'Go on, follow it up!' bellowed Gwyn, now in almost tearful anxiety. There were similar shouts from around the edge of the arena as the two combatants went at it hammer and tongs, the spiked ball whirling a defensive pattern around the coroner as Peverel tried to swing his sword edge down on his opponent. Gwyn's heart lurched with hope as the chain wrapped itself around Ralph's sword, but the iron blade slid out of its grasp and was free again. Now both men were tiring, but de Wolfe was in worse shape and was now limping badly. The end came suddenly as the next sally by Ralph drove John back, and just as he was counter-attacking by swinging his vicious ball around the edge of his shield, his leg gave way completely and he fell sprawling on the ground, virtually at his enemy's feet. He still had the mace in his hand, but his left arm was trapped in the thongs of his shield, on to which he had fallen. With an almost contemptuous movement, Ralph kicked the mace away and pushed the coroner back to the ground with the point of his sword. Gwyn closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that his revered companion of twenty years was about to die in the dirt of a Devon bailey, after all the perils they had shared around half the world. Complete silence had descended on the manor compound, as everyone watched the dramatic tableau with bated breath, expecting the fatal coup de grace at any second.
Then there was a hoarse cry from where the family and servants were standing, incongruously delivered in a broad Irish accent.
'For the love of God and in the name of Jesus and the Holy Virgin, have mercy, Ralph Peverel!'
Father Patrick, his face flushed from both emotion and his early morning drinking, stumbled out towards the vanquished and the victor, waving the cross from his altar unsteadily above his head.
'Gain God's indulgence by showing compassion and mercy! Think of your immortal soul and gain credit in heaven!'
Ralph, who now had the point of his sword at John de Wolfe's throat, looked up at the flabby priest, irritated by his interference.
'Keep out of this, you drunken old fool!' he snarled. But the cleric, whether from bravery or befuddlement, continued to totter across the arena, to wave his cross almost under Ralph's nose.
'You have won the fight and made your point - what good can it do you to kill a king's officer and bring great trouble upon you and your family? Will that bring you success in your lawsuit? To say nothing of incurring God's displeasure.'
Ralph stared at the' dishevelled priest, then down at the man on the ground, now clutching his leg and groaning with the pain of cramped and knotted muscles. With an abrupt change of mood, he gave de Wolfe a heavy kick in the ribs, then turned and walked away without a word. A ragged cheer, went up from some of the crowd, but whether this was to applaud Ralph's success or in thanks for the coroner's survival, it was impossible to tell. As Gwyn, Morin and de Furnellis hurried to help John to his feet, the spectacle broke up as quickly as it had formed. At this abrupt anti-climax, the villagers melted away, the servants went about their business and the family vanished into the manor house.
'It was your leg that let you down, Crowner,' said Gwyn solicitously, his voice quavering with suppressed relief as they helped John hobble across to the stairs to the hall and sit on the lowest step.
De Wolfe shook his head wearily, slumped forward with his arms on his knees. 'No, Gwyn, not just my leg, I was an old fool for thinking that I could overcome a younger man on foot. Given a horse, things might have been different.'
The sheriff consoled him as he pulled off John's helmet and began unlacing his mailed hood. 'You did well, old friend! But you should leave it another year before you try it again, to let your leg heal properly,'
John gave a cynical laugh. 'In another year, I will be fit only to sit by my fireside with a shawl around my shoulders, I should be grateful to Ralph Peverel, not only for sparing my life, but for showing me that my fighting days are over.'
He felt humiliated, old and useless, and all the reassurances of his friends around him did little to lift his mood. After a few minutes, the pain in his leg subsided enough for him to stand up, allowing Gwyn and the others to help him off with his hauberk.
'What do you want to do, John?' asked de Furnellis. 'You should rest that leg for a time and should have some food and drink.'
'I'll not go into that damned hall again and face the smirks of those people,' he growled, a little spirit returning, 'Let's get over to that poxy alehouse, at least we can have lousy fare without them crowing over me.'
