Figure of Hate

Chapter Two

When John entered his tall, narrow house, one of only two in the narrow lane that joined High Street to the cathedral Close, he found that he had a reprieve from his wife's acidulous tongue, for she had taken herself off to her favourite church, tiny St Olave's at the upper end of Fore Street. Whether she was praying for her own soul or that of her brother, he knew not, but doubted that his own welfare was on her devotional agenda.

He put his head around the door which led from the small outer vestibule into the hall, a high, gloomy room that reached right up to the bare rafters of the house. A glance showed him that it was empty, so he went to the other end of the vestibule and walked along the narrow covered passage that ran down the side of the house to the back yard.

The plot of muddy earth that was his demesne contained the kitchen shed, the wash house, the privy and a pigsty, all built of a mixture of wattle panels and 'cob' — a plaster made from clay, straw, dried ferns and horse manure. The house itself was of timber, with a roof of wooden shingles. At the back, a solar projected from the upper part, reached by an outside wooden staircase, under which was a hut that housed Lucille, Matilda's rabbit-toothed French maid. The solar was his wife's retreat, but also served as their bedroom, being the only other room in the house other than the hall and its vestibule.

There was a well in the middle of the yard, and bent over this was the rounded backside of a woman,! hoisting up a leather bucket. John loped across and gave it a slap, grinning as his cook-maid swung around to glare at him in mock outrage. Mary was a handsome wench, her dark hair a legacy from an unknown father, who had probably been a soldier passing through the city some twenty-five years earlier.

'Stop taking advantage of a poor servant; Sir Crowner, else I'll tell your wife — or even worse, your mistress!' she chided, but let him slip an arm around her and give her a smacking kiss on the lips. There had been a time when they did far more than kiss, but since the nosy Lucille had been in residence, Mary had resisted his advances, afraid that she would carry tales to John's wife.

Pushing him away with one hand, she carried her leather pail of water into the kitchen, where she not only cooked for the household but lived and slept as well. John dropped on to a stool and fondled the head of his old hound Brutus, who was dozing by the firepit in the centre, He looked at a ring of griddle cakes cooking on a bakestone over the fire.

'The food at the new sheriff's installation was miserable,' he said pointedly,"and with a sigh Mary lifted off a couple of hot cakes with a wooden spatula and offered them to her master.

'The honey's in that pot by your elbow,' she said, as she ladled some water from her bucket into a small cauldron of stew that was simmering at the edge of the fire. Then she sat on the hay-bag on the floor which served as her bed and looked at him expectantly. They were good friends, the coroner and his house servant, and she looked after him as well as any wife — and much better than the one he actually had. He always regaled her with news of his day's exploits, and she often fed him titbits of gossip picked up at the baker's shop or the butcher's stall, which were sometimes of use in his investigations.

He described the ceremony at the castle, then told her of the discovery of the body in the River Exe. 'I suppose you've heard no titde-tattle in the town about anyone gone missing?' he asked hopefully.

Mary shook her head as she poured him a mug of ale from a pitcher on the earth floor. 'The place is heaving with people for the fair — strangers everywhere, it's hard to get near the stalls to buy our food!'

'At least they'll be staying open, not like some places,' he remarked.

In a number of other towns, the local shops had to close down during fairs in order not to compete with the visiting stall-holders, who paid stiff fees for the privilege of trading there for three days. Exeter allowed its own traders to carry on, however, though many of these also took booths on the fairground outside the city walls to make sure that they got their share of the extra business.

The pair chatted for a while until John had eaten his cakes and drunk his ale, by which time the late afternoon bells were ringing from the nearby cathedral to summon the clergy to vespers, the last service of the day.

'There's a duck for supper, with turnips, onions and cabbage,' advised Mary. 'So don't go feeding too much down at the Bush!' she warned, knowing full well that the coroner would take advantage of Matilda's absence to take the dog for a walk, his excuse to slip down to the tavern in Idle Lane to see his mistress.

