Figure of Hate (32 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And the family?' she persisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To have John de Wolfe there as well was an added bonus, and the following morning the four of them sat talking, with clerks and stewards hovering impatiently in the background with their parchments and endless queries about administrative problems. De Furnellis ignored them as he listened to the end of John's description of the situation in Sampford Peverel.

'I knew the father, William Peverel,' he declared. 'A good fighter in his time, but a bad-tempered bastard if he was crossed. He hated losing at anything, especially at the tournament.'

'Did you know the sons?' asked Ralph Morin.

The older man shook his grey head. 'Only by sight at a few tourneys. This Hugo had a reputation as a rash fighter - he often won, but he took too many risks, they say, too desperate to win every time. Didn't know any of the others, but I heard about the dispute when the eldest son was barred from his inheritance.'
 

'So what's to be done, Sheriff?' asked de Wolfe. 'We've now got two unsolved murders to deal with and if this silversmith's worker is right, then there's a link between them in Sampford.'

'Get this armourer to Exeter and put him down below!' suggested Gabriel, the most bloodthirsty of the group. 'I'll wager that an hour with Stigand's branding irons in the undercroft would loosen up his tongue.'
 

The sheriff, though not keen to put himself to too much effort, was more concerned with the slaying of one of the county's manor-lords.

'The King's ministers will be huffing and puffing over this,' he said glumly. 'The Peverels were not powerful barons, but they were known well enough by their tourneying reputation. No doubt I'll have to answer a string of questions when I next take county farm to Winchester.'

'I wonder why de Revelle is poking his nose into their affairs,' mused the constable. 'Knowing him, it can't just be neighbourly concern.'

'There was some talk of his wanting to buy some of the Peverel land to add to his own,' answered de Wolfe. 'He seems to be buttering up Ralph Peverel and supporting his claim to the lordship, which I suspect Odo is going to challenge again.'

'Wouldn't trust that swine de Revelle any farther than I could throw my horse,' grunted Henry. 'He's up to something to his own advantage, you can be sure of that.'

Ralph Morin stroked his forked beard ruminatively.

'I heard a rumour that our unlamented former sheriff was going to involve himself in the tournament circuit. Maybe that's why he's so thick with the Peverels, as they've always been keen on that business.'
 

De Wolfe snorted in derision. 'Richard on the jousting field! My dear wife would perform better with a horse and lance than her damned brother!'
 

'I doubt he intends to put on his armour and buckle on a sword,' replied the constable. 'Knowing his love affair with money, I suspect he intends to play the field from the safety of the spectators' stands, wagering on the mad devils who go out to risk their gizzards on the end of a lance!'

Sheriff Henry cackled into his ale, as Richard de Revelle's lack of prowess with arms and his dislike of personal danger were well known in the county.

'Now that he can't cream off any of the taxes into his purse, he must be forced to look elsewhere for some loot,' he observed cynically.

John grinned with the others, though in fairness to his brother-in-law he had to acknowledge that Richard was an astute businessman, leaving aside his dubious history of corruption and embezzlement. He had several manors, one near Tiverton and another at Revelstoke near Plymouth, and made a good income from the management of these. In fact, he regularly topped up Matilda's treasure chest, which stood in the solar, from earnings on the inheritance that their parents had left her some years earlier. Still, the hint that Richard was snooping around the tournament establishment was interesting and might well explain why he was cultivating the Peverels.

Soon they all left for the courthouse, where an extra session was being held that morning for several stray cases that had missed the last county court. John was involved in a couple of matters, one concerning an irate fishmonger from near the West Gate, who was bringing an appeal against a porter for serious assault.

The fishman had caught the other fellow enjoying his wife's favours in the salting shed behind his house.

