks were crossed with sufficient silver. The influx of so many contestants and visitors was a major financial boost for Exeter, as well as satisfying the growing enthusiasm - indeed obsession - of so many knights for the jousting field.

  After a few moments' conversation, John made off to walk around the enclosure, looking at the tents that the contestants could use to don their armour and take a rest - and, if needs be, be treated by their squires for injuries. He inspected the wooden troughs for watering the horses, the hitching rails and the ox-cart filled with hay and another with sacks of oats for the sustenance of the large destriers that would throng the place the following day.

  A few knights and their servants were already on the scene, doing exactly the same as the coroner, making sure that the venue for their bouts was in good condition. De Wolfe spoke to several and sensed their eagerness and impatience to get on with the clash of arms the next day. One of them, a young man with a wispy blond beard, recognised the coroner and was enthusiastic about his chances of winning.

  'This means much to me, Sir John,' he declared, 'I am but the third son of the lord of a small manor near Okehampton. I have little chance of support from my father and even less of inheriting anything from him.

  If I can vanquish one or two men tomorrow, the value of their horses and armour will provide me with funds enough to travel to France and join the King's campaigns, with the glorious prospect of loot and ransom before me!'

  De Wolfe smiled at the lad's fervent hopes - he recognised himself in the young man, exactly as he had been twenty years earlier when he rode off. to Ireland with Gwyn at his side, determined to make his fortune.

  It had worked for him and he wished the youngster the same luck - though luck was not enough, as he would need much skill with lance and sword, as well as the fortitude to bear rough living, discomfort, hunger and pain.

  Satisfied with his survey of the tourney field, John walked across it to Magdalen Street, here a well-worn strip of stony earth, rutted by the iron-girt wheels of generations of ox-carts. It now formed the boundary of the fairground and, whistling again to Brutus to come to heel, he went straight across and strode between the stalls, their canopies flapping in the cold breeze. He shouldered his way through the ambling throng, a head taller than most of them, his distinctive black-clad figure drawing glances from many eyes, both curious and covertly wary. As he ploughed along, he was deaf to the cries of the tradesmen vainly trying to sell him bolts of brown serge, oranges from France, knives from the Rhine and medicines claiming to cure every ailment from earache to cow-pox. There were booths festooned with cat-skins, the fur being known as 'poor man's ermine', men with pincers offering to pull aching teeth and others tempting customers with the aroma of roasting chestnu
ts. Pedlars paraded up and down with-trays slung from their necks, offering ribbons, needles, thread and sweetmeats. When they saw stewards approaching, they melted away between the booths to reappear in the next lane, as few had hawkers' licences. These stewards were mostly clerks, each with a more lowly servant to accompany them.

  They wore a red cloth tied around their right arm as their badge of office and were mainly responsible for checking the permits of the traders, to make sure that they had paid their dues. As few of the stall-holders could read, when they handed over their fees each was issued with a wooden tally with a number carved into it. This was displayed to the steward, who checked the number against a parchment list. Because literacy was at a premium, these stewards had to be drawn mainly from the clerks to the courts and from the burgesses' assistants. Though by far the largest group of literates were the clerics of the Church, all but the lesser orders of secular clerks were forbidden to become involved in this work of Mammon.

  All the blandishments of the traders were wasted on John de Wolfe, as there was nothing he wanted to buy. He left all the purchasing for his household to Mary, as Matilda was indifferent to shopping for anything but her own finery. He loped along the middle lane until, just as the cathedral bells rang out the summons to Prime, he reached the centre of the fair, where the stage was set up. Two familiar figures were waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform, one large, the other small. Gwyn and Thomas were here by prior arrangement and had already carried out part of the task he had set them the previous day.

  'Any luck so far?' demanded their master, after a brusque greeting.

  Thomas shook his head, the cold morning air causing a dewdrop to fly from the tip of his sharp nose.

  'We've been along both sides of the row nearest the city wall and questioned every stall-holder, but they know nothing of any of their fellows who might have gone missing.'

  Gwyn, hunched in his worn jerkin with the pointed hood pulled up over his tangled hair against the morning chill, nodded his assent.

  'But there's plenty more booths to tackle yet, we've twice as many to visit before we give up.' He beat his arms across his chest and looked longingly at a nearby cook-stall. 'Bloody cold standing here, Crowner! I could do with something hot to warm my guts.' John sighed at his officer's insatiable appetite, though presumably his giant frame needed twice as much sustenance as normal folk.

  'I'll treat you both to a pastry, then we must get on with it. Have you got that clothing from the Watergate?' Thomas held up a shapeless bundle tied in a cloth.

  'We've found no one yet to show them to, as everyone denies any knowledge of a missing man.' Their fortune in this respect was soon to improve, however. As they stood near the baker's booth, where for a quarter-segment of a penny the fat cook provided them each with a folded pastry filled with chopped meat and onions, two men hurried down towards them from the direction of the East Gate; at the farther end of the fairground.

  From the red kerchief around his upper arm, John could see that one was a steward; the other carried the staff of a city constable.

  'Here's Theobald, rushing as if he's desperate to get to the privy!' observed Gwyn, sarcastically, as the fat constable was not one of his favourite people. He found Osric, the thin Saxon, amiable enough, but thought his colleague pompous and self-important.

