Figure of Hate

Chapter Four

The last few jousts following the Peverel debacle were something of an anti-climax, and less than an hour later everyone was streaming away from Bull Mead, heading for either home or the alehouses. They had plenty to talk about, and the Bush Inn was one of the places where the gossip was most rife. At his table near the hearth, John de Wolfe was relating the story to Nesta and Gwyn, with Edwin the potman and a few regular patrons standing behind them, their ears flapping to hear the details from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

'I've always heard that Hugo was a nasty piece of work,' growled Gwyn, over the rim of his pottery jug of ale. 'Terrible temper, they say. He was suspected of beating some poor sod of a groom near to death iast year, for some trifling fault.'

The coroner's officer-had not long arrived back from st James' Priory, though John had expected him much earlier. It seemed that the silversmith's assistant had suffered a dizzy attack after rising from his sickbed and the monks had insisted on his resting for a few more hours before leaving on the hired horse.

'How well do you know this Hugo?' asked Nesta, sitting close to John, her arm linked comfortably with his.

'I know little about him, except to recognise him by sight. After today, I don't want to acknowledge him at all, unless I have to in the line of duty.'

'He was in Outremer with us, wasn't he?' asked Gwyn, vigorously scratching his unruly mop of red hair where the lice were irritating his scalp.

'I recall that he was there briefly, but never in our formation, thank God. I believe he arrived at Acre at the same time as the King, but on a different ship from us. I never saw him in the Holy Land, but we have to give him the credit of being a Crusader, I suppose.'

'I heard a rumour that he left within a couple of months and went back to Cyprus,' persisted Gwyn.

'The other fellow, the Frenchman, he was there as well,' piped up Edwin, who, as an old soldier, was keen on any gossip that had a military flavour. 'He was with Philip's army at Acre, so they say.'

Gwyn scowled into his pot. 'They soon went home with their tails between their legs,' he said with unusual spite. The Church and the French were the Cornishman's two pet hates. De Wolfe could understand his aversion to their French enemies, but he had never discovered the cause of his anethema to all things ecclesiastical.

'What happened after the joust?' asked Nesta. 'This Reginald could hardly have been happy about the outcome.'

'Well, he won twice over — unhorsing Peverel and then striking his sword from his grasp. It was a fair fight until Hugo lost his temper and threw a lance at him.'

'And at his bloody head, too, by your account,' growled Gwyn, disgusted at this breach of knightly etiquette.

'So they just walked off together?' persisted Nesta, always curious about people's behaviour.

'Hardly together, the Frenchman couldn't bring himself even to look at Peverel. He stalked away, white around the gills, and left Hugo glowering around like a baited bull. I presume their squires had to get together to arrange the hand-over of the winnings.'

'De Charterai will get his armour, his sword and his horse and harness, the usual loot for a winner,' added Gwyn, with evident satisfaction.

The landlady shook her head in wonder at the strange things that the aristocracy got up to. She had never heard tell of such goings-on in Wales, though it was true that some of the princes and heads of household were starting to ape the Normans in many of their ways.

Eventually, the group exhausted the talk about the tournament and the fair, moving on to other matters.

Nesta pressed John to take some food, but he excused himself on the grounds that he had to attend a feast that evening in the Guildhall, given by the tournament council in celebration of the day's jousting. All the participating knights would be there, as well as the organising officials and the adjudicators — John was intrigued and a little apprehensive as to whether Hugo Peverel and Reginald de Charterai would be present.

Though he had seen little of Matilda these past few days, he knew full well that she would insist on attending, as any event where the great and the good of the county were present was a magnet to her ambitions of social advancement. The dismissal of her brother from the shrievalty had certainly dampened her aggressive social climbing, but he knew she would turn out for an event such as this.

The tavern was even busier than usual this evening and the big taproom was crammed to capacity, with drinkers standing shoulder to shoulder, jostling those sitting at the few tables and benches set on the rush, covered earth floor. With the fire going and a full house, the atmosphere could almost be cut like a cheese, redolent with wood smoke, spilt ale, sweat and unwashed bodies. When Nesta and the potman had been called away to settle some domestic crisis, John turned to Gwyn to "talk business.

'You took this Terrus fellow to his lodging, you say?' His officer nodded, wiping ale from his luxuriant moustache. 'He was a bit weak after his ride, though it was no great distance. I left him with the silversmith who stayed behind on your orders.'

'We'll see him in the morning. I'll have to hold this inquest later, as the body won't keep much longer, even though the weather's fairly cool. And the family will be up from Totnes, wanting to take it for burial.' Gwyn nodded. 'I'll round up those men from the quay-side and a few others for a jury — though I can't see us getting very far towards any conclusion. The bastards that killed the merchant could be in the next county by now.'

