Figure of Hate (3 page)

 
Away to Peverel's left, midway between the armies, was a small group of mounted men, wearing chain mail but carrying no lances or swords. These were the marshals and the judges, all prominently wearing white surcoats over their hauberks and some holding tall staffs from which fluttered white flags.

 
Behind them was the recet, a half-acre marked off by posts and ropes, in which were a few tents and troughs of water. This was the 'safe area' to which injured or exhausted men and horses could retreat for respite from the battle - and to which the badly wounded and dead could be brought to be tended by their squires, scores of whom now stood there waiting anxiously, wondering whether the end of the day would see them sharing their master's good fortune or his destitution.

 
All eyes were on the marshals, who would give the signal for the mêlée to begin - it might well last for up to ten hours that day.

 
In the tense silence, a man coughed and a stallion neighed.

 
Then they saw the white flags wave as a warning to be ready. A moment later, a trumpet shrilled a discordant blast and the umpires retreated nearer the recet, to avoid being trampled by the combatants. The previous quiet was suddenly shattered by roars and screams as the teams spurred their ponderous horses into action. The two massed groups gradually accelerated towards each other, aided by the slight slope down into the small plain between the two hillocks. The Reds and the Blues chanted their rehearsed war-cries, partly to work themselves up into an aggressive hysteria, but also to intimidate their opponents. The thunder of over a hundred huge steeds, each weighing almost half a ton, shook the ground, and when the front ranks smashed into each other, it was as if giant cymbals had been clashed.

 
William Peverel was in the centre of the front rank, and as he approached the Blues he picked out his first opponent, a tall, erect man on a black horse who came at him with similar intent. Lowering his lance, Peverel tucked the butt into his waist and aimed for the rivets in the centre of the man's shield, where the handle was attached. In the split second before impact, he saw that the shield had three white birds painted on a green background. With an ear-splitting crash, they made contact simultaneously, and the lance of each man hit the opposing shield with the momentum of a ton of horseflesh travelling at a combined speed of thirty miles an hour. The butt of his own lance slammed into his side with a force that made William grunt, and his lower back was whacked painfully against the high cantle of his chair-like saddle.

 
His shield jerked on his left arm, but he had angled it away so that the other knight's lance slid off, losing much of its impact. With his feet jammed in the stirrups and his knees locked against the front of his saddle, he had no difficulty in staying on his destrier's broad back.

 
William's own strike had been dead centre on the white bird, and the owner of the shield took the full of the twelve-foot lance, jerking back and almost falling from his horse. But like Peverel he was a seasoned fighter and managed to keep his balance. A fraction of a second later they had passed each other, and though the mêlée had widened out, there were other horsemen all around. Before he could draw breath, another knight charged at him, and though William managed to nick the edge of the other's unemblazoned shield he was more concerned with turning away the poorly aimed blow of the fresh-faced young man. Another few seconds and he found himself through the ranks of the Blues. It took a good many yards to slow the big horse and haul it around again to face the fighting, and as he did so another Red fighter cantered up to him. It was his second son, Hugo Peverel, his ruddy face sweating from excitement and exertion.

We're too evenly matched today, Father,' he yelled, as he turned alongside. 'We need a couple who are still wet behind their ears to get us warmed up!'

As they started to wheel their horses back into the crush, William shouted back. 'I've just had one boy trying to poke me, but I didn't have time to settle with him. He didn't look worth much of a ransom, anyway.' Another Blue knight cut short their conversation by attacking Sir William from the right, just as another man on a white mare came at his son from the other side, For five minutes there was a confused thrashing of men and horses, without much result as far as the Peverels were concerned, as neither managed to unseat my of their opponents.