He gave another of his lopsided grins and planted another quick kiss on her forehead. Whistling to Brutus to follow, he strode away towards the front door of the house, his alibi loping after him. In Martin's Lane, he turned right into the Close, the large open area surrounding the great cathedral church of St Mary and St Peter. Completed only a few years earlier, the great twin towers rose majestically into the sky, but at ground level the appearance of the Close was anything but elegant. It was a confused tangle of muddy paths between open grave pits, old grave mounds, piles of refuse and dumped offal. Populated by beggars, drunks and urchins playing tag and football, it was also infested by cut-purses eager to fleece unwary visitors. At this time of the October fair, there was an even greater number of loafers in the Close, some come to gape at the great church, others adding to the number of passers-by being importuned by pedlars with their trays of sweetmeats, pasties and trinkets.

John de Wolfe strode past, almost unaware of the hubbub, as the scene was so familiar to him. With his lean hound criss-crossing in front of him to seek out each new stink and odour, the coroner made for the Bear Gate, one of the many entrances to the Close, which lay on the opposite side to Martin's Lane. From there he crossed Southgate Street and continued downhill into the small lanes leading to the river, following much the same route as he had used earlier when he went to see the corpse on the quay-side: Halfway down Priest Street, however, where many of the clergy had lodgings, he turned left into a short cut across a patch of waste ground, where a fire had destroyed some houses several years before. They had not been rebuilt and the street had become known as Idle Lane. The only building was the Bush Inn, which itself had just been rebuilt after a recent fire had destroyed its upper floor. It was a square stone structure with a high roof, thatched with new straw which came down almost low enough for a tall man like de Wolfe to touch the eaves. In the middle of the front wall was a low door, with shuttered window openings on each side and a dried bush hanging from a bracket above.

This was the inn's sign, an indicator of a tavern since Roman times. At the back of the alehouse was a large fenced yard, containing a kitchen hut and the usual outbuildings, including a brewing shed from which came the best ale in Exeter.

John ducked under the lintel and went into the taproom, which occupied all the ground floor. The first fire of the autumn was glowing in a clay pit in the centre of the room and its smoke added to the fug, an eye-smarting mixture of cooking, sweat and spilt ale. A number of rough tables, benches and stools were scattered about, and at the back, where a door went out into the yard, a row of casks sat on the rush-strewn floor, holding the supply of ale and cider. Near by was a wide ladder to the loft above, where travellers could rent a straw mattress for a penny a night, which included a meal and drink.

De Wolfe made for his favourite table next to the fire, and a pair of young apprentices hastily moved away, as all the patrons knew that this was the coroner's place, sheltered on one side by a wattle hurdle that kept off some of the draught from the doorway. His bottom had hardly touched the bench when a pottery jar containing a quart of ale was set in front of him.

This time the drink was brought not by the usual potman, the one-eyed old soldier Edwin, but by the landlady herself, the delectable Nesta. She stood over him, her round Welsh face wreathed in a welcoming smile.

'John, you look very comely today, in your best tunic and Moorish belt!"

His usually stern features lit up with a returning smile of pure pleasure, partly at seeing her look so well, the stress she had suffered a month past, when been pulled out of the burning tavern just before the roof collapsed. This was the first time he had noticed that she seemed fully recovered, with a pink bloom on the cheeks that had been so pale for many weeks.

she had left off her usual linen cap and her rich hair was plaited into two ropes that hung over her shapely bosom. De Wolfe had had many women over the years, but none plucked at his heartstrings like Nesta of Gwent. He held up his hand to take her fingers in his own.

'I'm in my best finery today because of the installation of this new sheriff. Come and sit with me, dear Nesta!'

She slid on to the bench and he put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him, ignoring the covert glances of other patrons.

'A couple of minutes only, John. There's cooking to be seen to — we're run off our feet with all these people coming into town.'

Nesta ran the tavern with bustling efficiency, helped by Edwin and two maids. It was now a thriving business, renowned for good food and the city's best ale.