De Wolfe swallowed the last of his ale and stood up.

'I'm hoping they may still be hanging about at this fair, so maybe we'll get lucky tomorrow. We need that Terrus fellow to be out and about with his eyes open, to see if he can spot them. Now I'm off home to get ready for this damned feast.'

He waved a goodbye to Nesta, who was standing across the room with arms akimbo, watching Edwin and one of her regular customers drag a vomiting drunk out through the back door to pitch him into the yard to sober up. John smiled at the thought of such a pretty, affectionate and passionate woman having such an indomitable strength of spirit after all the troubles she had suffered these past few years, and he turned his steps homeward with a glow of pride at having her still love him.

The Guildhall was a single large chamber with a high beamed ceiling, entered directly from High Street through an arched doorway. The new stone building had replaced a previous smaller wooden one, needed as Exeter developed its commerce and wealth, mainly due to the wool, cloth and tin industries that were rapidly making it a rich city. But there were many more merchants and crafts than these staple industries, and most had their own guilds to protect the interests of their owners and workers, the Guildhall providing a centre for these organisations. The burgesses elected a pair of portreeves to lead the city council — though there was now talk of having a 'mayor', as in London and a few other cities. These two worthies were already sitting in the centre of the high table as John de Wolfe escorted his wife into the hall. As he had anticipated, Matilda had swiftly raised herself from her depression over her brother's fall from grace. The prospect of an evening among the upper class of the county was too great an attraction for her to miss, especially as she had to put on a good face before her matronly friends from St Olave's, who were the wives of burgesses and some manor-lords who had houses in the city. For Matilda not to lose face and to ride out the gossip and sniggers about her brother, she had to continue to appear in public as before — apparently unconcerned and proud to be the wife of the coroner, the second-most important law officer in the county.

Tonight she had tormented her maid Lucille into dressing her with special care, wrestling her lacklustre hair into two coiled plaits, trapped above each ear in a crespine of gilded mesh. She wore a new kirtle of deep red velvet, held at the waist by a gilt cord, the tassels of which swept the floor, as did the tippets on the cuffs of her ridiculously wide sleeves. Her best mantle of black wool was secured at the left shoulder by a large circular buckle, but she made sure that she pulled the corner of the cloak free from the silver ring as soon they entered the hall, so that her friends could get a good view of her new gown.

By contrast — and to his wife's eternal annoyance John was dressed as usual in a dull grey tunic under his worn wolfskin cloak. His only gesture to sartorial elegance was the fact that the tunic was brand new and he had had an extra shave before coming, though he was not due for one until the following Saturday. He was the despair of Matilda in many ways, but in her eyes one of his major faults was that he refused to wear even the more restrained fashions, let alone the bright variety of colours sported by many of his acquaintances.

She accepted that he would never become a strutting peacock like many other men, especially Hugo de Relaga, but she suspected that John stuck to his funereal garb just to annoy her.

Tonight, as they entered the already crowded hall, they were met by one of the guild servants, and Matilda was overjoyed when he led them to the upper end of the hall. As one of the tournament judges, as well as being coroner, John was awarded a place at the top table, albeit towards one end. His wife was delighted to be able to sit on the slightly raised dais and look down at the three long tables set at right angles below, where all her church cronies were seated, mild envy and a little jealousy evident in their eyes.

The feast was the usual noisy, boisterous occasion with plenty of food and too much drink. As soon as one of the cathedral canons had said grace, there followed a couple of hours of frantic eating, with servants hurrying a continuous succession of courses from the large kitchen hut behind the hall. The hall was crowded and, when laden with dishes, trays and jugs, the servants had to push and shove with ill grace through the narrow spaces between the rows of tables.

Their work was made more difficult by uncaring diners getting up and moving around to chat and drink with friends elsewhere in the hall. Many were slightly the worse for drink even before they arrived, and drunken squabbles were to be expected where a crowd of lusty men were gathered, many of them young and full of arrogance. Tonight's assembly was even more volatile, with almost all the knights from the tournament present, half of them flushed with success and winnings, the other half resentful at the loss of both their pride and their accoutrements.

Martha had John de Alençon on her left, the archdeacon being a considerate and intelligent companion, for all his priestly asceticism. Beyond him was Henry de Furnellis, the new sheriff, not a great purveyor of conversation, but an amiable enough fellow on social occasions.

De Wolfe, last but one on the table, had the warden of the guild of tanners on the end next to him, but thankfully he was too devoted to eating and drinking to spend time boring John about the problems of the leather industry. He owned the largest tannery in the city, so was not himself a worker, but he still gave off the distinctive odour of his profession, contributed to by the pits of dog droppings that were used to deflesh the cow hides.