The prime object of the tournament was to defeat individuals from the other army, either by knocking them from their saddles or by striking them on trunk or limb with a broadsword. Though there were almost no rules of combat, it was accepted as a matter of honour that neither a man's head nor his horse should be attacked, nor swords used by mounted men. If a knight was unhorsed, he would have to submit if his opponent hovered over him with his lance pointed at his vitals. If he could scramble to his feet and draw his sword, then the other man should dismount and fight it out with a similar weapon. A clean strike against arm, leg, belly or chest constituted a win, and the vanquished fighter lost his horse, armour and arms to the victor, as well as facing the possibility of being captured and ransomed for a sum of money.

 
After a third indecisive bout, the momentum of William's stallion again took him out of the main mêlée, and when he hauled himself around he saw that the previously tightly packed mass of combatants had spread out into a large sunburst of hoarsely shouting men and prancing beasts. A number of fights on foot had begun, and other pairs of horsemen were wheeling and circling around each other, lances clashing on shields.

 
Already several defeated knights were dejectedly walking back to the judges and the safe area, where they faced the loss of their property and perhaps even their liberty until they came up with a ransom. William saw another mounted man also making for the recet, one arm dangling helplessly, blood pouring off his fingers on to the ground.

 
Annoyed that he had not yet scored a win, the lord of Peverel manor spurred his destrier forward, aiming again for the centre of the thinning battle. There was more room for manoeuvre now - rather than just crashing into a mass of men and horses, he was able to single out his target. It was the same tall knight on the black stallion who he had encountered before, and he lowered his lance and jammed it tightly against his side with his elbow. With a roar of exhilaration he struck the white birds on the shield, again catching it dead centre, as he fended off the tip of his adversary's weapon. This time there was no mistake, as the impact threw the man back over the cantle of his saddle. As they thundered past each other, out of the corner of his eye William saw the fellow tumble to the ground and he let out a yell of exultation at his first 'kill' of the day.

His triumph was short lived as at that very moment a faulty saddle-girth gave way under the force of the encounter and the heavy wooden saddle slid from the horse's back. Helplessly, Peverel rolled over sideways, his arms so encumbered with lance and shield that he had no time to grab his horse's neck. In itself, this was not an inevitable disaster, as he had survived many a worse tumble. He slithered rather than fell overboard, letting go of the reins to avoid being dragged along by the still-lumbering destrier.

 
As he hit the ground, cursing and blaspheming at his bad luck, a great shadow enveloped him and four large hairy hoofs trampled him into the mud, crushing his chest and splitting his skull. The yelling and clashing of arms all around did not miss a beat - the combatants were too concerned with their own situations to worry about someone suffering the accepted perils of iln tournament. Only two men hurried back to the stricken knight. One was on foot, the tall, dark man whom William had vanquished - and the other was the horseman who had ridden over him.

 
It was his own son, Hugo Peverel.

Chapter One

In which Crowner John goes to a celebration

'Cheer up, Crowner, at least there's plenty to drink, even if the food's lousy!'

The fat priest, who was the garrison chaplain, winked and moved away, stuffing another meat pasty into his mouth. Sir John de Wolfe, the King's Coroner for the county of Devon, looked sourly about him, unimpressed by Brother Rufus's optimism. The bare hall of Rougemont, the name by which Exeter's castle was generally known, was a dour place for a midday party. A high oblong chamber with the entrance door at one end occupied most of the first floor of the keep. Below it, partly subterranean, was the undercroft which housed the prison - and above was a warren of rooms for clerks, servants and stores. There were slit windows along two of the walls, their shutters wide open on this mild October morning. On the other long wall several doors opened into the quarters of the sheriff and the castle constable. Apart from a few battered shields and crossed lances, the grey stone walls were bare, and de Wolfe was not surprised that the previous sheriff had failed to persuade his wife to live here with him, rather than at one of their more comfortable manors.

The thought of his wife's brother, the former sheriff Richard de Revelle, jerked him from his reverie, as the reason for today's gathering was to celebrate official installation of Richard's successor. The sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, had been sworn in seven hours ago by one of the King's Council at a ceremony in the Shire Court, an even more building a few yards away in the inner ward of castle. Before that, there had been a special 'in, the cathedral, from which Bishop Henry had been diplomatically absent, the Mass bein conducted by John de Alençon, the Archdeacon Exeter and a close friend of de Wolfe.