The rushes on the floor and the mattresses upstairs were the cleanest in Exeter, so there was never any lack of custom. Nesta's husband Meredydd, a Gwent archer who had campaigned with John de Wolfe, had bought the inn several years ago, but later died of a fever, leaving his widow deeply in debt. John had come to her rescue for the sake of his friendship with her husband, and gradually, by dint of his money and her hard work, they had turned disaster into success. In the process they had become lovers, and John's miserable marriage had become all the more irksome because of the contentment he felt when he was with Nesta.

'Shall I get the girls to cook something for you, John?' she said, her concern for his appetite coming to the surface as usual. He squeezed her more tightly as he shook his head. 'I had some small stuff at Rougemont — and Mary has threatened me with hideous torment if I fail to eat the duck she's cooking for supper.' They sat for a few moments, she listening contentedly while he gently kneaded her breast with his free hand as he told her of the day's events.

'So you've-no idea who this poor dead man might be?' she asked, after he had recounted the tale of the washed: up body. Nesta was always full of sympathy for the afflicted, be they paupers, lame dogs or the nameless dead.

'No, he's a mystery man as yet. You've heard nothing of any fights or assaults in the last day or two?' Like Mary, the innkeeper often heard gossip about happenings in the city, indeed the whole county, especially as the Bush was a favourite inn for carters and travellers. But this time, Nesta had nothing to suggest.

'If no one recognises him, he must surely be one of the many who have come for the fair,' she reasoned.

John didn't press the point that with a face as battered as his, the corpse was totally unrecognisable.

He changed the subject by pointing to the new beams and boards above their head, which formed the floor of the roomy loft.

'They did a good job in such a short time, Nesta.

Apart from the look of such new timber, it's hard to know what ruin there was before.'

In August, the tavern had been deliberately set on fire and the place had been gutted, only the stone walls remaining. But thanks to willing workers and timber from John's manors at the coast, it was now back to its former glory — even Nesta's small room on the floor above had been rebuilt. This was where they had many a pleasant hour together, though the fire destroyed her pride and joy — the large French bed that John had imported from St Malo, probably only one in Exeter. Until he could get a replacement they would have to make do with a mattress.on floor, like most other people. The thought of the little chamber in the corner of the loft caused him to give her another squeeze.

'Are you too busy this evening to climb the ladder, my love?' he whispered in her ear. She jabbed him playfully with her elbow, then pulled herself free from his encircling arm.

'I must go and see to the girls in the kitchen now,' she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down the green kirtle that flowed over her shapely figure. 'But if you can find the strength to walk down again after glutting yourself on Mary's duck, then maybe I can find a few spare moments later on this evening!' She made her way to the back of the room, laughing and making small talk with her patrons along the A popular woman, she had the gift of being pleasant to everyone, yet firm enough with drunks or the few who tried to take advantage of her, as a woman innkeeper was a vulnerable rarity in the many alehouses of the city.

The coroner sat with his pot and also exchanged salutations with some of the regulars in the taproom, They all knew of his long-standing affair with the landlady and most heartily approved and wished them well.

Though there was many a nudge and wink, none ever made any audible jest or comment, as Black John's short temper and strong arm were too well known for any liberties to be taken with him.

De Wolfe was chatting to a carpenter on the next table about the good quality of the repairs to the building, as the man was one of those who had worked on it, at John's expense. Under the table, Brutus was contentedly gnawing on a mutton knuckle that another patron had thrown to him. The scene was one of peaceful serenity, too good to last. The early evening sunlight coming through the open door was momentarily blocked by a large figure as Gwyn of Polruan came in and crossed to de Wolfe's table. The coroner groaned as he saw the familiar look on the big man's whiskered face.

'Tell me the worst, then! I was just getting comfortable,' he grunted.

Gwyn dropped on to the opposite bench, which creaked ominously under his weight. He ran thick fingers through his dishevelled red hair, then waved them at Edwin to summon a jug of ale.

'There's been something found, Crowner. Something that might have a bearing on our corpse.' The Cornishman had a habit, infuriating to his master, of spinning out any story in instalments that delayed the actual facts.