As the meal progressed and the autumn evening faded towards twilight outside, candles and tapers were lit around the room. The level of noise increased steadily as the wine, ale and cider flowed from the casks and wineskins stacked behind the top table. Hugo de Relaga and Guy Ferrars made thankfully short speeches of welcome and commendation for all who had worked hard to make the fair and tournament a success. Wisely, they did this early in the meal, before things got too rowdy and when there was still a chance of some of their audience bothering to listen.

The early courses had been devoured and much of the debris cleared away, the capons, geese, swans, ducks, mutton, fish and part-eaten trenchers all having been reduced to scraps, which were taken out to the street, where a small crowd of beggars were waiting expectantly to scrabble for the leftovers, chasing away the mangy dogs that had the same idea in mind. Now the sweets and puddings were served, together with fruit — mainly apples, pears and some more exotic imports from France, such as figs and oranges. A trio of musicians attempted to entertain the diners, but though they persisted valiantly, they could hardly be heard over the hubbub, and those who could hear them took little notice. The festivities had reached the stage where a few men were staggering out to be sick in the central gutter of High Street, and several more had fallen down senseless with drink, little notice being taken of them by anyone, except their indignant wives.

John's tanner eventually went to sleep across the table, his head on his arms as he snored. The coroner, who had eaten well himself, had little to do except study the crowd below, as Matilda was deep in conversation with his friend the archdeacon, no doubt discussing Church matters, which fascinated his wife even more than the social hierarchy of Devonshire.

As his eyes roved around, he picked out many of the contestants from Bull Mead upon whom he had adjudicated that day. The Frenchman, Reginald de Charterai, was just below him, near the top of the central spur table, talking animatedly with a fat merchant who had a thriving trade in woollen cloth, exporting it to Flanders and Cologne. De Wolfe's observations had long ago confirmed that his brother-in-law, the former sheriff, was not present. Although Richard de Revelle had a thick skin, John thought it unlikely that he would show himself at public functions in Exeter for some time yet, until the immediate memory of his disgrace began to fade.

But as he looked around, he was surprised to see another face, someone who, unlike de Revelle, seemed sufficiently immune to recent scandal to present himself at the feast. At the farther end of the right-hand line of trestles, his back to the aisle where de Charterai sat, was Hugo Peverel, alongside a younger man whose strong facial resemblance suggested that he was one of his brothers, presumably the same one who had had the successful bout this afternoon, though then the helmet and chain mail around the face had made identification difficult. John remembered that the deceased William Peverel had four sons, but he could not recall their names. Like many of his neighbours along the table, Peverel was well advanced in his cups, but he seemed in no danger of either passing out, retching or sleeping. In fact, the reverse seemed true, as he was loudly declaiming about something and banging a fist on the table as he ranted, though over the general clamour in the hall, de Wolfe Could hear nothing of what he was saying.

A few moments later, the observant coroner saw that the French knight had risen from his seat and was pushing his way between the rows of revellers to reach the front of the hall, presumably on his way to relieve himself either in the street or the yard behind. As he came level with Hugo's broad back, the coroner fancied that he deliberately turned his head away to avoid any chance of eye contact, but fate was against him. Just as he was passing, a man seated at his own row of tables decided to lurch to his feet, his shoulder jostling Reginald and making him stumble against Hugo Peverel. It was a trivial incident which in any other circumstances would have gone unnoticed, but it distracted Hugo from his harangue to his cronies and he glanced back truculently. When he saw who was standing there, he gave a roar of anger and leapt unsteadily to his feet, knocking over his stool with a crash.

'Haven't you already caused me enough trouble today, you bloody foreigner!' he yelled, giving de Charterai an open-handed shove in the chest which sent him staggering back in the confined space between the tables. In spite of the noise in the hall, there was an immediate hush around the two men, which rapidly spread like the ripples around a stone thrown into a pond.

The Frenchman stared stonily at his former opponent and made to pass on without responding, but the belligerent Hugo moved into the narrow aisle to prevent him.

'Lost your tongue, foreigner? Or are you too high and mighty to speak to the likes of me?' he rasped, in a voice that carried around the now expectant hall.

De Wolfe was already out of his own seat and squeezing down the congested space between the end table and the wall, heading for what he knew was going to be a trouble spot. As he did so, Reginald lifted a hand against Hugo's shoulder to push him out of the way.

'I seek no trouble with you, Peverel! Our business was completed on the tourney field today.' For answer, the Devon man gave his enemy another push, this time so hard that de Charterai staggered back and fell across the very man whose unintended action had triggered the crisis. Hugo drew back his fist to punch the Frenchman while he was still off balance, but two of his companions, one of them his brother, were still sober enough to restrain him, though they failed to still his tongue.

'By God's bowels, it was far from completed!' he yelled thickly. 'If those yellow-bellied judges hadn't interfered, we could have finished it properly — and I'd have bloody well won and saved my horse and armour, damn you!'