Now the great and good of the county, with many lesser hangers-on, had adjourned to hall for refreshment. The trestle tables and benches which usually served ale and food to a motley collection of men-at-arms, clerks, merchants and su cants seeking justice, were today filled with cross-section of Devon society, from manor-lords parish priests, from burgesses to bailiffs and constables to canons.

There were many wives among them, and experienced a stab of conscience when he looked down at his own wife sitting at a nearby table, listlessly at a capon's leg. Matilda normally rellished any public celebration where she could rub with the county aristocracy, show off her latest and gossip to her snobbish friends. But this was almost a badge of shame to her, and he had to persuade her to come with him, such was her reluctance. Though by no means a sensitive soul, de Wolfe realised that she must feel that people were casting meaningful glances at her and murmuring to other under their breath. For was she not the sister of the man who had been ejected from the office in the county for corruption, theft and suspected treason? Some of them wondered why Richard de Revelle still had a head on his shoulders, let alone being free to live peaceably on his manors near Plymouth and Tiverton.

De Wolfe sighed and turned his attention to the throng in the hall. Though many, especially the ladies, were sitting at the tables, there was a large contingent who preferred to stand or wander around with a pot of ale or cup of wine in their hand, meeting acquaintances and exchanging news and gossip. The new sheriff - though in fact he had already briefly held the same office the previous year - was talking to Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont. As John watched, they were joined by Sir Walter Ralegh, the member of the Curia Regis who had that morning administered the oath of fealty to the new incumbent, for as usual Richard the Lionheart was in France and was probably still unaware of the recent crisis in Devon. Then the archdeacon drifted towards the group and de Wolfe moved over to stand with them, as all four were friends of his, not least because they were all staunch supporters of King Richard. In these days of whispered intrigues about a renewal of Prince J
€
ohn's ambition to unseat his elder brother from the throne of England, loyalty could never be taken for granted.

'Once again, congratulations, Henry,' he said to the new sheriff. 'Let's hope you stay in office much longer this time!'

Henry de Furnellis grunted his bluff thanks. He was not an articulate man and spoke only when he had something to say, unlike some of the babblers here who paraded their tongues along with their stylish new clothes. In fact, Henry was a very dull man, elderly and reluctant to exert himself in his duties as sheriff. He had been Chosen by Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar and virtual regent of England during the King's absence, for being a safe, if unenthusiastic, pair of hands, unlikely to indulge in the corruption and treachery that had caused de Revelle's recent downfall.

De Furnellis was a large, lumpy man, with a shaven red face, watery blue eyes and a big nose.

sparse grey hair was cut short and his downturned mouth and the loose folds of skin under his chin him the appearance of a sad hunting hound.

'I doubt if I'll be here for much longer this time' he added phlegmatically. 'I'm well aware that Winchester only put me here to tide things over following the sudden departure of de Revelle. I want to get back to my manor as soon as possible, de Wolfe - so I hope you'll not burden me with too many problems in the coming months.'

The mention of the former sheriff made them all uneasy, and the coroner noticed Ralph Morin rather furtively over his Shoulder.

'Has anyone seen him lately?' asked the constable, a tall, muscular man with a forked brown beard and the look of a Viking chieftain.

John de Alençon shook his tonsured head. 'I suspect he's lying low at either Revelstoke or Tiverton. In spite of his misdeeds, I feel some compassion for him, being ejected in disgrace from such a high position.' The archdeacon was thin almost to the point of emaciation, his ascetic mode of life relieved only by a dry sense of humour and a taste for fine French wines. He was dressed in a long black cassock with a plain silver cross hanging around his neck above which a pair of lively blue eyes sparkled in his lined face.