'What "something", damn you? Spit it out, for God's sake!'

Edwin limped up with Gwyn's ale and the officer took a deep draught and gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering the exasperated coroner.

'Garments, that's what. Bloodstained and hidden in a hole.'

Between gulps of Nesta's best brew, the story came out. Two young boys had been playing on the river bank about a quarter of a mile downstream of the wharf, where the Shitebrook disgorged its filth into the Exe.

This was a foul stream that acted as the main sewer for Exeter, most of the ordure draining through culverts in the city walls to find its way into the aptly named brook which trickled sluggishly down a small valley to the river.

'They had a mangy dog with them and they throwing sticks into the river for it to fetch,' explained! Gwyn. 'Then it suddenly lost interest in the game and started digging into the bank, in what seemed like an otter run.'

John waited impatiently for his old friend to get toi! the hub of the matter.

'The upshot was that the cur dragged out a bundle of what the lads thought were rags, but which turned out to be a tunic and surcoat. The upper part of both of these was stiff with blood.'

He went on to explain that when the boys ran back up to the wharf, some of the men there challenged them, thinking they had stolen something. One happened to be the fellow who had found the body earlier in the day. He called Osric, who in turn asked Gwyn to notify the coroner.

'Where's the stuff now?'demanded de Wolfe.

'Osric has it in that shack behind the Guildhall that the constables use for their shelter.'

The two men downed the remainder of their drink and John told Edwin to tell his mistress that he would see her later that evening. They stepped out into Idle Lane, feeling one of the first chill breezes of the autumn as they strode back towards the city.

The Guildhall was in High Street, not many yards from the turning into Martin's Lane. It was newly built in stone, one of the grandest buildings in the city, as befitted the home of the many merchant guilds and the place where the burgesses held their council. In a lane behind it was a small thatched hut left by the stonemasons, which had been appropriated as their shelter by Osric and his fatter colleague, Theobald.

John thrust open the rickety door and went into the shed, almost bare but for two old stools and a bench on which were some cups and pots. Neither of the constables was there, but Gwyn pointed to a jumble of cloth on a shelf nailed to the wall.

'That's the stuff, Crowner. Have a look at this.' He unrolled the clothing on the bench and John saw a long yellow tunic of good-quality cloth, together with a surcoat of blue serge. They were both muddy, but more significantly the areas around the neck and upper chest were stiff with dark dried blood.

De Wolfe felt the material between his finger and thumb. 'Good stuff, though not showy. If this did belong to our corpse, then he was no common labourer, as I thought from the state of his hands.' Gwyn nodded sagely. 'But neither does he seem some foppish fellow with more money than sense. There's no fancy embroidery on the tunic and the surcoat has no brocade or velvet frippery.'

The coroner stood staring down at the soiled garments. 'But no belt, dagger, hose or shoes — nor a pouch or purse.'

'Smells like a robbery to me,' grunted his officer.

'But why take his clothes off and hide them?'

'To confound or certainly delay us putting a name to him,' snapped de Wolfe. 'It's the merest chance that those urchins and their dog found this stuff.' Gwyn remained unimpressed by their luck. 'Doesn't help much unless we find someone who knows him and knows what he was wearing!'

His master shrugged and turned to the door. 'Let's see what tomorrow brings. You can tell Osric to take that stuff down to the Watergate. It may as well stay with the body, in case we find someone who can have a look at them both.'

With that, he strode off towards his house, ready to face both Mary's duck and his wife's dour company.

Everyone in the city seemed to be up and about even earlier than usual the next morning. Even before broke, there were people milling around the five gates, impatiently waiting for them to open. As soon as the porters pulled back the massive oaken doors, there was a scramble in both directions, though most waiting to spill out, especially at South Gate, as the was centred on Southernhay, the expanse of meadows and gardens beyond the south-east wall of Exeter.

Those coming in were the usual crowd who daily brought provisions to the shops and stalls, pushing barrows of vegetables, wicker crates of fowls and ducks, carrying baskets of eggs and freshly caught fish. Others were adding to the confusion by driving pigs, sheep and cattle to the slaughterers in the Shambles at the top of Southgate Street.