By now de Wolfe had reached the far end of the table and was coming around into the aisle, joined by Peter de Cunitone, the other adjudicator, who was hurrying along with a pair of stewards. Guy Ferrars and several other members of the tournament council were struggling to push through from the top table, but John was nearest to the rapidly developing altercation.

De Charterai was doing his best to avoid inflaming the situation, and when he found his feet again, he took a pace backward, his long, aristocratic face white with suppressed anger.

'You are a disgrace to your knighthood, Peverel!' he hissed, his voice vibrant with emotion. 'What you did today was against all the chivalry of the tournament. You have dishonoured yourself — and well you know it!'

'Ah, shut your ugly mouth, you damned French spy!' roared Hugo, his heavy, reddened features stuck forward pugnaciously as he stood swaying slightly on his feet. 'You're a craven coward as well as being a lousy fighter. I knew you in Palestine — your lot buggered off home early with that chicken-hearted simpleton you call your king and left us to do the fighting without you!'

De Wolfe reached the pair and tried to thrust himself between them, but too late to stop Reginald, insulted beyond measure, from giving Hugo Peverel a resounding slap across the face. With another angry roar, the befuddled manor-lord scrabbled for the hilt of his sword. Confused to find it missing, for guests could not come fully armed to a banquet, he reached around his belt for his dagger, but the coroner was too quick for him. Seizing his wrist in an iron grip, he forced him down on to a bench, where his brother Ralph and another friend grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him still.

'Now behave yourself, Peverel!' snapped de Wolfe, in a voice that could bend iron. He turned to the haughty de Charterai, who was quivering with rage at the public insult that he had suffered, and softened his tone somewhat.

'I apologise for this, sir knight. But this fellow is far gone in his cups, so perhaps you could make some allowance for the intemperance of a drunken man's tongue? All here know you for an honourable man and a worthy fighter.'

Reginald inclined his head stiffly, mollified by the coroner's conciliatory words.

'Thank you, Sir John. I appreciate your concern. I think it would be best if I absented myself now, to avoid making a bad situation worse.' He gave Hugo a look that he might use on seeing a dog turd on his shoe.

'The man is certainly drunk now — but he was sober this afternoon. I will meet him again some time — and then I will kill him!'

With that, he pushed his way to the end of the hall, ignoring the more senior men who attempted to add their apologies. There was a breath-holding silence as a hundred pairs of eyes watched him flick a mantle across his shoulders and stride out of the Guildhall into the darkness.

With Matilda on his arm, John walked slowly back to his house in a sombre mood. A stickler for correct behaviour in the knightly class, it exasperated him to see the codes of conduct flouted so flagrantly by an oaf such as Hugo Peverel, who was brought up to know better. He was a manor-lord of the line of William the Conqueror, even if it had come from the wrong side of the blanket more than a century ago.

Like most sons of a lord, other than the youngest, who were often pushed into the clergy, he would have been sent first as a page or a varlet to another knight, then climbed to the status of squire, before eventually getting his own spurs in his late teens. Even the many landless knights, awaiting an inheritance that might never materialise, as well as those who had to carve out a living by hiring their swords or joining a campaign where booty was to be accumulated, all had to abide by the codes of honour that regulated relations between them. Since the old Queen Eleanor had introduced the fashion for courtly behaviour from Aquitaine, with this modern nonsense about fighting for a lady's favours and writing poetry and singing love songs, John felt that the former strict rules of combat and the comradely codes of honour between fellow warriors were being watered down by this namby-pamby romantic chivalry, but maybe that was a sign of him getting too old to be a campaigner any longer.

Matilda tugged his arm to jerk him out of this silent reverie. 'That was a sorry spectacle this evening, John,' she said. Secretly, she-was pleased that it was her husband who had so publicly broken up the developing quarrel. It had been witnessed by all the people who mattered in the city, and some of the kudos must rub off on her when she next met her matronly cronies at " their devotions. For the moment, the fact that she had been on the top table next to the archdeacon and the sheriff, as well as having her husband demonstrating his authority to half the county, allowed her to temporarily forget her shame at her brother's disgrace — and John's part in bringing it about.

As they reached their home, she was almost benign as she prompted him to sit by the fire and have a cup of wine, while she summoned Lucille out of her kennel under the stairs and hauled her up to the solar to undress her and prepare her for bed.

John contemplated taking Brutus down to the Bush, but it was quite late now and he had consumed so much food and drink that for once the thought of his mattress overcame even the attractions of Nesta. He sat in one of the monk's chairs by his great hearth, the cowled top keeping the draughts away from his head.

