Figure of Hate

by Bernard Knight

  To have John de Wolfe there as well was an added bonus, and the following morning the four of them sat talking, with clerks and stewards hovering impatiently in the background with their parchments and endless queries about administrative problems. De Furnellis ignored them as he listened to the end of John's description of the situation in Sampford Peverel.

  'I knew the father, William Peverel,' he declared. 'A good fighter in his time, but a bad-tempered bastard if he was crossed. He hated losing at anything, especially at the tournament.'

  'Did you know the sons?' asked Ralph Morin.

  The older man shook his grey head. 'Only by sight at a few tourneys. This Hugo had a reputation as a rash fighter - he often won, but he took too many risks, they say, too desperate to win every time. Didn't know any of the others, but I heard about the dispute when the eldest son was barred from his inheritance.'

  'So what's to be done, Sheriff?' asked de Wolfe. 'We've now got two unsolved murders to deal with and if this silversmith's worker is right, then there's a link between them in Sampford.'

  'Get this armourer to Exeter and put him down below!' suggested Gabriel, the most bloodthirsty of the group. 'I'll wager that an hour with Stigand's branding irons in the undercroft would loosen up his tongue.'

  The sheriff, though not keen to put himself to too much effort, was more concerned with the slaying of one of the county's manor-lords.

  'The King's ministers will be huffing and puffing over this,' he said glumly. 'The Peverels were not powerful barons, but they were known well enough by their tourneying reputation. No doubt I'll have to answer a string of questions when I next take county farm to Winchester.'

  'I wonder why de Revelle is poking his nose into their affairs,' mused the constable. 'Knowing him, it can't just be neighbourly concern.'

  'There was some talk of his wanting to buy some of the Peverel land to add to his own,' answered de Wolfe. 'He seems to be buttering up Ralph Peverel and supporting his claim to the lordship, which I suspect Odo is going to challenge again.'

  'Wouldn't trust that swine de Revelle any farther than I could throw my horse,' grunted Henry. 'He's up to something to his own advantage, you can be sure of that.'

  Ralph Morin stroked his forked beard ruminatively.

  'I heard a rumour that our unlamented former sheriff was going to involve himself in the tournament circuit. Maybe that's why he's so thick with the Peverels, as they've always been keen on that business.'

  De Wolfe snorted in derision. 'Richard on the jousting field! My dear wife would perform better with a horse and lance than her damned brother!'

  'I doubt he intends to put on his armour and buckle on a sword,' replied the constable. 'Knowing his love affair with money, I suspect he intends to play the field from the safety of the spectators' stands, wagering on the mad devils who go out to risk their gizzards on the end of a lance!'

  Sheriff Henry cackled into his ale, as Richard de Revelle's lack of prowess with arms and his dislike of personal danger were well known in the county.

  'Now that he can't cream off any of the taxes into his purse, he must be forced to look elsewhere for some loot,' he observed cynically.

  John grinned with the others, though in fairness to his brother-in-law he had to acknowledge that Richard was an astute businessman, leaving aside his dubious history of corruption and embezzlement. He had several manors, one near Tiverton and another at Revelstoke near Plymouth, and made a good income from the management of these. In fact, he regularly topped up Matilda's treasure chest, which stood in the solar, from earnings on the inheritance that their parents had left her some years earlier. Still, the hint that Richard was snooping around the tournament establishment was interesting and might well explain why he was cultivating the Peverels.

  Soon they all left for the courthouse, where an extra session was being held that morning for several stray cases that had missed the last county court. John was involved in a couple of matters, one concerning an irate fishmonger from near the West Gate, who was bringing an appeal against a porter for serious assault.

  The fishman had caught the other fellow enjoying his wife's favours in the salting shed behind his house.

