'The death of your brother, a well-known manor-lord, is no ordinary murder. There will be questions asked by the highest in the land, especially the King's Curia and his Justiciar. To have someone accused of such a crime makes it vital that he be properly questioned - and that is the business of the sheriff, the ultimate keeper of the peace in this county.'
He said the last words with a pointed look at his brother-in-law, the former sheriff, who had made little effort in that direction.
'I've done nothing, this is a nonsense!' shouted Robert Longus. 'I know nothing about any silversmith. Both Lord Hugo and you, Sir Ralph, vouched for me at the time.'
Ralph advanced on the coroner, until his angry face was within inches of John's long nose.
'You're not having him, understand!' he snarled. 'There's no evidence against him, apart from the blatherings of a dull oaf, from whom you probably tortured this false confession. And I need my armourer here, to make ready for the next tournament in Bristol, to say nothing of the grand melee due soon at Wilton.' His voice rose to a crescendo. 'You're just not having him, understand!'
'To hell with your tourneying, man!' blazed de Wolfe. 'A matter of three murders cannot be compared in importance with your prancing about a jousting field.'
'You exceed your powers, John,' brayed Richard de Revelle. 'You are just the coroner, appointed by some whim of Hubert WaIter to dabble in the recording of cases. Arresting felons is the sheriff's business, not yours.'
'Then it was a pity that you were so reluctant to do your duty when you were sheriff, Richard,' retorted John. 'I have been deputed by Henry de Furnellis to act for him whenever it seems necessary.'
'I do not think that is sufficient warrant for you to come into this manor and remove my servants in this way, Sir John,' said Odo gravely. He did not use the hectoring tones of either Ralph or de Revelle, but he had a certain heavy authority that was impressive.
'I warn you against obstructing my investigations into three deaths, one of which was your own brother's,' snapped de Wolfe.
'Get out of here, Coroner!' spat Ralph Pevere!. 'You are a vindictive and spiteful nuisance, using your alleged powers to misuse this family, against whom you seem to have taken a dislike. Just clear off, we'll not allow you to take either Crues or Longus.'
Ralph, Odo and de Revelle crowded around de Wolfe in a way that was openly threatening, and even the languid Joel left his lady-love and came across. The steward and the bailiff stood back uncertainly, but the armourer, heartened by the show of defiance being put up by his masters, pressed closely behind them.
Thomas and Eustace retreated rapidly to the door and the clerk beckoned urgently to Gwyn, who was holding the reins of the horse to whose saddle Crues's wrists were tied. When the coroner's officer hurried into the hall, he was just in time to see the climax of the confrontation between de Wolfe and Ralph Pevere!'
'You will all suffer greatly when this comes to the ears of the Justiciar and then the King himself!' warned John, white lipped with anger.
Ralph, emboldened by the solidarity shown by his brothers and de Revelle, gave John a hard shove on the shoulder with the heel of his hand.
'You are unwelcome here, Crowner!' he yelled. 'Just get on your horse and go home. You broken-down old Crusaders should stay by your firesides, dreaming of times past, not be given useless sinecures as a reward for long service!'
This insult was bad enough, but now the impetuous Ralph went too far.
'Get out and stay out!' he shouted, with another push at John's chest. 'I'll wager that all you ever did in your much-vaunted campaigning was to line your own purse with loot and keep safely out of the heat of battle!'
This was too much for both Gwyn and John de Wolfe. The Cornishman roared and strode across towards the group, intending to grab Ralph by the throat and throw him across the room, but his master was too quick for him. First he punched Ralph hard on the nose, causing blood to spurt from his nostrils. Then he turned and snatched a riding glove from his foppish brother-in-law's hand. With it, he slapped Ralph violently across the face.
'I hear this is the new French method of challenge!' he snapped, throwing Richard's glove on to the floor at Ralph's feet. 'Now I'm off to Exeter to fetch the sheriff and his men-at-arms. When I return by noon tomorrow, I expect to meet you in the bailey with sword and mace. Then we'll see how I fare in the heat of battle!'