Mary came in with a small wineskin and a pewter cup, and as she poured for him he told her of the drama in the Guildhall that evening. They kept their voices low, as high on the wall to the side of the chimney there was a Judas slit that communicated with the solar, but close to the fireplace they were out of sight of Matilda's prying eyes. Mary was always avid for titbits of scandal, and this time she was even able to tell him something about the Peverel ménage.

'My cousin is a seamstress at Sampford Peverel,' she volunteered. 'She calls to see my mother a couple of times a year, when the steward's wife brings her to buy at the cloth fair.'

Mary's mother was also a seamstress, in Rack Lane — her father had been a passing soldier who stayed only for the conception. 'She says that it's an unhappy manor, especially since the last lord died in that tourney. The family always seem to be fighting among themselves, and this Hugo is hated by almost everyone, even by his wife and his stepmother!'

John knew that servants' gossip was often exaggerated but usually had a grain of truth in it somewhere.

'What's the problem there, did your cousin say?'

Mary shrugged. 'I wasn't all that interested at the time. I wish I had taken more notice now. It seems that the old man took a much younger wife a few years ago and they were far from happy. But the main trouble when he died was that the eldest son was barred from the inheritance and it went to the second son, which was Hugo.'

John's black eyebrows rose. It was a serious matter if the heir to a large manor like Sampford had to forfeit his birthright. 'Did she say what brought that about?' he asked.

'My cousin said the eider son had some disability of his body, though she didn't say what. I know the matter was hotly disputed and they went to law in London over it.'

Mary knew no more, but when she left with the empty jug, John remained in his chair, pondering over what she had said. To have such a boorish, overbearing man as Hugo Peverel as the lord of a manor torn by family squabbles sounded like a recipe for a very unhappy village.

Early the next morning, Gwyn called at the house in Martin's Lane, keeping a wary eye out for the coroner's wife, who disapproved of the hairy Cornishman almost as much as she despised Thomas, the unfrocked clerk who was a sexual pervert, as far as she was concerned.

Gwyn was safe enough-today, as she was still in bed after her over-indulgence at the feast the previous evening, but John was already dressed, fed and watered by the faithful Mary. He buckled a short sword on to his baldric, stepped out of the vestibule into the lane and stalked alongside his officer into the main thoroughfare of the city.

'These men are lodging in Curre Street, you say?'

'Yes, they're dossing in a cheap room behind a brothel. I've arranged the inquest in the Shire Hall for the tenth hour. Gabriel is sending a couple of men down to the Watergate to fetch the corpse up on a barrow.'

'What about a jury?'

For all that he looked like a huge ginger Barbary ape, Gwyn of Polruan was an efficient organiser. 'All fixed, Crowner. The porters and stevedores from the wharf make up most of them, but I've got a few stallholders from the fair as well, men who were near the silversmith's booth.'

This Thursday was the third and last day of the fair and the last chance John had of spotting the men who had killed August Scrope, if they were still around.

They collected the two craftsmen from a squalid room in the narrow street that ran from High Street towards the north wall and marched them down to Southernhay, giving Terrus of Totnes strict orders to keep his eyes peeled as they went. He had recovered well, and the previous day's weakness seemed to have passed, though he still had livid bruising and crusted scratches on his face.

The fair was still in full swing, though a few stalls had closed up, their owners having either sold all their wares or started on a long journey home. There was no rival attraction on Bull Mead today so the crowds were thronging the booths as thickly as on the two previous days.

Terrus and his fellow craftsman, Alfred, walked behind the coroner and his officer as they slowly paraded up and down the lanes between the stalls, the survivor of the assault swinging his head from side to side as he peered at faces in the press of people. They completed two circuits without result, and John began to wonder whether they were wasting their time. Going back up the centre again, they came to the stage and stopped to watch a performance of Moses ascending the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments. The onlookers were mightily amused when the false-bearded prophet slipped and put his foot through the lath-and-plaster simulation of Mount Sinai, giving vent to some colourful unbiblical oaths that drew cries of outrage from the vicar, who was chanting the appropriate commentary from the Old Testament.

John grinned and Gwyn added his belly-laugh to the jeers of derision from the crowd, but suddenly the coroner felt an urgent tugging at his sleeve.

'That's one of the bastards, I'm sure,' hissed Terrus.

He half hid behind de Wolfe as he covertly pointed across the front of the platform at the crowd clustered on the other side. 'That thick set fellow with the leather cape!'

John saw a heavily built man of about thirty with a narrow rim of mousy beard running around his face, which bore a surly expression, even though he was watching the hilarious fiasco on the stage. His clothing was plain but of fair quality, a short, tightly belted tunic under a black shoulder cape that had a dagged lower edge and a pointed hood hanging behind his thick neck. To the coroner, he looked like a retainer in a household, either a bailiff or a manor-reeve.