Today, however, many merchants were going out to the booths they had erected in Southernhay, to draw in as much profit as they could from the fair. Some were Exeter burgesses and craftsmen, but there were also many strangers who had arrived early and stayed in the city overnight. Some had come from as far afield as London, Lincoln and Chester — and there were even a few who had taken ship from Cologne and Flanders, drawn by the reputation of the October fair. This year, it was an even greater attraction, as the one-day jousting tournament meant that even more people would be attending, some of them wealthy knights and squires who might be persuaded to part with their money more liberally than the cautious townsfolk and peasantry.

John de Wolfe was also up early, determined as a senior law officer to play his part in keeping the peace, especially as he knew that the new sheriff was unlikely to be exerting himself in this direction. The coroner also wanted to see what could be discovered about the previous day's murder — even if there was little hope of catching the culprits, it was essential to try to put a name to the victim, for the sake of his family.

John threw aside the sheepskin coverlets and climbed naked from his feather-filled mattress, set on a low plinth of the floor of-the solar, leaving Matilda snoring on the other side. The previous evening she had been subdued and uncommunicative after returning from her devotions, which John rightly attributed tO the induction of a new sheriff, reminding her again of her brother's fall from grace. After a silent meal, Matilda had retired upstairs for Lucille's ministrations to her hair, then gone to bed. John had slipped out to the Bush and had a satisfactory hour in the new loft, coming home before the cathedral bells rang for midnight matins.

Now he was ready for the new day, and in honour of the fair he pulled out his second-best grey tunic from the heavy chest that held his few clothes. He pulled on his long hose and tied the laces to the under-belt around his waist before shaking down the skirt of his long tunic and buckling on his wide leather belt, complete with scrip pouch at the front and sheathed dagger at the back.

Slipping into house shoes, he opened the solar door and shivered slightly at the chill morning breeze that was chasing dark clouds across the sky. Once down the wooden steps, he made for the cook house and soon was tucking into oatmeal gruel with milk and honey.

By the time he had spooned this down, Mary had a manchet of yesterday's bread for him, piled with three eggs and a thick slab of bacon fried in butter. Half a small loaf and a pint of her own ale completed his breakfast, and soon he was squatting in the odorous privy at the end o£ the yard, before making for the vestibule to pull on his boots.

As he reached for his mottled wolfskin cape to throw over his shoulders, Brutus came loping around the corner from the yard. The big brown dog beseechingly at his master.

'Come on, then, but behave yourself,' he grunted.

'There'll be a lot of horses down there, so keep from under their hoofs!'

John's first destination was the tourney ground at Bull Mead, just beyond Southernhay. As an older and very experienced warrior, he had been asked to act as one of the judges for the contests the following day and, having agreed, wanted to have a look at the arrangements beforehand.

As he walked through the early morning bustle in the streets and lanes, he thought about the amount of organisation that these fairs entailed. The financial returns to the city and its burgesses must be well worth the effort, he mused, as weeks of work preceded each of the four major fairs every year. Because Exeter was a free chartered city, there was no lord to monopolise them, so the fairs were controlled by the two portreeves — his friend Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, a wealthy leather merchant. Together with leading burgesses and guildmasters, they set up a committee, and this delegated all the hard work to others. Clerks dispensed permits to trade at the fair and collected the substantial fees, some of which had to be paid to the King's treasury under the terms of their charter.

Builders and carpenters erected all the booths and the fencing for the tourney ground. Arrangements had to be made with the sheriff and the castle constable for men-at-arms to patrol the fairground and attempt 'to keep some order. Though the substantial ecclesiastical community had no direct part to play — and officially the Church disapproved of jousting activities — they were not reluctant to accept the extra donations and alms from the many visitors who came to gape at their grand new cathedral and leave offerings at the many altars and shrines, as well as paying for Masses to be said for the souls of their relatives.

