Figure of Hate (17 page)

'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.

Chapter Five

In which a manor-lord goes missing

On the second Monday of every month, Sampford Peverel held its manor leet, a court where a wide variety of issues were heard, from accusations of drunkenness, theft and assault, to disputes over ploughing boundaries in the strip fields. For centuries past under the Saxons, these leets were the main arbiters of disputes and dispensers of justice within the little kingdoms that made up the manorial system of medieval England. The lord was master in almost every sense.

He owned his bondsmen - the villeins and cottars and even the freemen had little real freedom, except the choice of starving if they chose not to heed the master's wishes.

Though the vast majority of issues before the manor court were domestic and relatively trivial, serious crimes could be prosecuted, and if he so wished the lord possessed the power of life and death by hanging.

Since the arrival of the Normans, however - and especially since the relentless reforms of old King Henry, known as 'The Lawgiver' - the more serious offences were progressively being swept into the royal courts, bypassing the manor and even the county courts. In fact, part of the new coroner's function was to divert as much legal business as he could to the King's judges and commissioners, to the advantage of the Lionheart's ever eager purse. His very title came from the phrase custosplactorum corona- 'Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown'.

For several generations at Sampford, it had become traditional for the lord himself to preside over the court, unless he was absent on some campaign. In most manors, the task of running the monthly leet was usually left to the steward, the most senior of the lord's servants, but here, wherever possible, one of the Peverels sat in dictatorial judgement over his subjects.

This morning, at the October leet, there was some consternation among the steward, bailiff and reeve, as an hour after the appointed time for the court to begin there was no sign of Hugo Peverel in the large barn that was used for a courthouse.

Most other places used the hall of the manor house for the proceedings, but Hugo's late grandmother had objected to the despoiling of her home by a crowd of uncouth, smelly villagers who trampled her clean rushes with their muddy feet, spitting and peeing against the walls. She persuaded her husband to build another barn for use as a court, though it found other useful functions such as a shelter for farm animals and as a village hall, a place where ales and dances could be held on saint's days.

Now there were three score villagers standing aimlessly outside the high doors of the thatched wooden building, waiting for something to happen.

Every man over fourteen had to attend the court, unless some vital farming duty detained him, for the leet was the parliament of the manor and in theory decisions depended on a consensus of opinion among the.

villagers. The established customs of the manor traditionally overrode the whims of the lord, as in return for the endless work they performed for him, he was under an obligation to organise their lives and defend them against the feudal uncertainties of starvation, natural disaster and the predations of robbers and civil war. In practice, the will of a strong lord or baron prevailed over this primitive democracy, especially in manors that were ruled by such a tyrannical dynasty as the Peverels.

The bailiff, Walter Hog, came striding across the courtyard, scattering chickens, pigs and small children from his path as he made for the steward, who was leaning against the weathered oak of the door post.

'Still no sign of him, Roger! Sir Odo refuses to come, says it's none of his business any longer, but Ralph promises to attend when he's finished in the privy. He says you are to start the hearings to avoid any more delay.'

Roger Viel was a heavy-featured man with fleshy jowls and loose skin under his neck like a cockerel's wattles.

A born pessimist, he gave the impression that life was a burden to be borne stoically until death released him into a better place. He sighed as he turned into the gloomy interior of the court. Though Ralph Peverel was not so hot tempered and arrogant as his elder brother, he" tended to be sarcastic and to show off his cleverness when put into any position of authority.

Where the hell had Hugo got to?, wondered Roger sourly.

Followed by a shuffling, muttering crowd, he took his place on a heavy oak chair, the only furniture in the place apart from a trestle table and stool where the manor-clerk occasionally sat when some more important issue required a record to be taken down. Along with the parish priest, the clerk was the only literate person in the manor, but today there was no need for his services, as the issues were all ones that could be dealt with summarily. Leaving the steward to get on with the business of dispensing justice, the bailiff walked quickly back to the manor house, a square, two-storeyed stone building. This was farther up the slightly sloping bailey, a two-acre compound within a stockade that defended the lord's residence. Like Rougemont, it had not been besieged since the last civil war between King Stephen and Empress Matilda half a century earlier, but with the present unrest between the King and his brother John, and the growing threat of a French invasion, the Peverels saw to it that their stout fence and gateway were kept in good repair.

Walter Hog clattered up the wooden steps to the main door, set well above head height in the wall. These steps could be thrown down in the event of an attack and a stout iron grille dropped across the heavy oaken doors. There was no communication between the floors above and the undercroft below, so the house was virtually impregnable against anything short of a siege engine.

Today the problem was less military than diplomatic, thought Walter wryly. The Peverels were a quarrelsome lot, always ready to take offence, bickering among themselves and hurling abuse and even blows at anyone in the vicinity. The bailiff had been at Sampford for only two years and was won'dering whether he had done the right thing in moving here from his previous post in Taunton, even though it paid a few pence a day more.

Inside the hall, he found Warin Fishacre, the manor-reeve, waiting for him. He was a thin, reedy man with a stoop and a hacking cough, who permanently wore an expression of irritation verging on anger. His mousy hair was pulled back tightly to a clump on the back of his neck, where it was tied with a piece of cord.

'Any sign of him out there?' Fishacre asked in a rough, throaty voice. The bailiff had no need to ask whether he was talking about Hugo Peverel.

'None at all - the bastard's vanished off the face of the earth,' answered Walter in a low voice, his eyes swiveling to the stairway that led to the upper floor where the family lived.

'Some hope of that!' snarled the reeve, though his eyes too scanned for any sign of someone who could overhear them.

'Roger Viel is starting the court now,' said Walter. 'I suppose I'd better wait for Ralph before going back there.'

The bailiff was a much younger man than the reeve, though well above him in status, as reeves were representatives of the bondsmen and thus unfree themselves. This was not necessarily reflected in their wealth, as there were pauper freemen and rich villeins, but Warin Fishacre was neither, just an average villager with a comely wife, a pretty daughter and two strong sons.

Walter Hog was a compact man of twenty-eight, with cropped fair hair and a round, pink face that bore an earnest expression. He was a conscientious worker and was determined to better himself, either by becoming a steward to some other lord or working for a rich merchant in Exeter or Southampton. But at the moment he had other problems on his mind, and one of them now appeared in the entrance to the staircase.

'Walter, did you tell them I'll be over directly?' Ralph Peverel was the third son of the William who had died neat Salisbury the previous spring. He was a younger version of both his father and his brother Hugo, though rather slimmer and better looking, clean shaven with red-blond hair cut short on the neck and sides to leave a thick circular cap on his crown. He wore a thigh-length tunic of green woollen cloth, with hose pushed into ankle-length leather boots with pointed toes. A surcoat of brown linen swung open to reveal a wide leather belt that was dotted with silver studs and carried a long dagger in an oriental sheath.

'Yes, Sir Ralph, I told them you were on your way. Roger Viel has started already. Shall I come with you now?'

Ralph shook his head and moved towards the outside door.

'Better that you two carry on looking for my brother. Mary, mother of God, but he was drunk last night! He's probably sleeping it off in a hay-loft, on top of some wench!'

It was as well that the speaker was moving away from the two servants, as the expression on Fishacre's face was one of undiluted hate, though whether at Ralph's words or some private inner thought, the bailiff could not determine.

'So where are we going to look again?' demanded Walter, as Ralph vanished down the steps. 'We've had all the house servants and the lads from the stables scouring the place for hours, without seeing so much as a whisker of him.'