  Theobald puffed up to the stall, out of breath but able to jerk a thumb at the steward, a lean middle-aged man with a set of rotten black stumps for teeth. Away from the fair, he was the senior clerk at a fulling mill on Exe Island, keeping the accounts and tallying the stock.

  'I've found Robin here, who has some information which may well have a bearing on that corpse from the river, Sir John,' wheezed the constable.

  De Wolfe's beaked nose turned to the fellow with the red armband, hoping that his news might save them much labour around the fair.

  'What can you tell us, Robin?' he growled.

  'Not so much me, Crowner, but two men at a silversmith's booth up at the end of that row.' He pointed a bony finger back in the direction from which he had come. 'They sought me out as soon as the fair opened this morning, for their master didn't turn up - nor did his servant.'

  'Who was he?' demanded de Wolfe.

  'A silversmith from Totnes, sir. I didn't ask his name, I thought it best to report it as soon as I could. Theobald here was the first to know and he said I should tell you in person. All I know is that the missing man is about forty years old.'

  Within minutes, the entourage had marched up almost to the end of the middle lane of the fair and assembled in front of a larger stall, the back and sides of which were wattle panels made of woven hazel withies, under a red striped canvas roof.

  A trestle table stretched across the front, on which were a wide selection of silver objects. There were shoe buckles, belt buckles, brooches, rings, bracelets, earrings and several silver platters, and even a three-branched candlestick. Though John was no expert, he saw that the workmanship was fine and that the display was worth a considerable amount of money. A ring of curious onlookers began to gather behind them, sensing that something out of the ordinary was going on, but de Wolfe set Theobald and the steward to clearing them away.

  Behind the trestle were two men, both dressed in the sober tunics of craftsmen, one with a leather apron covering his chest and belly. The other was hunched over the end of the table, working on some intricate design with a small hammer and punch.

  John noticed that a pair of heavy cudgels and a stout staff leaned against the back of the booth, no doubt to deal with any attempt at robbery of the valuable stock.

  As the imposing figure of the coroner and that of his massive officer appeared in front of their stall, the two men straightened up and touched their fingers respectfully to their foreheads. There was no need for them to be told who he was, and they went straight into their story.

  'Our master is missing, sir,' said the one in the apron, a short fellow with a bulbous nose and a thick neck.

  'We've not seen him since Sunday evening.' De Wolfe held up a hand. 'Wait, start at the beginning. What's his name and where's he from?'

  'He's August Scrope, Crowner. A master silversmith from Tomes - in fact, he's warden of our guild in that part of Devon. We are two craftsmen from his shop there.'

  'What age was he?'

  John used the past tense, but they seemed not to notice.

  'Not quite sure, Crowner - but he looked about forty.' He glanced at the other man for support; the latter nodded his agreement. 'He was a widower, though he now lives tally with a younger woman, who warms his bed and makes his food.'

  'Why d'you think he's gone missing, and not just decided to go on a drinking spree or bed a wench?' growled Gwyn. :

  The spokesman of the pair shook his head firmly.

  'Against his nature, sir, he's not much of a drinker and he seems content with his own woman. Anyway, his man has vanished with him!'

  The story soon came out in detail, related alternately by the two metal-workers from Totnes, a substantial town in the south of the county, August Scrope, who was proud of his widespread reputation for fine workmanship, had a previous commission from a wealthy shipowner in Topsham to make a matching set of heavy bracelets and a necklace for his wife. They were made ready by the time of the fair and Scrope arrived in Exeter a day early so that he could make a side trip to the nearby port and deliver them personally and collect the payment. Staying at the New Inn in the city's High Street on Sunday night, he was to leave early the next morning for Topsham, taking with him his body servant Terrus as protection while carrying the valuable silver.

  The two craftsmen had been left behind in their more modest lodgings to guard the rest of the stock for display at the fair until their master returned on Monday afternoon - but neither he nor his henchman had shown up.

  'Is this man Terrus reliable?' demanded de Wolfe. 'Might he not have robbed his master and made off?'

  The elder silversmith shook his he
ad emphatically.

  'Never, sir! He's been with us a dozen years and accompanied the master many times with far more valuable pieces than those. I fear they've been waylaid somewhere.'

  The coroner sombrely told them of the finding of a body in the river and motioned to Thomas to unwrap the bundle of clothing and show it to the two men.

  Their distress was only too evident when they immediately confirmed that the garments belonged to August Scrope, especially when the extensive blood soiling spoke mutely of the wounds he must have suffered.

  Rather than launch into a description of the body from the river, de Wolfe took the two men to the dismal chamber in the tower of the Watergate, leaving Theobald and the steward to guard the silver-strewn stall while they were absent. Though the face was ravaged beyond recognition, they unhesitatingly confirmed that the body was that of their master. The younger smith was devastated, falling to his knees among the clutter around the body and sobbing out some prayers. Thomas, ever sympathetic to another's distress, laid a hand on his shoulder and murmured some consoling words.

  'How can you be so sure, with his features so ill used?' John asked the older man, who, though pale and drawn, seemed less affected than his workmate.

  'Everything about him cries out August Scrope,' he replied bitterly. 'His size, his hair, even the rough skin of his neck which I have stared at in the workshop these many years.' Then he pointed at the head of the corpse. 'And those ears, sir! One sticks out, the other is flat and has that pointed lobe. It's him right enough - now what's to become of us, with no one to serve?'