According to the wronged husband, far from being abashed and contrite, the porter had given the fishmonger a severe thrashing. Now he was wishing to 'appeal' the man, leading to a physical combat between them, which, given the difference in physique between the two men, the husband was foolish to contemplate. The coroner, whose duty it was to listen to the story and make a record, managed to persuade the man to take the matter to the next visitation of the King's justices, where at least he was unlikely to lose his life to the burly porter. Other matters concerned the outlawing of two men accused of theft who had failed to appear after being warned for the last four Shire Courts. John had to confirm that their writs of attachment had been properly made and that the men had not answered to their sureties.

This caused anguish among their relatives, who had put up the bail money to try to ensure their appearance and would now forfeit it to the King's treasury.

The issue reminded John again that he needed to get Robert Longus down from Sampford for his resumed inquest.

His business done, he left the new sheriff and the others to deal with matters that did not concern him and went back at the ninth hour with Thomas and Gwyn to his chamber in the gatehouse for their second breakfast of bread, cheese and cider. Thomas was looking miserable again, as he had still heard nothing more from Winchester.

Gwyn was his usual cheerful self, looking like a disreputable giant in his leather jerkin and faded serge breeches with cross-gartering up the calves. The wind that moaned through the window opening ruffled his wild red hair as he stared down the steep track that led from the drawbridge to the gate in the stockade around the outer ward.

'Here's a familiar figure, Crowner,' he said eventually. 'I wonder if he's here to call upon you.'
 

De Wolfe looked up from one of his Latin reading lessons, irritated by his officer's characteristically obtuse remark. 'Who is it, for God's sake?'
 

For answer, Gwyn bent towards the doorway and put a hand behind his ear in an exaggerated posture of listening. 'Soon find out, Crowner!'

Sure enough, a moment later there were voices mounting the twisting stairwell and one of the men-at-arms on duty in the guardroom below pushed aside the hessian curtain.

'Gentleman to see you, sirr' he announced, standing aside to admit a tall, thin figure dressed in a green riding cloak, the hood hanging down his back. It was Reginald de Charterai, his face looking pinched from a long ride in a cold wind. John climbed to his feet and Thomas hurriedly left his stool, the only other place to sit.

'Sir Reginald, this is unexpected, but you are welcome! Forgive the miserable quarters the previous sheriff grudgingly allotted me, but please sit down.' Reginald pulled the corner of his cloak from the silver ring that secured it to his right shoulder and shrugged it off, before sitting on the stool. Gwyn hoisted himself from his window ledge and poured the visitor a pot of rough cider, then winked at Thomas before scooping up the clerk and the soldier and diplomatically vanishing down the stairs.

The French knight took a sip of his drink and tried not to wince, then set his mug down on the trestle table and looked sternly at the coroner.

'Forgive my intrusion, but I felt that you were the best person with whom to discuss certain matters.'

Though his Norman French was John's own language, the inflexions betrayed his Continental origins, as he came from the Champagne country east of Paris and technically was an enemy, a subject of the French king, Philip Augustus.

Reginald's long face was finely featured and his whole appearance spoke of an aristocratic, rather cold personality. He stared gravely at the coroner as he sat stiffly erect on his stool.

'I rode from Tiverton to Bridport yesterday, intending to take ship to Barfleur,' he began. Bridport was in the next county, about twenty miles away in Dorset, and had considerable sea traffic with Barfleur, near Cherbourg on the Normandy coast. It was infamous for being the port from where many years ago the tragic White Ship had sailed, the sinking of which led to the death of the first King Henry's son and so to the long civil war between Stephen and the Empress Matilda. John failed to see what this had to do with him and waited patiently for de Charterai to elaborate.

'Owing to contrary winds, no vessel had arrived and I was recommended to try Topsham.'

John nodded and tried to look as if he understood where this was leading.

'I am attending a tournament in Fougéres and will not return from Normandy for some weeks, for a grand mélée at the battleground near Salisbury. I thought that as this Topsham is very near Exeter, I would call upon you and unburden some concerns that I have borne for a considerable time.'

John began to wonder whether the French nobleman had been taking lessons in long-windedness from Gwyn of Polruan.