He sat down again while Gwyn and Ralph Morin motioned a soldier to bring over the packhorse to carry his armour. Gwyn examined his leg but could see nothing amiss, though the muscles on the back of his calf were exquisitely tender,
'A day's rest and it will be sound again,' he said consolingly. 'No doubt Nesta will have some salves that will help.'
'If I challenge anyone again, it'll be from the back of Odin!' promised de Wolfe. 'I'll not trust being on my own two feet again!'
Already his confidence was returning, even though a few minutes earlier he had fully been expecting to feel the point of Ralph's sword puncturing his throat. When the hauberk was tied across the pony's back, the castle constable advised him to hold on to it for support as they set out for the tavern on the village green, but after only one step a voice above him brought him to a halt.
'How are the mighty fallen, John!' sneered his brother-in-law from the top of the steps. 'Perhaps my sister would have had a twinge of regret if Ralph had spitted you on his sword, but few others would mourn your passing, apart from your alehouse mistress!'
Mortified at Richard's advantage over him, John could find no words in reply, but Henry de Furnellis angrily stepped into the breach.
'Your spite does you no credit, de Revelle, but you never were an honourable man,' he flared. 'So watch your tongue, for the eyes of Winchester are still upon you and you can ill afford to take liberties. You owe your own life to de Wolfe, remember? But for his intercession, you would long ago have swung by the neck.'
Richard made a rude noise in reply, but retreated back into the hall under the baleful glare of all those below.
'Get the crowner to that tavern,' commanded the sheriff, who today seemed to have found new energy and initiative in place of his usual amiable. torpor. 'I have business inside this hall, so we'll have those men-at-arms over here in case there's trouble.' He motioned to Ralph Morin to fetch Gabriel and his troops across from the other side of the bailey, while Gwyn slowly led the sumpter horse away, with the defeated coroner clutching at its baggage.
Though his leg was still sore, de Wolfe was able to limp up to Rougemont the, next day to attend to the urgent matter of the two armourers. He had got back from Sampford the previous afternoon without trouble, as once on a horse with the weight off his leg he felt perfectly fit. It was his self-esteem which had suffered most injury, the humiliation of being first defeated and then spared by Ralph Peverel almost too much to bear. In fact, he almost wished that Father Patrick had not intervened, as a quick death may have been preferable to this nagging shame that now plagued him. And yet a worm of defiance was already beginning to writhe inside his head, which demanded retribution for the insult he had suffered.
Nesta had been overcome with relief when he showed up at the Bush the previous evening - and the fact that he had been ignominiously defeated seemed of little consequence to her, as long as he was safe. Gwyn wisely did not give her the details of how close John had been to death at the end of Ralph's sword and left her to fuss over applying her ointments and salves to John'S leg, undet a winding of linen bandage.
Thomas and Eustace were also enormously relieved to have him home in one piece, and the news that the sheriff had dragged back the two suspects was welcome news to them.
Henry de Furnellis, still surprising people with his new-found energy, was waiting for John in his chamber, the inevitable jug of wine ready on his table.
'Try to forget yesterday's trouble,' he advised solicitously. 'You acquitted yourself well, so put it behind you now. We have to ge
t to the bottom of these killings and need to squeeze as much as we can from these two villains.'
After John had limped off to the alehouse the day before, the sheriff had virtually invaded the manor house with his posse and, ignoring all the violent protestations of the Peverel brothers and Richard de Revelle, had hauled out the two armourers and put them on a couple of spare horses that they had wisely brought with them, Hands tied and surrounded by Gabriel and his soldiers, they were brought back to Exeter and thrust into the squalid cells beneath the keep of Rougemont, delivered into the tender care of Stigand, the repulsive gaoler who ruled the undercroft.
'This Robert Longus was screaming his innocence all the way back,' said Henry, 'But the big, stupid fellow seemed cowed and silent. It was just as well that Longus was bound to his horse or I think he'd have killed Crues for implicating him.'