* * *
There was consternation in the Bush that evening, when Nesta . discovered what had happened in Sampford. Tearfully, she pleaded with John to give up this mad idea of a duel with Ralph Peverel, but the obstinate coroner would not listen, even to his mistress's heartfelt supplications.
'It's a matter of honour, cariad. He called me a coward - me, who's been at the siege of Acre, the battle of Arsulf and many others, to say nothing of years in Ireland and France! That bastard's not been farther than a few skirmishes in the Vexin!'
Nesta was uncaring about their military histories. 'He'll kill you, John! He's years younger than you, faster and fitter - call off this nonsense, no one will think the worse of you.'
But nothing would shift the obdurate coroner. He had been insulted and he was going to have satisfaction for it, even if cost him life or limb.
Gwyn tried to reassure Nesta that her lover would be the victor, though privately he was equally concerned that his master, now forty-one years old, might not be a match for a man not only fifteen years his junior but who regularly trained for the jousting field.
Later, as they walked back towards Martin's Lane, he tried to tactfully talk de Wolfe out of the contest, but without success. Once John had made up his mind, especially over a slur on his bravery, there was no way he would ever back down.
Earlier that evening, on their return from Sampford, John had gone to see Henry de Furnellis to tell him all that had taken place there. They had left Alexander Crues behind after the confrontation, John reckoning that if they were coming back in force for Robert Longus, they might as well collect his assistant at the same time. The only danger was that both would vanish overnight, but the arrogant confidence of the Peverels suggested that they would brazen out the situation.
The sheriff readily agreed to return with John the next day and take a posse of soldiers with him, but when he heard of the challenge, he too was concerned for his friend's safety. Like the others, his tactful pleas fell on deaf ears, but as an old campaigner himself Henry accepted that Ralph's insult could not be over-looked by any honourable man.
Thomas de Peyne was beside himself with worry, as he revered the coroner as the man who had taken him in and saved him when his life seemed at an end. He spent half the night on his knees before the altar of St Radegund in the cathedral, praying that the life of John de Wolfe would be spared on the morrow.
In his almost empty house, John sat late by his fire, drinking ale and wondering whether this might be his last night on earth. He was not too concerned - he had experienced too many similar eves of battle to unnerve himself with worry. He remembered the last time he had challenged a man, almost a year earlier - but that had been on horseback with lance and shield. John had ended up with a dead stallion and a broken leg, but at least he had survived, which was more than his opponent had.
Saying nothing of the matter to Mary, as he could not face another tearful woman trying to persuade him to swallow his pride, he went to bed and slept soundly until dawn.
The cavalcade that rode up the track to Sampford the next morning was far more impressive than the usual coroner's team. It was a true posse, as the sheriff himself led the group alongside the coroner - the posse comitatus had been introduced fourteen years earlier by old King Henry in his 'Assize of Arms' and authorised the sheriff to call out any able-bodied men of the county to seize suspected criminals or to defend the realm.
Behind Devon's two most senior law officers came Ralph Morin, the constable of Exeter, and Gwyn of Polruan. Leading a dozen men-at-arms in boiled leather jerkins and round helmets was Sergeant G
abriel. Today both Thomas de Peyne and Eustace de Relaga had been left at home to write up their rolls, in case there was serious trouble. Thomas was beside himself with anxiety, especially as he would not know the outcome of the contest until the posse returned to Exeter.
The village seemed ominously quiet as the column rode along the ridge track from Tiverton to reach the manorial compound. There were people about, all staring silently at the mounted men as they passed. Godwin Thatcher looked down from a ladder against the roof of a cottage and Nicholas the smith stopped pumping his bellows as they went by. Agnes's mother sat by her door, her cheeks still wet at the thought of her daughter still lying unburied in the church.
When the sheriff and the coroner turned into the gate of the bailey, they found the whole staff of the manor turned out in front of the house. Grooms, ostlers, cooks, brew-maids, stable lads and houndsmen were standing sullenly in a large half-circle, with the more senior servants in front of them. It seemed that the steward, bailiff, huntmaster and parish priest, together with all the more lowly servants, had been ordered to witness the humiliation of the county coroner by.one of their lords. The armourer and his assistant were also present, standing at the end of the inner line.