'Are you sure? No sign of the other one?' Terrus scanned the crowd almost fearfully, painfully reminded of the beating he had already suffered, then shook his head. 'No, just that one. But I'm certain it's him, even his garments are the same.'

'Right, you stay here until we call you.' He nudged Gwyn and together they walked behind the crowd to reach the other side of the stage where the man stood.

They moved into position, one on either side of him.

'We want a word with you, fellow.'

Surprised, the man turned around, his square face creased into a scowl. He had short, bristly hair the same colour as his beard, and his small dark eyes were deeply set under heavy brows.

'And who the hell might you be?' he rasped, showing a set of uneven brown teeth.

'The King's coroner — and this is my officer. Come over here where we can talk.' John waved a hand at an empty booth a few yards away, where there was no one to overhear them.

The man's scowl deepened. 'I'm coming nowhere! State your business here.'

For reply, Gwyn grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, shoving him across the lane to the place his master had indicated. Though the man was burly and tough looking, he was no match for the Cornishman's strength and, cursing and wriggling, he was propelled under the striped awning of the deserted booth.

The coroner regarded him coldly. 'You can talk here — or in the gaol in Rougemont, it's your choice.'

'Holy Mary, what's the world coming to that a man can't watch a mystery play without being set upon by law officers?' he seethed, but John noticed a shifty look in his eyes which might suggest a lurking anxiety. Gwyn loosened his grip, but watched for any signs of escape.

'What's your name and where are you from?' was de Wolfe's first demand.

'It's none of your bloody business, but I'm Robert Longus, an armourer.' There were many such men about the town this week — they came either as freelances or as retainers to their knights, attending to the weapons and armour used in the tournament.

'Where are you from, armourer?' asked Gwyn gruffly.

'Again, it's not your concern, but I come from near Tiverton. What in hell is all this about?'

For reply, John beckoned to Terrus, and hesitantly the man approached, but stopped a few feet away from them, out of range of Robert's fist.

'This man claims you were one of pair who attacked him and killed his partner near Topsham on Monday morning,' snapped the coroner. 'Do you deny it?' The upshot of his reply, peppered with oaths as foul as any that the two hardened campaigners had heard in two decades of soldiering, was to the effect that it was pack of lies and that he had never been near Topsham in his life.

John turned to the silversmith, who was cringing like a rabbit before a ferret. 'What do you say to that, Terrus?' he demanded.

'It's him, I'm certain of it!' babbled the man. 'I'll remember his face for the rest of my life.' He dodged behind Gwyn's large bulk as Robert Longus made a sudden movement towards him, but the Cornishman held out a hand the size of a salted ham to hold him back.

'Calm down, fellow! Just pay attention to the coroner.'

'So where were you early on Monday?' demanded de Wolfe. Something about this man didn't ring true, for all his protestations.

'I was working for my master and minding my own damned business!' cried Robert furiously. 'Ask him yourself, if you don't believe me.'

'We'll do just that, Longus. Where can we find him?' The armourer hesitated for a moment. 'He should be at his lodging, no doubt breaking his fast at this hour.' It was late for most people's morning meal, but that was no concern of de Wolfe.

'Where's he staying? We'll go there now and settle this once and for all.'

Robert grudgingly told them that it was in High Street, and they set off up to the East Gate, which was the nearest entrance into the city from where they were.

With Terrus following reluctantly behind, keeping his distance, they marched off, John and Gwyn staying close behind the man, to see that he didn't give them the slip. Once through the gate, de Wolfe was somewhat surprised to see the armourer making for the left side of the street, where the New Inn was situated. This was the largest and most expensive of the hostelries in Exeter, where the judges and other visiting dignitaries stayed.

'Who is your master, anyway?' John called out to the fellow's back.

'There he is — you can ask him yourself!' retorted Robert, rudely. He pointed to two figures standing outside the door of the inn, wearing riding cloaks and seemingly waiting for an ostler to bring their horses around from the yard at the back.

'It's that bastard Peverel!' muttered Gwyn in surprise. 'Who's that with him?'

'His younger brother, by the looks of it,' replied de Wolfe bitterly. With so much to do today, the last thing he needed was another quarrel with Hugo. Robert Longus had put on a spurt and hurried ahead. By the time the coroner and his officer caught up with him, he had managed a few gabbled words to the Peverels.

Hugo scowled when he saw John approaching.

'Are you intent on persecuting me, de Wolfe? You've caused me trouble enough these past two days!'

The coroner ignored his words. 'Does this man belong to your manor?'

'He does indeed! Robert Longus is my armourer and a very good one at that. What concern is that of yours?'

His tone was as abrasive as he could make it, almost a snarl to denote his contempt of de Wolfe's meddling in his affairs.

