Figure of Hate

Chapter Nine

When he arrived back at Martin's Lane in the late afternoon, John found Mary waiting for him in the vestibule, just inside the street door. She appeared worried, unlike her usual placid self.

'You'd better get yourself into the hall, Sir Crowner,' she advised, using the mildly sarcastic title that she employed when she was either annoyed or troubled.

The coroner shrugged off his cloak and slumped on the bench to pull off his dusty riding boots. He looked up wearily at his cook-maid.

'What is it now? Is she in a temper because I've again been away all day?'

The dark-haired woman shook her head. 'Better see for yourself!'

She jerked a finger towards the inner door to the main chamber of the house.

Pushing his feet into a pair of house shoes, he rather apprehensively lifted the iron latch and peered between the screens that stood just inside to keep out some of the draughts. He had a view of part of the large stone hearth and chimney-piece, in front of which were the pair of cowled wooden chairs. At first he saw nothing amiss, then he noticed that a hand hung over one armrest, holding a pottery wine cup, tilted at a dangerous angle. Below it he saw that the flagstones were stained red and, as he watched, the cup fell from the fingers and smashed on the floor.

He jerked his head back and glared at Mary. 'What the hell's been going on?' he demanded, as if it were his servant's fault.

'She's drunk, that's what!' retorted Mary sharply. 'Ever since I gave her dinner, she's been at the best wine. I doubt you've got much left.'

John pushed the door open wide and strode into the high, gloomy chamber, its timber walls hung with faded tapestries. As he crossed to the hearth, Matilda staggered to her feet, looking stupidly down at the mess on the flagstones. She seemed oblivious to his presence and clumsily tried to stoop down and pick up the fragments of the broken cup.

'Let that be!' he commanded. 'Mary will clean it up. You just sit down again before you fall.'

His voice was gruff, attempting to conceal the compassion he suddenly felt for this woman who was in such a bad way. He knew instinctively that the burden of her brother's shame and his own infidelity had finally broken down the stony façade of her grim personality.

Though she had always been fond of eating to the point of gluttony, and was very partial to her wine, he had never before seen her so obviously drunk.

He took her arm and gently pushed her back down into her chair. She-mumbled something incomprehensible, but did not resist him. The linen veil that covered her head was crumpled and in disarray, strands of mousy hair hanging from beneath it. Her face was red and puffy and her eyes watered as she stared up at him as if he were a complete stranger.

"John? Is it you, John?' she muttered.

'Yes, it's me, Matilda, the same old John! Are you unwell? Can I get anything for you? A cup of water?'

He felt the usual male helplessness in the face of female emotion or illness.

His wife shook her head slowly. 'What am I to do, John?'

Her speech was thick, as if her tongue had doubled in size. 'What am I to do? The shame and the misery.'

These words were followed by a longer, rambling monologue which he could not follow, but it gave him time to desperately think of some response to what was becoming an unmanageable situation.

'Shall I call Lucille and get you to your bed? Maybe you will feel better lying down? Or shall I send for your cousin from Fore Street?'

Mary appeared behind him with a leather bucket and a rag to clean up the spilt wine, but he waved her away impatiently.

'Get Lucille,' he hissed, then turned back to Matilda, stooping over her chair like a big black heron.

'Tell me what ails you, Matilda. Is there anything I can do to comfort you?' He had not uttered words like this for more than a dozen years. Her hand grasped his wrist with surprising strength.

'I have no friends, John. No friends at all, not even you.'

' Of course you have, wife! There are all your companions at St Olave's and the cathedral. And you have three cousins and a brother.'

He could have bitten off his tongue as Richard de Revelle's name slipped out and she began sobbing — a strange sucking noise as her chest heaved and her eyes filled with moisture.

'Richard! Why do you hate each other so? Thank Jesus that our mother and father no longer live to see our shame!'

She fell to muttering again, then her head dropped to her chest and John wondered whether she had fallen into a drunken sleep. He looked around desperately, as he would rather face a thousand armed Saracens than a weeping woman, and was relieved to see Mary at the door, with Lucille close behind her. They advanced on Matilda and with difficulty raised the stocky woman from her chair. As they stumbled towards the vestibule with her, his wife seemed to awaken, mumbling again as her head lolled from side to side.

'Has she been like this before, when I have not been here?' John demanded of Mary's retreating back, as Lucille and he rarely spoke to each other.

'Not as bad as this, but recently she has been taking wine more than usual, both in the afternoon and the evening,' said the maid over her shoulder.