  According to the wronged husband, far from being abashed and contrite, the porter had given the fishmonger a severe thrashing. Now he was wishing to 'appeal' the man, leading to a physical combat between them, which, given the difference in physique between the two men, the husband was foolish to contemplate. The coroner, whose duty it was to listen to the story and make a record, managed to persuade the man to take the matter to the next visitation of the King's justices, where at least he was unlikely to lose his life to the burly porter. Other matters concerned the outlawing of two men accused of theft who had failed to appear after being warned for the last four Shire Courts. John had to confirm that their writs of attachment had been properly made and that the men had not answered to their sureties.

  This caused anguish among their relatives, who had put up the bail money to try to ensure their appearance and would now forfeit it to the King's treasury.

  The issue reminded John again that he needed to get Robert Longus down from Sampford for his resumed inquest.

  His business done, he left the new sheriff and the others to deal with matters that did not concern him and went back at the ninth hour with Thomas and Gwyn to his chamber in the gatehouse for their second breakfast of bread, cheese and cider. Thomas was looking miserable again, as he had still heard nothing more from Winchester.

  Gwyn was his usual cheerful self, looking like a disreputable giant in his leather jerkin and faded serge breeches with cross-gartering up the calves. The wind that moaned through the window opening ruffled his wild red hair as he stared down the steep track that led from the drawbridge to the gate in the stockade around the outer ward.

  'Here's a familiar figure, Crowner,' he said eventually. 'I wonder if he's here to call upon you.'

  De Wolfe looked up from one of his Latin reading lessons, irritated by his officer's characteristically obtuse remark. 'Who is it, for God's sake?'

  For answer, Gwyn bent towards the doorway and put a hand behind his ear in an exaggerated posture of listening. 'Soon find out, Crowner!'

  Sure enough, a moment later there were voices mounting the twisting stairwell and one of the men-at-arms on duty in the guardroom below pushed aside the hessian curtain.

  'Gentleman to see you, sirr' he announced, standing aside to admit a tall, thin figure dressed in a green riding cloak, the hood hanging down his back. It was Reginald de Charterai, his face looking pinched from a long ride in a cold wind. John climbed to his feet and Thomas hurriedly left his stool, the only other place to sit.

  'Sir Reginald, this is unexpected, but you are welcome! Forgive the miserable quarters the previous sheriff grudgingly allotted me, but please sit down.' Reginald pulled the corner of his cloak from the silver ring that secured it to his right shoulder and shrugged it off, before sitting on the stool. Gwyn hoisted himself from his window ledge and poured the visitor a pot of rough cider, then winked at Thomas before scooping up the clerk and the soldier and diplomatically vanishing down the stairs.

  The French knight took a sip of his drink and tried not to wince, then set his mug down on the trestle table and looked sternly at the coroner.

  'Forgive my intrusion, but I felt that you were the best person with whom to discuss certain matters.'

  Though his Norman French was John's own language, the inflexions betrayed his Continental origins, as he came from the Champagne country east of Paris and technically was an enemy, a subject of the French king, Philip Augustus.

  Reginald's long face was finely featured and his whole appearance spoke of an aristocratic, rather cold personality. He stared gravely at the coroner as he sat stiffly erect on his stool.

  'I rode from Tiverton to Bridport yesterday, intending to take ship to Barfleur,' he began. Bridport was in the next county, about twenty miles away in Dorset, and had considera
ble sea traffic with Barfleur, near Cherbourg on the Normandy coast. It was infamous for being the port from where many years ago the tragic White Ship had sailed, the sinking of which led to the death of the first King Henry's son and so to the long civil war between Stephen and the Empress Matilda. John failed to see what this had to do with him and waited patiently for de Charterai to elaborate.

  'Owing to contrary winds, no vessel had arrived and I was recommended to try Topsham.'

  John nodded and tried to look as if he understood where this was leading.

  'I am attending a tournament in Fougéres and will not return from Normandy for some weeks, for a grand mélée at the battleground near Salisbury. I thought that as this Topsham is very near Exeter, I would call upon you and unburden some concerns that I have borne for a considerable time.'

  John began to wonder whether the French nobleman had been taking lessons in long-windedness from Gwyn of Polruan.

