Figure of Hate Read online

  'He claims that they were not ruffianly outlaws though they would hardly be on horses if they were.

  Though not gentlemen, he felt they were a better class of body servants - or maybe some manner of I squires to lesser gentry. They wore plain but good tunics and breeches and their horses had decent harnesses.

  'Would he recognise them again, if he saw them?'

  Thomas nodded emphatically. 'I asked him that question directly and he seemed in no doubt about one of them.'

  De Wolfe glowered into his ale as he drank the last drop. It was a damned nuisance that the fair would finish in two days' time, for the chances were that these men had arrived in the area to attend it and would most likely be gone as soon as the fair ended.

  'How soon will this fellow be up and about?' he demanded.

  The clerk's peaky face brightened. 'Remarkably, by tomorrow, according to the monks who are caring for him. He has a constitution like an ox, they said, and is already off his pallet arid demanding to be allowed to return home to Totnes. They will be glad to be rid of him, as he's eating too much and upsetting their quiet life in the priory.'

  The coroner considered this for a moment. 'Then if I send Gwyn and a hired horse down there tomorrow, would they release him to us? I need him to identify the assailants, if he can.'

  Thomas nodded. 'I'm sure they will, Crowner. Apart from his being knocked senseless and dumped in the river, his other injuries are no threat to his life.' Gwyn would have left the city for his hut in St Sidwells by now, to beat the closing of the gates at curfew, but John felt there would be plenty of time for him to give his orders first thing the next morning. Thomas made his escape from the alehouse to return to his free lodgings in one of the canon's houses in the close, where he had the use of a thin mattress in the servants' quarters. John sat on in the Bush for a long while, being content to have Nesta's company intermittently, between her bustling about between the patrons and haranguing her servants over the business of keeping her customers filled with food and ale.

  Eventually, John judged that his odious brother-in-law must surely have left his house and, after a final discreet cuddle with Nesta at the back door, he left for home and the inevitable verbal skirmish with his wife.

  On Wednesday, his duties at the tournament did not begin until noon, so he had ample time to dispatch Gwyn to St James' Priory. With him he sent a spare palfrey from Andrew's yard, the livery stable in Martin's Lane, with orders to bring Terrus back to Bull Mead.

  De Wolfe then walked up to Rougemont to see whether any more deaths, rapes or other tragedies had been reported overnight to the guardroom, which was always manned. News of these events came in to the coroner from the city constables and from the manor reeves of outlying villages. When the coroner's system had been introduced in September the previous year, there were supposed to have been three such officials appointed for the county, but only two could be found willing to undertake the unpaid work. Within a few weeks, the knight covering the north of Devon was killed when he fell from his horse, and it was only recently that a replacement had been found. John still had to cover a huge area in the southern half of the county, and there was no doubt that cases in the more distant villages often went unreported, as the distance involved in riding to Exeter was too great for many manor-bailiffs and reeves to contemplate.

  This morning, the guardroom had nothing to offer, for which John was thankful. Sergeant Gabriel and most of the men-at-arms were already patrolling the fair and the city streets, so the castle was almost deserted. He found Thomas upstairs, busily writing out copies of inquest proceedings, executions, ordeals, amercemerits, attachments and other legal documents, which all had to be duplicated to present to the King's justices when they next came to Exeter. These judicial visits were very irregular, even though the judges were supposed to appear every quarter.

  The Commissioners of Gaol Delivery managed to get around their circuit several times a year, to hear cases and clear the prisons of captives, either by hanging them, fining them or acquitting them. Much less often, the Eyre of Assize trundled along, with four senior members of the Curia Regis, to hear the most serious cases - and even more infrequently, the great General Eyre arrived. This looked into the more weighty matters of the administration of the county, a nightmare for the sheriff, especially the recently deposed one, who had had to cover up his embezzlement as best he could.

  But today there were no legal problems for Sir John de Wolfe, and he retraced his steps back down Castle Hill and made his way through the crowded streets to the fairground. Business was in full swing, and though he was happy to see soldiers and stewards patrolling the lanes between the booths, there seemed to be no trouble, apart from an odd scuffle and the occasional drunk stumbling to upset a tableful of goods.

  At one point everyone stood aside to gape and shout and clap as a colourful procession squeezed down the central lane. This was a guild pageant, put on by the craft organisations that controlled the many trades in the city. Several flat carts, covered in white and coloured cloth, were pulled by teams of apprentices to show off the tableaux displayed on these mobile stages. One was of a mock crusade, with half a dozen knights wielding wooden swords and axes upon twice their number of 'Saracens'. Again these were all apprentices, arrayed in garish costumes, accompanied by much yelling and screaming as the Christians vanquished the Moors.

  Another cart had tumblers wheeling about alongside jugglers, a fire-eater and a sword-swallower. The last float was a sop to the ecclesiastical establishment, being a re-enactment of the John the Baptist story. While a parish priest shouted the story from a parchment, a tall bearded man in a white robe stood in a River Jordan made from a horse trough full of water, enthusiastically dousing a trio of the youngest apprentices with a pitcher normally used for ale. At the end of the wagon, another young man dressed in oriental female attire with a blond wig and padded bosoms portrayed Salome, holding aloft a tray on which was a realistically bloody severed head.