When the constable arrived at the sheriffs chamber, they all went out into the inner ward and down some steps into the undercroft, which was the basement of the keep, partly below ground level. A dark and dismal cavern, its vaulted roof'Was damp and black with mould. A rusty iron grille set in a stone wall, behind which were a few prison cells, divided the space in half, The rest was partly storehouse and partly torture chamber, as well as being the gaoler's living quarters - a grubby mattress sat in one of the rat-infested alcoves.
Already assembled on the rubbish-strewn floor were Thomas and Eustace, the latter looking apprehensive about what awful scenes he might have to witness, Also present was Brother Rufus, the portly and usually jovial monk who was the garrison chaplain, as well as Sergeant Gabriel and three of the men-at-arms who had been part of the expedition to Sampford.
'Bring them out here, Stigand,' ordered Ralph Morin, pointing to the gate in the iron grille, The grossly obese Saxon waddled across with his ring of keys and, with Gabriel and a soldier as escort, went in and returned with the two armourers in wrist shackles, Longus struggling and blaspheming all the way. As Henry de Furnellis had described, the large, drooping figure of Alexander Crues seemed quite apathetic, staring despondently at the ground, He was the one they questioned first, John leading off, as soon as one of the escort gave Longus a buffet across the head to silence his loud protestation.
'Crues, tell us again what you admitted to me yesterday about these deaths,'
Dully, the man came out again with his allegation that he had simply stood by while Robert Longus strangled the girl Agnes with a piece of old harness strap. This provoked more bellows of denial from the armourer, and Morin had him taken back to the cells to give them some peace while they dealt with his assistant, though his shouts could still be heard, echoing from beyond the grille.
The essence of Alexander's tale was taken down by Thomas, who sat on a sack of horse feed and rested his parchments and ink on an empty wine cask. It was to the effect that in the last few days a tale had begun circulating about the village that Agnes had begun to recollect hearing voices when she left Lord Hugo on the night he was killed. Afraid that she might eventually remember whose voices they were, Robert had decided that she must be silenced, He got Crues to offer her a penny for her favours that night, and when they met by arrangement at the trout pool, the armourer was hiding in the trees. When she lay down for Crues, Longus leapt out and strangled her, pushing her head into the water in the hope of passing it off as an accident by drowning.
'But why be concerned at whose voices she might have heard?' asked the sheriff. The answer was obvious, but he wanted it down on Thomas's rolls.
'Because the voices were ours,' muttered Alexander. 'It was Robert Longus who stabbed Lord Hugo to death, We found him sleeping in the ox byre - Robert made me come along to help him in case he struggled! '
'But why should you help him?' demanded the coroner.
Crues shrugged hopelessly. 'Because I always do what he wants. He's my master - and he gave me money.'
Henry de Furnellis looked confused. 'Why should he want to murder Hugo Peverel? He was his personal armourer, I thought they were on good terms.'
'I don't understand what was going on, sir, I think Hugo wanted Robert to do something he didn't wish to do - and something about taking away our protection. '
He suddenly dropped to his knees on the stony floor and wailed into his tied hands, 'He dragged me into his schemes against my will, I don't know what he was up to! 1 don't want to hang, I want to turn appealer against him,'
Slumped against the ground, the massive shoulders began to heave as he sobbed his heart out, but the coroner had not yet finished with him.
Motioning to the guards to pull Crues back to his feet, he continued, 'What was this "thing" that Longus did not want to do for Hugo?'
Alexander's agonised face stared back blearily through his tears. 'I don't know, sir. I think he mentioned Lady Avelina once, but I'm not very quick at catching on to people's meanings.'
Further questions from the sheriff and constable took them little farther, and with a grunt of annoyance de Wolfe waved to the soldiers to drag the man to one side, He went across to Thomas and, with Eustace peering around him, looked at the newly scribed parchment lying on the barrel.
'The man's a brainless oaf, but did you get that down, such as it was?' he demanded. Thomas nodded, but Eustace broke in with an intelligent question that made the official clerk scowl.