  'Are these concerns a matter for a coroner?' he asked politely.

  Reginald inclined his head. 'They may well be – and that is why I seek your advice, as I consider you to be another man of honour, a rare thing these days.'

  John cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at an unexpected compliment, as de Charterai continued.

  'You may know that I have a considerable respect indeed affection - for Avelina, the widow of the late William, lord of Sampford Peverel. Both something that she has imparted to me and also knowledge which I myself possess make me most concerned about the manner of her husband's death.'

  At last he was getting to the point of his visit, thought John, who sat up at this hint of a suspicious death.

  'Tell me what doubts you have, sir,' he prompted.

  'I was there at the tourney field in Wilton last spring when Sir William died - in fact, I was the opponent he struck just before he died. He unhorsed me, but fell from his mount himself a moment later and was killed. In some ways, I might be looked upon as a factor in his death, for the force of his lance's impact upon my shield broke his saddle girth and he fell to the ground.' De Wolfe's dark eyes held the other's blue orbs in a direct stare.

  'So why do you have concerns? Your conscience must surely be clear at being a factor in his death. That is what tourneys are all about - striking at each other!'

  De Charterai shook his head emphatically.

  'No, no, there was much else to consider! William Peverel fell from his horse just as I did - a common occurrence in jousts, as you well know from your own experience. We all learn to accept it, unless we are unlucky enough to break our necks. But he was killed by being trampled by another horse - one ridden by his son, Hugo Peverel.'

  The coroner nodded. 'I had heard something to that effect. But surely you are not claiming that this was deliberate.., how could Hugo foresee that his father would fall in front of him?'

  Reginald rapped the edge of the table with his long lingers, the first time he had been anything other than impassive.

  'Because he may have foreseen it, Sir John! As soon as I saw my opponent beneath the hoofs of another destrier, I picked myself up and ran forward to offer assistance, as did several others. I grabbed the reins of his stallion, which was prancing about and threatening to run wild. It was then I saw that the saddle was almost off its back, as the girth under its belly was hanging free.'

  De Wolfe wondered where this was leading. 'This is also common knowledge,' he said doubtfully. 'Though rare, a broken girth is well known to occur from time to time.'

  The French knight shook his head. 'This one was not broken. As I held the horse once it had steadied, I looked at the leather strap where it hung loose, instead of passing around the stem of the buckle. The treble rows of stitching that secured it had all almost been cut through, so that its strength was but a fraction of what was required.'

  John's black eyebrows lifted. 'That is a serious accusation! How could you be sure?'

  'I spend my life with horses and their harness, Crowner. I know that no stitching could be so sharply snipped in such a regular fashion as that, from wear and tear. It had been deliberately tampered with.'

  De Wolfe pondered for a moment. 'Did you draw the attention of anyone to this?'

  Reginald shook his head. 'All was confusion at that time. Peverel's squire came running to take the horse, as well as some grooms and officials from the tourney.

  I left the beast with them and went to see if I could aid the fallen man, but it was obvious that he was dying as his chest and skull had been crushed by the hoofs of his son's horse.'

  He sighed, as if once again replaying the drama his mind.

  'When I went back to the recet to take a closer at the damaged harness, it had vanished, though stallion was there in charge of some of the retainers. I had no proof nor even any further chance of confirming what I had seen.'

  'You said you have some other evidence which you concern?' prompted the coroner.

  'Lady Avelina, she had firm ideas as to what happened,' continued De Charteral. Though, like me, she has no proof, she is convinced that Hugo plotted his father's death. The sabotaged girth and the fact that Hugo conveniently managed to run his fallen father down with his own horse seem strong evidence that this was no accident.'

  'But why should Hugo Peverel wish to commit the awful sin of patricide?' demanded John.

  'He was in dire need of money, having lost a deal at the tournaments the previous year, both in forfeiture of horse and arms and injudicious wagers on other fighters. Avelina and I are convinced that he wished to displace his father from the lordship and claim the manor for himself, as a means to clearing his substantial debts."