De Wolfe followed them through the side passageway to the yard like an anxious sheepdog following a flock. The steep open staircase up to the solar was a serious obstacle, as it was too narrow for the two maids to support Matilda on either side. John solved the problem by lifting her bodily into his arms and staggering up the steps with her, which said something for his physique, as his wife, though short, was solidly built. She snorted and muttered as they went, and at the top he left her with Mary and Lucille for them to get her undressed and on to the wide straw-filled palliasse that was their bed. Back down in the hall, John found his old hound Brutus looking puzzled at these unusual happenings, and stroked his grizzled head in reassurance.

'What's to become of us all, old fellow?' he muttered, picking up the shards of the broken cup and laying them in the hearth for Mary to deal with later. He went to the side table where the wine was kept and with some regret saw that all his good Poitou red had gone, the two pottery crocks being empty. Groping under the table, he found a small wineskin of an inferior vintage and, pulling out the wooden stopper, poured himself a liberal cupful. Brutus came and laid a dribbling mouth on his knee as John sank into the chair that Matilda had been using.

He slumped there for some time, turning over in his mind the events of that day and of those that had preceded it. A procession of scenes marched through his mind as the level in the wineskin dropped — the bizarre funeral at Sampford, with cow turds and a dead rat on the coffin, the arrogant indifference of the armourer, the strange Peverel family — and now the apparent breakdown of Matilda's normally iron resolve.

Eventually, Mary came in to report that his wife was now in a deep sleep, snoring fit to rattle the shutters, and that Lucille had gone off to Fore Street to fetch Matilda's cousin to sit with her. She was one of the poor relations of the family — not poor in the sense of lacking money, as her husband had a successful glove-making business, but as one who had married 'into trade', out of the de Revelles' social class. Matilda treated her in a patronising fashion, but seemed moderately fond of her.

'Shall I make a meal for you this evening?' demanded Mary. John could tell that, though she was one of his staunchest allies, the cook-maid was laying some of the blame for his wife's condition on him.

'No, I'll take myself down to the Bush — or I'll be out of favour with yet another woman!' he grunted.

After Mary had flounced out with a disparaging shrug of her shoulders, the coroner sat for a while longer until he had finished his cup of wine, then snapped his fingers at Brutus and made for the street.

The cathedral Close was cool in the autumn evening and there were only a few children playing among the graves and a solitary beggar sitting on the steps of the great west front. John strode through the lanes, oblivious to the murmured greetings and forelock-pullings of passers-by, until he reached Idle Lane and the new front door of the Bush, set in a clean whitewashed wall, repainted after the recent fire.

A smiling Nesta hurried over and took his arm to steer him to his table by the hearth. She at once noticed his doleful expression and soon he was telling her of his visit to Sampford Peverel and the strange state in which he found his wife when he returned.

'It's not just me, cariad,' he said in the Welsh they habitually used together. 'She's had years to get used to my misdeeds. I've done nothing particularly terrible lately.'

His mistress shook her head pityingly at the lack of insight of men.

'You were the instrument for disgracing her beloved brother — not that you could have done anything else,' she pointed out. 'He was the main culprit, even in her eyes, but that doesn't alter the fact that she feels that in the end it was you who pushed him over the edge.' Like Mary, though Nesta was inordinately fond of this dour, dark man, she had an inexhaustible well of sympathy for anyone in trouble, including wronged wives.

'Lately, she's been talking a great deal about her family in Normandy,' he said. 'Not that they're close to her, nor do they probably want her bothering them again. But maybe she ought to go across the Channel some time, to get it out of her system.'

Nesta nodded her agreement. 'I know how she feels, John. It's three years since I left Gwent to come here with Meredydd and I've not seen my mother or my brothers and sisters since. Only two messages have come by carters to at least tell me they are still alive.' She sounded wistful, not only when she spoke of her family, but also of her dead husband. If the Welsh archer had not been an old campaign friend of John's, he might have felt a twinge of jealousy.

'Maybe you too should make a journey home before long, Nesta,' he suggested. 'Though what would I do, with both the women in my life deserting me!'

The landlady poked him hard in the ribs with her elbow. 'I know damn well what you'd be doing the moment the dust had settled on the high road behind us!' she snapped, only half in jest. 'Where would you go first, man? To Dawlish or to the stews in Waterbeer Street?'

He grinned sheepishly, as Nesta knew all about his other former mistress, the blonde Hilda from Dawlish.

In fact, she had once met her, and they had got along famously, having more things in common than just John de Wolfe.