'If Longus killed the girl, Crowner, why was the strap found in Alexander's lodging?'
De Wolfe barked the query at Crues, and the man raised his head and gave a slow shrug. 'That's where it came from, so that's where I put it back.'
'Damned fool!' growled Gwyn. 'He's too stupid even to commit a murder properly.'
Now Robert Longus was brought out again, and he was a different proposition altogether - a moderately intelligent, certainly a cunning, journeyman, He again wrestled his way from the cells in the grip of Gabriel and a man-at-arms. Although he had been in the cells only for one night, he was dishevelled and dirty, his jerkin and breeches stained and scattered with bits of stinking straw, After a few more slaps and punches had quietened him down, the sheriff took up the interrogation.
'Your accomplice has turned appealer and we know the broad outlines of your crimes, so there's no point in these continual pleas of innocence,' he said brusquely. 'We now want the details to record and place before the King's justices.'
But cajole and threaten as much as they would, all they got from the armourer was a litany of oaths, abuse and denials, mostly to the effect that Alexander Crues was a warped mental defective who, for personal reasons, was producing a vindictive tissue of lies against him.
After five minutes of this, everyone was becoming restive, especially as Henry was having difficulty in finding a break in Robert's tirade to get in his own questions.
'That's enough!' yelled de Wolfe eventually. Not the most patient of men, especially on a day like this when his-spirits were low, he appealed to de Furnellis. 'Sheriff, this man seems immune to reasonable questioning. Has the time not come for more persuasive methods to arrive at the truth?'
Henry nodded, having seen the slight wink that John gave him as he spoke.
'I agree, Coroner, Do you think the peine forte et dure would be appropriate?' He was referring to a form of persuasive torture in which heavy weights were progressively piled on the victim's chest until he could no longer breathe.
'Either that, or perhaps the Ordeal might also be appropriate, as it is intended to determine guilt or innocence, We now have two priests here, though only one is necessary to validate the process.' He pointed at both Brother Rufus and Thomas de Peyne, which greatly pleased the little clerk, in spite of the doleful circumstances.
Robert Longus fell very quiet at this exchange, looking from coroner to sheriff and back again, to gauge how serious they were,.
'You cannot torture me, I'm a freeman and a craftsman!' he cried. 'It's illegal, you cannot do this!'
'Who's to say that we can't?' retorted the sheriff calmly. 'We are the law in this county and
can prosecute it in any way we think fit!'
He turned to the gaoler, who was standing by expectantly, his piggy eyes gleaming in the poor light from a few guttering torches on the walls.
'Stigand, have you made the preparations I ordered?'
The lard-faced Saxon, almost bald and wearing a filthy apron stained with blood, grinned to show his few blackened teeth. '
'The water is on the boil, sir. And I have irons heating in the brazier, in case you prefer them!'
'Right, bring him over to the wall,' commanded de Furnellis,
Longus began screaming as he was dragged across the floor towards a large iron vat that was supported on stones over a wood fire in a shallow pit. It was full almost to the brim with murky water that was bubbling under the scum on top. Near by was a latticed iron brazier filled with glowing charcoal, into which were stuck several branding irons.
'Robert Longus, this is your last chance to confess,' snapped de Wolfe. 'You know the ritual of the Ordeal - you will plunge your right arm into this vat and pick out this stone.'
Stigand handed him a round stone the size of a large apple and John nonchalantly tossed it into the boiling water.
This part was an obvious bluff, as the Ordeal was not intended as a means of extracting confessions, but was an ancient test of guilt or innocence, If the scalded arm healed without peeling or suppuration, the subject was judged innocent; otherwise he was' deemed guilty 'and hanged. The Church was becoming uneasy about this unchristian ritual, which smacked of magic, but the Vatican had not yet actually banned it.
John wagged a finger at Stigand, and he drew one of the irons from the fire and spat upon the crossshaped end, the spittle hissing on the red-hot metal. 'The choice is yours, Longus. The cauldron or the brand!'
Figure of Hate Page 33