As the posse dismounted, figures appeared at the top of the steps leading to the hall. Odo and Ralph stopped dead on the platform to gaze down at the new arrivals. They were disconcerted to see such a show of force, having expected only the sheriff and a guard or two. Once again, John fumed to see the familiar figure of Richard de Revelle coming down behind the brothers. As the trio came down the staircase, two ladies took their place at the top, snug in fur-lined pelisses against a chill breeze. The ever gallant Joel accompanied Beatrice and Avelina, their maids standing behind them, eager to watch what they hoped would be a bloody combat.
Henry de Furnellis marched forward to meet the Peverels and to establish his dominance of the occasion. John often thought of him as an easygoing, lazy individual, but Henry could be an imposing person when he wished. Though getting on in years, he was still active enough, and his tall, muscular figure reflected his long experience as a warrior.
'I am here as the King's representative in this county,' he began in his deep voice. 'You have refused to cooperate with the coroner here and I therefore command you to obey my requests, on pain of the serious consequences for defying officers of the Crown.'
He moved to be face to face with Odo, who looked more troubled than ever at this turn of events. John hoped that it would not trigger another of his falling fits, as he fervently wished Odo to win his legal wrangle with Ralph over the succession to the manor.
'Sir Odo, it pains me to know that you sided with less sensible men in refusing to allow the coroner to take two of your servants into custody,' said de Furnellis in a sonorous voice. 'I thought as the new manor-lord you would be more aware of your legal responsibilities. '
The eldest brother looked abashed, but before he could respond Ralph virtually pushed him aside to glare at the sheriff.
'Sir, there is other business to attend to before these time-wasting falsehoods about a couple of our servants. There is a matter of honour to be settled, as you well know. Let us get on with it!'
The sheriff looked at him sourly, as if bemoaning the fact that this new generation had none of the manners of the old.
'That will be attended to forthwith,' he replied. 'But whatever the outcome, be assured that those two men who are under suspicion will be taken back to Exeter with us. If anyone tries to prevent us, you will regret it, both now and in due course, before the King's justices.'
With this threat, he walked back to where de Wolfe was standing with Gwyn and Ralph Morin. A couple of soldiers had taken their horses back to the gate, where the rest of the men-at-arms were waiting on their own mounts, in case of trouble.
'Right, John, let's get you ready,' said Henry with a sigh. Gwyn was acting as John's squire, as he had done for many years, and now led up a packhorse that the last soldier in the line had dragged on a head-rope from the city. Slung over its back was his hauberk and a calf-length suit of chain mail, now slightly rusty, together with the padded gambeson that went underneath. They had once belonged to Simon de Wolfe, John's father, who had been killed in the Irish wars years before. Gwyn and Ralph Morin helped hoist the mail over John's head and settle it into place before lacing the hood to its neckline and placing the round helmet on his head.
'Short sword and a mace, that's what we agreed,' muttered Gwyn, getting more worried as the moments passed. There was no need for a baldric to support a scabbard, as John's riding sword was pressed directly into his hand. This was much shorter than a more massive battle sword, but was still three feet of heavy steel. The short handle of a ball mace was thrust through his belt, carrying a chain ending in a spiked . sphere of iron. Morin unlashed John's shield from the side of the sumpter horse and slid the inner loops over his left forearm. The device on the battered wood was that of a white wolf's head on a black field, and the dents and chips on the surface told of many previous fights.
By now a considerable number of villagers had sidled in through the gates and were standing opposite the occupants of the hall, forming a straggling circle around the sparse muddy grass of the manor forecourt. Ralph had vanished into the hall while John was putting on his armour and now reappeared with his brothers, Richard de Revelle and the armourer behind him. His shield carried the Peverel emblem of two white chevrons on a field of azure, but otherwise he was attired in identical fashion.