  As John watched, the crowd cheered their appreciation and threw coins on to the carts, alms for the guilds to donate to the poorhouse near the West Gate. When the parade had passed, he followed the crowd of urchins that capered behind it until it reached the centre, where another miracle play was in progress, a competitor to the more popular guild spectacle.

  As he walked past, John turned his head to look and saw that today they were performing 'The Wise and Foolish Virgins', again with a bevy of young choristers dressed as girls - in fact, several of the more comely ones were impossible to distinguish from females.

  As they tripped about the stage, over-dramatically posturing with their lamps and oil vessels, a vicar-choral chanted a commentary in verse, based on the Gospel parable.

  But de Wolfe, who had seen them all before, loped on and made his way back to a form of entertainment that suited him better, on the turf of Bull Mead. The area was now crowded, compared to his visit yesterday, as the contests had been in progress for several hours.

  The stand was filled with the more exalted spectators, colourful in a variety of costumes, including quite a few women. They were by no means all dewy-eyed maidens come to wave a handkerchief at their champions, for a good half were the solid wives of burgesses, knights and several barons who had come to watch the bouts. Along the ropes marking off the battle area was a straggling line of lesser spectators, many from the city itself, together with supporters and gambling men from the Devon countryside and several other counties. As John arrived, a series of trumpet blasts from a herald marked the end of the morning's bouts and the field was cleared for workmen and boys to go out to shovel up piles of dung and to knock the worst of the hacked-up turf back into shape, after the pounding it had had from so many heavy hoofs.

  John made his way to the recet, the contestants area behind the stand, which was now crowded with men and horses. Both there and at the opposite end of the ground, where the circular tents of other competitors stood, he saw several men prostrate on the ground, some
being tended by their squires, others lying groaning under horse blankets. At least they all seemed alive, he thought, as he saw no still bodies with a cloak thrown over their heads. He made his way to where a florid-faced man was talking to a pair of stewards, all with red bands tied around their arms. Lord Guy Ferrars broke off his conversation to greet the coroner.

  'Good day, de Wolfe. You're early, but none the less welcome.'

  Ferrars, as the most influential baron in the district, was overseeing the tournament, being convenor of the committee that was organising it. A gruff, no-nonsense man, with considerable wealth and estates scattered all over England, he had the ear of many in the King's Council and made a good ally, as well as a bad enemy.

  'I thought I'd get my eye in by watching a few bouts before I start my duties,' John replied. 'Have there been any problems so far?'

  Ferrars shook his head, a pugnacious globe set on a thick neck.

  'Nothing of importance. A few cracked heads and a couple of broken arms. These were the youngsters this morning, with more spunk than sense! The serious men will be on this afternoon, which is why we asked you to keep an eye on things, being the most experienced fighter in Devon.'

  This was a rare compliment, coming from the usually taciturn and aggressive baron, and John could not suppress a small glow of pride warming him from within. They talked for a few moments about the morning's events and the prospects for the later, more serious contests, then walked over to a tent where some food and ale were laid out for the stewards and judges.

  As he would miss his dinner at home, John laid into a few capon's legs, mutton pasties, hard-boiled eggs, fresh bread and cheese, washed down with an ale markedly inferior to Nesta's brew at the Bush.

  'Who's likely to win the most loot today, d'you think?' he asked Guy Ferrars, as they chewed and drank.

  'A dozen good men in the running, I'd say,' replied the other. 'There's a French fellow here, Reginald de Charterai. It seems he's a professional, going around all the tournaments both here and in France.' He wiped his bristly moustache with his fingers. 'Damned odd, when you think of it! Our King and thousands of our soldiers are fighting the bloody French year in, year out - yet one of their knights comes over here to win our money. Could be a damned spy for all we know, by Christ!'

  John shrugged. 'Our men do exactly the same - they have far more tourneys in France than we do here and plenty of Englishmen take part.'

  Ferrars grunted as he grabbed a couple more chicken thighs.

  'I suppose so. War seems to make little difference to trade or learning. My sister's son has just gone to Paris to study some useless subject called philosophy, instead of staying home to hunt and learn how to use a lance properly!'

  John brought him back to the subject of potential winners on the field.

  'This Frenchman is tipped to do well, then?' Guy waved a hand at some other men standing near by, who were rather furtively exchanging bags that clinked with coin.

  'Plenty of money being wagered on him, I hear. It's not only the contestants who make or lose in this game, as you well know.' He tapped the side of his fleshy nose with a forefinger. 'The bloody priests pretend to abhor betting, but they're damned hypocrites, for I know for a fact that several canons not half a mile from here have got quite a few marks riding on the winners today.' De Wolfe grinned, as he knew as well as Ferrars that though wagering was officially forbidden, half the people on the field today would be gambling between themselves, either for a penny or a few pounds. Many a time he had done the same himself, though today his sense of honour prevented him having a flutter, as he was one of the judges.

  'Any others favoured for a win?' he asked.

  The baron scratched the iron-grey stubble on his cheek as he considered.