'My concern is that he is accused of assault, robbery and possibly murder.'

Hugo glowered at the coroner, then turned to the younger man, who could only be his brother.

'Ralph, see how I am treated by these Exeter people! They lose no opportunity to persecute me with trumped-up charges, anything to discomfit me.' His brother shrugged but made no reply, and John gained the feeling that little love was lost between the two men. Ralph was a younger version of Hugo, probably in his late twenties, thought John. He had the same set to his features, but a less aggressive expression.

'There's no persecution, Peverel,' snapped John. 'Until this moment, I had no idea that this man was in your employ. Just give me a straight answer. He says you can vouch for his whereabouts early on Monday morning, when I have been told he was some miles away, perpetrating robbery with violence.'

As Hugo glared back, an ostler appeared, leading two horses by their bridles. 'I've no time to bandy words with you, Coroner. But if it gets you out of my hair, then yes, of course Robert was with me on Monday morning. We were preparing my equipment for the tourney. So you can forget any malicious nonsense about him being elsewhere.'

He reached up for the pommel of his saddle and swung himself up on to the beast's back, his brother doing the same behind him.

'Now I'm going home and am glad to be shaking the dust of this miserable city from my feet. I've met with nothing but insolence and antagonism ever since I arrived.'

He snatched up the reins, but at a sign from John, Gwyn grabbed the bit-ring and pulled the horse's head down to stop it moving on.

'That's not good enough, Peverel!' snapped the coroner. 'I am holding an inquest this morning into the death of a silversmith and I need the attendance of anyone who can offer any evidence on the matter.' For a moment, it looked as if the inflamed Hugo was going to give Gwyn's hand a crack with the riding staff that he held in his hand, but he restrained himself.

'That's no concern of mine! I've never heard of this dead man and have not the slightest interest in your problems.'

'Then your armourer here must attend. He has been accused of being involved in the death and needs to defend himself,' snapped de Wolfe.

'Indeed he will not' shouted the manor-lord. 'I need him at home. Robert, get back to your lodgings, fetch your horse and follow us. We'll wait for you at St Sidwells.'

With that, he wrenched his steed's head away from Gwyn's grasp and, touching its belly with his spurs, jerked it away from the inn, his brother following impassively behind. On foot, there was nothing John could do to detain them and, glowering with frustration, he watched them trot away towards the East Gate.

Then he swung round to Robert Longus, who was sidling away in the opposite direction.

'Hey, you! Don't you dare try to make off or I'll have you in shackles in the castle gaol.'

Gwyn strode after him and seized him by the shoulder.

'You'll be up at the Shire Hall in two hours' rime, understand?' continued John. 'If you're not there, I'll have you attached and arrested, even if I have to come to Sampford Peverel to do it myself!'

The Shire Hall was an austere stone box on the left side of the inner ward in Rougemont. A virtually empty shell, its architecture was similar to that of a barn, a single large chamber with an earthen floor, entered by a high arched doorway that could have admitted a haycart. The rough roof beams supported a covering of stone tiles, and the only furnishings on a low wooden platform facing the entrance were a couple of trestle tables, a few benches and some stools.

For all its unprepossessing appearance, it was an important place, and one in frequent use, not only for the fortnightly Shire Court, but for meetings of freeholders to conduct county business and for the periodic visits of the King's judges and Commissioners for the Eyres and Gaol Delivery. Coroner's inquests were often held there, as well as other functions to do with the forest law, frankpledge and many other legal, political and administrative meetings.

Today, John had little expectation of making much progress with his inquiry, but the formality had to be gone through, so that the corpse could be released for burial. When he went across to the hall from his chamber, he found that Gwyn had marshalled the reluctant jurymen into a straggling line below the dais, where Thomas was already sitting at a table with his pen, ink and parchment at the ready. To one side of the jury stood an elderly man and two youths, together with a middle-aged woman, who was quietly weeping into her hands. De Wolfe assumed that these were a brother, two sons and the leman of the silversmith, who Gwyn had said had travelled from Totnes to collect the deceased. In spite of John's threats, there was no sign of the armourer Robert Longus, and the coroner vowed to make him pay dearly for his flaunting of the law.

When two men-at-arms had dragged in a handcart on which the body lay shrouded under a sack, they were ready to start, and John pulled a stool to the edge of the platform and sat down while Gwyn bellowed out the customary opening call.

'Oyez, oyez, all persons having anything to do before the King's coroner for the county touching the death of August Scrope, draw near and give your attendance.'

As the dozen men were already drawn as near as they wished to be to the now foul-smelling cadaver, this produced no response, and the coroner went straight into the proceedings. He briefly described the circumstances of the death, then called forward the 'first finders', the two men from the quay-side. Haltingly, they described how they found the body in the river, which caused the men of the family to mutter angrily and the mistress to snuffle more heart-rendingly.