  'But his elder brother was next in succession, so how could he have gained?' objected de Wolfe.

  The lean Frenchman fixed him with a sardonic stare.

  'You well know what happened next! Hugo took his brother to law and had him displaced on the grounds of incapacity, due to his falling sickness. This must have been planned in advance - his stepmother is utterly convinced that her husband was murdered by his son.'

  De Wolfe grunted. 'Well, he has paid for his sins now - stabbed in the back!'

  'But by whom?' demanded de Charterai. 'Has recent history repeated itself? Who is now contesting the lordship of the Peverel' estates?'

  John nodded slowly. 'That had occurred to me, sir. But there are a number of candidates for the dispatch of Hugo, apart from his brother Ralph.'

  'And what do you intend to do about it, Crowner?' demanded Reginald. 'Both father and son slain and no one brought to account.'

  De Wolfe slowly shook his head. 'As to the father, I have no jurisdiction whatsoever. This occurred in Wiltshire and is the business of its sheriff and coroner.

  Did you not think to report it to them at the time?'

  Reginald de Charterai's austere features took on an almost contemptuous look. 'What, with no proof? The harness vanished immediately - a suspicious thing in itself. And I would remind you that I am a Frenchman, not overly loved by many on this side of the Channel, especially as my relationship with the Peverels was not too cordial at previous tournaments. Then that disgraceful affair here in Exeter would make any accusation of mine appear spiteful mischief-making. It was only when I recognised you as a man of integrity that I decided to speak out privately to you.'

  John digested this oblique compliment and made a somewhat grudging attempt at satisfying de Charterai.

  'I am not acquainted with either the sheriff or the Coroner in Salisbury, but as soon as the opportunity arises I will raise the matter with them - though without any proof, I fail to see what can be done at this late stage.'

  He rubbed a hand over his dark stubble as an aid to thought.

  'However, the death of Hugo is very much my responsibility - at least, our sheriff here has made it so, in addition to my duties as coroner. I can assure you that the issues are very much in my mind. I arranging to interrogate further witnesses from Sampford Peverel and elsewhere.'

  The Fr
ench knight jerked his head in acknowledgment and suddenly stood up.

  'I have taken enough of your time. Thank you for listening to me. I shall be lodging at the New Inn here in Exeter for a day or so, until I get word that a vessel is sailing from Topsham. If there is any news, let me know - otherwise, I will call upon you again when I return from Normandy in a few weeks' time.'

  De Wolfe rose and saw him to his horse, which was tethered outside the guardroom, where Gwyn, Thomas and Gabriel were keeping out of the way. They looked curiously at the stiff-gaited Frenchman as he mounted and rode away. Gwyn, never one for the niceties of speech, spat on the ground.

  'Miserable sod, that one! He'd likely crack his bloody face if he tried to smile.'

  For once, John found no reason to disagree with his officer.

  Chapter Ten

  In which Crowner John receives a royal commission

  It was proving to be a busy day for Devonshire's coroner, measured by the number of visitors and interruptions. After Reginald de Charterai had left, John went back to his chamber and began struggling again with his reading lessons. Every time he felt he was making some progress, some crisis seemed to drive it all from his mind and he had to start afresh. He could now write his name tolerably well and recognise several dozen words in Latin, mainly those dealing with the legal matters that arose repeatedly in the Shire Court and in Thomas's inquest rolls. His progress was painfully slow, however, and he accepted that at his age he could never become really proficient.

  For the moment, John was alone at the top of the gatehouse tower, with only the whistle of the breeze through the pointed window openings for company. Gwyn had gone to the soldiers' quarters in search of a drink and a game of dice, while Thomas had taken himself to the cathedral scriptorium, with the excuse that he must scrounge some more ink from the canon, who ground the best gall and soot pigment in the city. In reality, he wanted to let his feet tread the hallowed stones and boards of an ecclesiastical building, which was the nearest place to heaven that the little clerk could find on earth.