He stayed at the tavern for a couple of hours, drinking the good ale supplied regularly by the old potman and eating an excellent supper of mutton stew followed by grilled herrings. Nesta, looking even more attractive than usual in a new yellow kirtle under her white linen apron, was hoping that her lover would stay either all night or at least for a few hours in her little room in the loft, but she soon sensed that the upsetting episode with Matilda had taken the edge off his usual keenness to get her into bed. Silently regretful, she settled down to be a sympathetic audience as he poured out his thoughts on the problems still plaguing him.

'I've made not a jot of headway on this slain silversmith,' he complained. 'This Terrus fellow claims that the armourer from Sampford was one of the villains, but it's only his word against that of the suspect, which was backed up by his lords, both dead and alive. Both Hugo and Ralph claimed that this Robert Longus was with them all the time and could never have been near Topsham when the man was robbed and killed.'

'So why are you insisting that this Longus must come to court in Exeter or risk being outlawed?' asked the practical Nesta.

'Just because the bastard refused to come,' snapped John. 'I'll teach him to flaunt the King's law officer.' The Welsh ale-wife wrinkled her nose in doubt. 'I see no reason why this armourer's masters should lie for him. What would be in it for them?'

'Gwyn suggested that he was robbing on their behalf. It seems the Peverels are short of money, having lost heavily in the last year in wagering on the tournaments. But I think that's too far-fetched an idea.'

Nesta absently tucked a lock of copper-coloured hair back under her linen helmet. 'So who killed this Hugo? I fancy the French knight myself, for according to you he promised that he would.'

De Wolfe slid a hand on to her thigh under the table and for a moment her hopes of getting him up the loft ladder were rekindled.

'De Charterai? I don't think he meant it that seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment. And he's too chivalrous a fellow to stab a man in the back.'

'I'd believe anything of a man who has been insulted that badly,' countered Nesta. 'You measure everyone by your own standards of honour, John.'

'There are plenty of other possible killers, sweetheart. Gwyn and Thomas did their usual spying in the manor and came up with a number of folk who hated Hugo. And from what I saw myself, he had few friends there. In fact, he seemed a figure of hate to everyone.'

Always a lover of scandal and intrigue, Nesta rested her round chin on her hand and gazed at the bristly face alongside her. 'Tell me about them again!' she commanded.

'Well, this manor-reeve, Warin Fishacre, undoubtedly hated Hugo's guts. I suspect that it was he who slung that ox turd into the grave. Either him or his son-in-law, as they both felt murderous towards their lord for deflowering their girl on her wedding night.'

'Damned disgraceful!' muttered Nesta, though the sentiment sounded much stronger in Welsh.

'Then there was Godwin the village thatcher, who'd had one of his sons hanged by Hugo not long ago. I put him down for throwing that dead rat.'

'And the family?' she persisted.

'I wouldn't put the dowager out of the running. It seems she suspects that Hugo had something to do with his father's death at the mélée in Wilton. And poor sweet Beatrice must have had a bellyful of shame over her husband's flagrant ravishing of the village girls — as well as perhaps wanting to be free to take up with young Joel.'

'What about this Joel, is he a contender too?'

John took his hand off her leg to lift his quart pot to his lips. 'He was making sheep's eyes at the new widow all the time I was there. Whether he would kill just to get his way with her, I couldn't guess.'

'Do you suspect the other two brothers as well?'

'I suspect everyone in that bloody place!' growled de Wolfe. 'Ralph seems to have the best chance of becoming the manor-lord, so he had a good motive for getting rid of his elder brother. And poor Odo, the one with the fits, may have thought he would have another chance at being recognised as the heir if Hugo was out of the way.'

They sat talking about the problem for a while, with Nesta having to get up every now and then to sort out some problem or other, ranging from sudden scuffles between patrons who had had too much to drink to a panic in the kitchen shed when a pan of beef dripping caught fire.

It was well after dusk when John's conscience began pricking him strongly enough to drive him home to see whether his wife had recovered from her drunken stupor. He would dearly have liked to stay with Nesta, but they both knew that this was not the night for that, with his guilt pressing down on him. Dragging Brutus away from the meaty bone that old Edwin had thrown under the table for him, John gave his mistress a chaste kiss and wearily made.his way back through the darkened streets to Martin's Lane.

Henry de Furnellis was a totally different character to his snobbish, supercilious predecessor. Whereas Richard de Revelle always closeted himself in his chamber with a guard on the door, remote from the common herd outside, Henry was often to be found in the main hall of the keep, sitting at a table with a mug of ale or a bowl of stew, chatting to whoever he could find to gossip with him. An old soldier, he was fond of companionship and liked nothing better than to swap tales of old campaigns with the castle constable, Ralph Morin, or Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms.

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 considerable 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 French 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.