Then Alfred, the second silversmith, stated that his master and Terrus had left Exeter early on Monday morning to deliver expensive silverware to a client in Topsham and had not returned as they had promised.

Terrus himself then came forward and displayed his injuries and related how he and his master had been attacked by two mounted men. He failed to recall what had happened to August Scrope, as he himself had been knocked unconscious, his wits not returning until he found himself in St James' Priory.

'But do you recollect the faces of the men who assaulted you?' demanded de Wolfe, leaning forward on his stool. The craftsman nodded vigorously.

'That I do, Crowner — at least, one of them! He was the man I pointed out to you in the fair this morning.' John straightened up and directed his voice at the family members, as well as the jury. 'He was a fellow from Sampford Peverel, who calls himself Robert Longus. I warned him to attend this inquest but he has defaulted, and I therefore attach him in the sum of five marks to attend either a resumed inquest or the next county court. If he fails to appear then, he will be arrested or, failing that, attached to appear before the King's justices or his commissioners when they next visit Exeter.'

'Can't you arrest the swine now, Crowner?' called out the elder man from Totnes, obviously in a state of angry agitation. John explained the problem.

'Regrettably, all we have by way of evidence is the accusation of Terrus that this Robert was one of the assailants. The man denies it, so it is one man's word against another — and the fellow's master, the lord of Sampford, backs up his denial by claiming that he was with him at the time.'

The brother and sons growled again among themselves, but the coroner tried to reassure them. 'When I can get this man before a court and put him on oath, then we will see what further we can do to get at the truth. I will talk to the new sheriff about ways of bringing that about, for it is his responsibility to detain the man.'

Some hope of that, John thought privately, It was clear that Henry de Furnellis was going to leave all the leg-work to others.

The rest of the inquest was rapidly concluded, as John directed the jurors to file past the body on the cart, so that they could view the corpse's injuries. They did so with alacrity, none of them lingering near the body, which was beginning to swell and discolour. At a sign from his master, Gwyn covered the dead man again with the hessian sheer, and the soldiers trundled it outside to wait for the relatives to transfer it to the oxcart that they had brought from Tomes.

'In view of the absence of good evidence, especially the defection of Robert Longus, I have to adjourn this, inquest until further information comes before me, said John to the assembled court — though under his breath he added, 'If that ever happens.' He glared at the sheepish jury, who were wondering what purpose had been served by taking them from their labours for an hour.

'A coroner has to determine who the deceased was, where, when and by what means he came to his death.

The identity has clearly been established and though it is obvious that no presentment of Englishry can be made, I will not levy the murdrum fine, as the corpse was discovered in the river and thus no particular vill can bear the blame. It is obvious that August Scrope was murdered. The time was last Monday and the place was on the high road between Topsham and St James' Priory. The cause of death was grievous wounding, and although the cadaver was found in the river I have no proof that he finally drowned. There is no evidence yet as to who attacked him and threw him into the water, so I will not demand a verdict from you the jury until I resume this hearing, hopefully when better information is forthcoming.'

After this long speech, de Wolfe nodded curtly to the faces below the platform, then turned to see how Thomas was getting on with his transcript. Leaning over his humped shoulder, he scanned the parchment on which his clerk was speedily inscribing his neat Latin calligraphy. Though John could not read more than a few words, he liked to check the length of the script, to make sure that Thomas was getting down an adequate description of the proceedings. He need not have concerned himself, as the little man was most diligent and took a pride in both the appearance and the content of his rolls, copies of which would be sent to the King's justices at the next Eyre of Assize, and eventually end up in the archives at Winchester or London.

When the jurymen had shuffled away and the grieving relatives had gone for their cart, Gwyn came across the empty hall to join them, his ever hungry stomach causing him to suggest adjourning to their chamber for their usual bread, cheese and ale.

As they walked across the inner ward to the gatehouse, Thomas ventured a comment. 'At least fears of multiple slayings this week have not come to pass, Crowner,' he said. 'The tournament passed off without a death — and the fair ends tonight, so ho fully only this one killing can be blamed on it.'

'Don't tempt fate, Thomas,' growled de Wolfe. 'We'll have to wait until tomorrow morning before we can congratulate ourselves on getting off so lightly.'

'What about this silversmith, Crowner?' asked Gwyn.

'Do you really think this damned armourer is one of the men we seek? His lord has given him a good alibi.' John stopped and turned to face his officer. 'Would you trust the word of such a man as Hugo Peverel, after the way he's behaved? No, as soon as we have a free day, we'll ride up to Sampford for a few words with them — taking Gabriel and a couple of his men if necessary!'

Fate was to decree that de Wolfe's visit would occur sooner than he expected.