  'There's Thomas de Cirencestre, he's usually good for a few overthrows, though maybe he's getting on in years now. And Robert de Northcote from Lyme, he did well at Wilton a few months back. Of course, we've got the gang from Peverel as usual. The old man got himself killed earlier this year. He was a cunning old devil, God knows - but his sons are hungry fighters.

  I've no doubt there's a few wagers on Hugo and his brother Ralph today.'

  John knew the Peverels by sight and recalled that they were not the most popular lords of the Devon manors, but if they were doughty fighters, then their other faults were none of his business.

  The bouts had. temporarily ceased as most of the knights and their squires wanted to eat and drink before the second half of the day began. When John went out of the meal tent, he could see that many people were seated or sprawled on the grass, drinking from flasks and skins and munching on bread and meat produced from their saddlebags or bought from the several stalls set up well back from the boundary ropes by enterprising traders.

  The respire was as much for their horses as for the men, as the heavy destriers were being cared for by squires, varlets and grooms at each end of the ground.

  They were being fed oats and hay and watered from wooden troughs filled by a succession of small boys with buckets brought from nearby wells. But in less than an hour, the trumpet sounded again, discordant blasts giving a five-minute warning. There was a groundswell of movement, as spectators climbed back into the stand or moved towards the boundary ropes, some already fingering purses in anticipation of the next wager.

  John made his way to the centre point of the combat area, meeting the other umpire for the afternoon, Peter de Cunitone, a knight from a small manor near Ashburton, farther down the county on the edge of Dartmoor. He knew him slightly, having been at a siege with him in France ten years earlier, where he had been wounded in the leg. A much older man than John, he had lost most of his hair and had such a ruddy complexion that the coroner suspected that he was too fond of brandy wine for his own good. But today he seemed sober and alert, and after discussing the way they were going to handle the events, they retired to stand one on either side of the arena, at about the halfway mark. John was on the side nearest to the herald and trumpeter and he gave them a signal that they were ready for combat to start again.

  A wailing blast produced a flurry of activity in the recet, and a moment later two horsemen cantered out of the gate alongside the viewing stand, to the accompaniment of shouts and a few jeers from the spectators, who now numbered several hundred. They rode up to John, one of the destriers nervously jumping about and tugging sideways as his rider swore and tried to pacify him. Each marr'had a squire who ran behind and stood anxiously inside the ropes - they were the only persons other than the judges permitted within the combat area and were allowed to assist their lords if they came to grief. The contestants confirmed their names to the coroner and he called these out to the herald, who was a clerk from one of the fulling mills, able to read and write. The man checked the names on his parchment register and nodded agreement, then in a resounding voice announced them to the crowd.

  De Wolfe waved the two fighters away and they wheeled about and pranced to opposite ends of the ground, their long wooden lances held upright, a coloured pennant flying from near the tip. Both were young men, as far as could be seen under their basin-shaped iron helmets with the long nasal guards.

  The two horsemen turned at the ends of the field and waited, stiffly erect in their deep wooden saddles.

  Their long mail hauberks glinted in the sun, thanks to their varlets' efforts with dry sand and scrubbing brush to remove the pernicious rust. John raised his hand again and the unmelodious trumpet sounded for the last time. As if joined by an invisible cord, the two jousters simultaneously lowered their lances to the horizontal, pulled their shields stiffly across their chests and dug their spurs into their stallions' sides.

  Slowly at first, but with rapidly gathering momentum, the big beasts pounded down the field, to the rising shouts and cheers of the spectators.

  As they closed, there was a crash as the lances struck the leather-covered wood of each opponent's shield. A fragment of one flew off as both men rocked in their saddles, bu
t then they were past each other with both men still astride their horses. To the accompaniment of more yells and cheers, they turned to face each other, one man making a tight circle, the other going wider to keep up his speed for the return pass. Again they charged each other, and this time the faster knight triumphed. His blunted lance took the other's shield squarely at the central boss and the force tipped the rider backward over the cantle of his saddle. He managed to grab it with one hand to break his fall, and hanging on the reins for a few more seconds stopped him from crashing to the ground. As soon as he began to be dragged along the turf he let go and his horse thundered on alone, though its training had taught it to stop as soon as possible.

  The other man pulled his own mount around and trotted back towards the defeated knight, wary as to what he would do next. The options were for the downed man to submit - or to pull out his sword and prepare to fight on foot. As John and Peter de Cunitone advanced to get a closer view, the matter was settled quickly. The fallen knight pushed himself up, but then rested on his knees in the dirt, his head bowed in surrender.

  Gallantly, the victor slid from his horse and helped his opponent to his feet, as the crowd either cheered or groaned according to whether they had won or lost their wagers.

  The defeated knight offered his sword to the winner, hilt first, as a token of submission, though later he would have to hand over his armour and horse as well.

  As they walked together back to the recet, the trumpet sounded again and the herald yelled out the names once more, as well as the identity of the victor. As they passed the stand, both men saluted the grandees there by bowing their heads and putting a fisted arm across their chest, before vanishing into a tent for a welcome jug of ale.

  'At least they behaved with good grace,' said John to the other judge, as they, met briefly in the middle of the field.