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 chestnuts. 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 head 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?'

Though undoubtedly regretting the violent demise of his master, looming unemployment seemed his main concern.

John, though not lacking in sympathy, had more urgent matters in mind. 'Who was this customer he was to visit in Topsham?'

The smith gave him a name, but had no address, though this was of little consequence in such a small town as Exeter's seaport.

Within the hour, the coroner and his two henchmen had gone back to the city to fetch their horses and were on their way down the river road to seek news from the purchaser of Scrope's silverware. Even slowed down by their clerk's awkward riding — for Thomas had reverted to his side saddle in spite of Gwyn's efforts to get him to sit on his steed like a man — they covered the six miles well before mid-morning. The busy quayside was at the end of the single street that straggled past the new church, and here John reined in to sit on his horse Odin, looking at the boats while Gwyn went off to seek William le Bas, the shipman.

The tide was now out, and he looked across an expanse of mud to the flat marshes on the other side of the river, which widened out into the estuary on his left. In the distance, low hills marched down towards Dawlish on the coast, and for a moment his mind strayed to the woman who lived there, the delectable Hilda, the passion of his younger years and, until recently, still his occasional lover. He wondered idly whether her much older husband, Thorgils the Boatman, was away on a voyage at the moment. Then the image of Nesta floated into his head, and with an almost guilty sigh for days gone by he pulled Odin's great head around and waited for Gwyn to come lumbering back to where Thomas was holding the reins of both their horses.

'We've had a wasted journey, Crowner,' called the Cornishman, as he came up to his mare. 'I chanced upon the man himself, outside his dwelling. He says he's seen neither hide nor hair of the silversmith and is wondering what's happened to his wife's gift.' De Wolfe cursed under his breath as Gwyn and Thomas hoisted themselves back up on to their steeds. It now seemed obvious that August Scrope had been waylaid on his way down from Exeter and had never reached Topsham. There was nothing to do but return to the city, so he walked Odin across to join the others.

'What about this servant of his, what can have happened to him?' asked Gwyn, as they weaved between carts and heavily laden porters in the busy main street.

'God knows! Probably his body lies rotting in the woods alongside the road — unless they threw him into the river along with his master,' replied de Wolfe angrily. He was frustrated by the lack of progress concerning this death, as well as the time wasted in a futile ride to Topsham.

After a couple of miles, Gwyn's habitual need for food and drink began to plague him and he bemoaned the lack of an alehouse on this stretch of road. John also felt that he could do with a jug of ale.

'The priory will oblige us, I'm sure,' squeaked Thomas, always eager for the chance to visit any religious establishment. They were just coming up to a side lane which led down to the river where St James' Priory was situated. It was a small Cluniac house, a cell of the Abbey of St Martin in Paris, with only four brothers under a prior. John had had dealings with them before, on one occasion when a sturgeon had been caught near by. As a 'royal fish', along with beached whales, it belonged to the Crown, and as such became the subject of a coroner's inquest to determine its value.

There were no fish today, but as a mild excuse to seek refreshment, de Wolfe thought they might ask the brothers there whether they had heard of any robbery or assault on the Topsham road. As they turned down the lane that dropped off the low escarpment down to the riverside, he sent Thomas ahead, knowing that he would relish the chance to bob his knee and cross himself in the little chapel.

For once, the little man scurried away at high speed, with the coroner and Gwyn jogging well behind. It was a surprise, then, to see their clerk pop out of the priory gateway as they approached, apparently in a state of agitation. Behind him appeared a black-robed monk who John recognised as Brother Francis, the infirmarian.

'Crowner, I think he's here!' babbled Thomas excitedly. 'It sounds like the servant of the silversmith, badly beaten.'

As de Wolfe and his officer slid from their-horses, the infirmarian, a thin old man with a bad squint, came up to explain.

'He was found just before noon yesterday by local men attending their fish traps at the edge of the river.

When they brought him here, the poor fellow was almost dead — he must have crawled out of the water and collapsed. He has a problem breathing, from taking in so much dirty water, I suspect.' As they hitched their horses to the rail outside the gate in the wall around the priory, John probed further.