Gwyn patted his master and old friend on the back and sent him to walk a few paces forward, his anxiety increasing as he noticed the slight limp that John had tried to hide since breaking his left shin bone at the beginning of the year. The two combatants advanced to face each other some ten paces apart, and the murmur of voices from the onlookers died as the tension rose. An uncaring crow croaked from the roof of the manor, making the sudden silence all the more ominous.
Henry de Furnellis, as sheriff and the most experienced knight present, took it upon himself to act as marshal and loped forward to stand between the two men. They looked at him as he spoke, both sinister in their metal garments, their profiles distorted by the ugly nose guards of the helmets.
'Sir John de Wolfe, and you Sir Ralph Peverel, are you willing to settle your differences or are you firmly set upon this combat?' boomed the sheriff.
'This man impugned my courage and my honour,' growled de Wolfe. 'I cannot let that go unchallenged!'
'And I intend killing this fellow who has persecuted my family,' shouted Ralph. 'I'm going to cut off his member and ram it down his damned throat!' he added unnecessarily. A rumble of discontent ran around the crowd at this blatant lack of chivalry, which reminded Gwyn of brother Huge's gross lapse of conduct in his bout with de Charterai.
Henry de Furnellis stepped back reluctantly.
'So be it, if you are determined upon this foolishness! But 1 will see to it that you fight fair. 1 have a dozen men here to ensure it!'
He moved back almost to the ring of spectators, to stand alongside Gwyn. They noticed that Joel Peverel and Richard de Revelle took up similar positions on the other side.
There was no formal trumpet blast or herald's cry at this contest. The two men began circling and spiralling in towards each other until they were within sword's reach. A sudden clash of steel and thump of metal on wood signalled the first contact, and from then on it was a solemn, potentially lethal dance of advance, strike and retreat. The two men were equally matched, de Wolfe being more experienced in real battle and cunning in the use of his shield in defence. Ralph was younger, faster and more aggressive, but even his frequent practice in mélées and jousts had not made him the equal of John in the tricks and techniques of swordsmanship.
Back and forth they moved, rotating within a small space on the dusty ground, neither giving way to the other as their swords resounded off the ill-used wood of their long shields. The swords were made for slashing, not stabbing -
but these were real weapons, not the blunted ones used in tournaments, and their points were still dangerous.
The silence was gradually broken by yells of excitement and encouragement from the spectators, though it was not clear who was shouting for whom. The clash of weapons became almost rhythmical, and although probably no more than five minutes had elapsed, it seemed like half a day to Gwyn as he watched his master fighting for his life. The weight of the chain mail, the shield and the sword meant that even the most Herculean fighter could not continue for long, as the physical exertion involved was too much for any man to sustain unless he was on the back of a horse.
The two men backed off for a moment, each panting to get his breath back, as they slowly circled again. Gwyn was beginning to feel more optimistic when they clashed again, as John managed to get in a heavy blow to Ralph's left shoulder which made his opponent howl. If this had been a tourney, it would have counted as a point against him, but this was a fight to the finish. After a few more advances and retreats, Ralph struck the side of John's helmet, making a dent and evening up the score, but of more concern to Gwyn was the fact that his master's limp was becoming more pronounced and he was slowing down. The break in his leg from being trapped under his dying horse had healed well and the coroner had made light of it in recent months, denying that anything was wrong, but Gwyn knew that he still had twinges of pain in it, especially after a long ride-or sudden exertion. Now it was .becoming obvious that he was tiring and the leg was dragging-: Ralph began dancing around him more quickly, in a deadly ballet whose outcome now seemed all too predictable.
'Christ help him!' muttered the Cornishman desperately. Though he despised most churchmen and their institutions, he believed in God, as did everyone else, except a few deranged heretics, and now his tongue sought to find long-neglected prayers. But God seemed deaf that day, and a moment later a rapid blow from the younger man struck John's wrist and sent his sword spinning away across the dirt. Stumbling back, the coroner dragged out his mace as his remaining weapon and, with his shield held in front of him, stood like a bear chained to a post, waiting for the next attack of the dogs. Ralph came in again and was repulsed by a smashing blow from the spinning chain, the heavy ball gouging splinters from the edge of his shield.
Figure of Hate Page 32