'Can he speak? Has he said who he is?' Brother Francis shrugged. 'Just managed to gasp his name, which is Terrus, but otherwise he merely wheezes and mumbles, as he has a fever. He was dressed like a serving man and he has wounds upon him, mainly about the head and arms.'

John was about to upbraid the monk for not reporting a serious assault to him as the law demanded, but then closed his mouth again, thinking it was pointless to antagonise a religious house to no purpose.

'Let's see him, quickly,' he demanded instead.

Inside the wall was an area of garden, rows of vegetables being tended by a pair of monks with their habits girt up around their thighs. They stopped hoeing to watch the visitors hurry into the modest buildings, a chapel and a small block containing a refectory, dormitory and workshops. On the ground floor at the back were two cells used as sick quarters, and the infirmarian showed them into one, furnished only with a mattress on the floor, a stool and a wooden cross hanging on the whitewashed wall. In the light from a narrow window opening, they saw a man lying on the pallet, restlessly squirming and muttering to himself between coughs and gasps.

'You'll get little sense from him, Crowner,' warned the monk. 'But see his face and limbs, he's been badly used.'

The coroner's team saw that the man, who appeared to be about thirty years of age, had a long, shallow gash across his forehead, still caked with dried blood. Much of the rest of his face was red and purple from overlapping bruises, and his right eyelid was black and swollen, closing the eye completely. Both his arms, which were outside the coarse blanket that covered him, were similarly bruised and scratched.

'The sides of his chest and loins are also bruised,' commented Francis. 'I think he's had a kicking as well.' John bent over the bed and in a loud clear voice tried to get some answers from the victim, but though the one good eye seemed to focus upon him, no recognisable words came between the wheezing and spluttering from the man's throat.

'He's got a phlegmatous affliction of his lungs, Sir John,' said the infirmarian. 'He must have been thrown into the river and sucked a fair amount of water down into his vitals, so he's contracted a fever. It may yet carry him off.'

Undaunted, de Wolfe again crouched by the mattress and this time tried to get a response to simple questions.

'Your name is Terrus?' The eye swivelled and the rapid wheezing seemed to take on a different note.

Encouraged, de Wolfe tried again.

'Was August Scrope your master?' This time Terrus managed a slight nod as well as a variation in his gasping.

By means of half a dozen leading questions that required only an affirmative answer or an apparent denial, John managed to learn that the man and his employer had been attacked by two mounted men who had followed them down the Topsham road until they reached a place between the trees where no one else was in sight. It seemed that Terrus must have lost conciousness then, as he had no further recollection of anything.

By the time John had got this far, the victim had collapsed sideways on to his palliasse and was gasping for breath, his one good eye no longer visible. The infirmarian declared that he must be left alone, to either recover or die, and reluctantly the coroner left the cell. They sat in the small deserted refectory, where the cellarer brought them some ale and bread, and discussed the latest turn of events.

'If they were followed down the road by men on horseback, then it was not forest outlaws who robbed them,' declared Gwyn, wiping ale from his moustache with the back of his hand.

'Sounds as if their assailants knew that they had something valuable with them,' observed Thomas reasonably. 'But how could they know that?'

'From the fair, I suppose,' replied Gwyn. 'A silversmith is always fair game for robbery.'

De Wolfe shook his head. 'The fair wasn't open on Monday, when they were attacked. The silver goods were not on display until this morning. So it must have been at the New Inn — perhaps someone in the tavern overheard Scrope telling of his trip to Topsham.' They finished off their refreshments and made for the door, to thank the monks for their hospitality.

'We'll get no more sense out of this Terrus until he recovers — if he recovers!' grunted Gwyn. 'We need some description of these miscreants.'

John turned to Thomas and said something that gladdened his heart.

'Our good clerk here is the best link to any religious house. He can keep in touch with this place and discover if and when the man gets his wits back.

Meanwhile, there's plenty for us to do back in the city.'