Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

It had worked for him and he wished the youngster the same luck — though luck was not enough, as he would need much skill with lance and sword, as well as the fortitude to bear rough living, discomfort, hunger and pain.

Satisfied with his survey of the tourney field, John walked across it to Magdalen Street, here a well-worn strip of stony earth, rutted by the iron-girt wheels of generations of ox-carts. It now formed the boundary of the fairground and, whistling again to Brutus to come to heel, he went straight across and strode between the stalls, their canopies flapping in the cold breeze. He shouldered his way through the ambling throng, a head taller than most of them, his distinctive black-clad figure drawing glances from many eyes, both curious and covertly wary. As he ploughed along, he was deaf to the cries of the tradesmen vainly trying to sell him bolts of brown serge, oranges from France, knives from the Rhine and medicines claiming to cure every ailment from earache to cow-pox. There were booths festooned with cat-skins, the fur being known as 'poor man's ermine', men with pincers offering to pull aching teeth and others tempting customers with the aroma of roasting chestnuts. Pedlars paraded up and down with-trays slung from their necks, offering ribbons, needles, thread and sweetmeats. When they saw stewards approaching, they melted away between the booths to reappear in the next lane, as few had hawkers' licences. These stewards were mostly clerks, each with a more lowly servant to accompany them.

They wore a red cloth tied around their right arm as their badge of office and were mainly responsible for checking the permits of the traders, to make sure that they had paid their dues. As few of the stall-holders could read, when they handed over their fees each was issued with a wooden tally with a number carved into it. This was displayed to the steward, who checked the number against a parchment list. Because literacy was at a premium, these stewards had to be drawn mainly from the clerks to the courts and from the burgesses' assistants. Though by far the largest group of literates were the clerics of the Church, all but the lesser orders of secular clerks were forbidden to become involved in this work of Mammon.

All the blandishments of the traders were wasted on John de Wolfe, as there was nothing he wanted to buy. He left all the purchasing for his household to Mary, as Matilda was indifferent to shopping for anything but her own finery. He loped along the middle lane until, just as the cathedral bells rang out the summons to Prime, he reached the centre of the fair, where the stage was set up. Two familiar figures were waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform, one large, the other small. Gwyn and Thomas were here by prior arrangement and had already carried out part of the task he had set them the previous day.

'Any luck so far?' demanded their master, after a brusque greeting.

Thomas shook his head, the cold morning air causing a dewdrop to fly from the tip of his sharp nose.

'We've been along both sides of the row nearest the city wall and questioned every stall-holder, but they know nothing of any of their fellows who might have gone missing.'

Gwyn, hunched in his worn jerkin with the pointed hood pulled up over his tangled hair against the morning chill, nodded his assent.

'But there's plenty more booths to tackle yet, we've twice as many to visit before we give up.' He beat his arms across his chest and looked longingly at a nearby cook-stall. 'Bloody cold standing here, Crowner! I could do with something hot to warm my guts.' John sighed at his officer's insatiable appetite, though presumably his giant frame needed twice as much sustenance as normal folk.

'I'll treat you both to a pastry, then we must get on with it. Have you got that clothing from the Watergate?' Thomas held up a shapeless bundle tied in a cloth.

'We've found no one yet to show them to, as everyone denies any knowledge of a missing man.' Their fortune in this respect was soon to improve, however. As they stood near the baker's booth, where for a quarter-segment of a penny the fat cook provided them each with a folded pastry filled with chopped meat and onions, two men hurried down towards them from the direction of the East Gate; at the farther end of the fairground.

From the red kerchief around his upper arm, John could see that one was a steward; the other carried the staff of a city constable.

'Here's Theobald, rushing as if he's desperate to get to the privy!' observed Gwyn, sarcastically, as the fat constable was not one of his favourite people. He found Osric, the thin Saxon, amiable enough, but thought his colleague pompous and self-important.

Theobald puffed up to the stall, out of breath but able to jerk a thumb at the steward, a lean middle-aged man with a set of rotten black stumps for teeth. Away from the fair, he was the senior clerk at a fulling mill on Exe Island, keeping the accounts and tallying the stock.

'I've found Robin here, who has some information which may well have a bearing on that corpse from the river, Sir John,' wheezed the constable.

De Wolfe's beaked nose turned to the fellow with the red armband, hoping that his news might save them much labour around the fair.

'What can you tell us, Robin?' he growled.

'Not so much me, Crowner, but two men at a silversmith's booth up at the end of that row.' He pointed a bony finger back in the direction from which he had come. 'They sought me out as soon as the fair opened this morning, for their master didn't turn up — nor did his servant.'

'Who was he?' demanded de Wolfe.

'A silversmith from Totnes, sir. I didn't ask his name, I thought it best to report it as soon as I could. Theobald here was the first to know and he said I should tell you in person. All I know is that the missing man is about forty years old.'

Within minutes, the entourage had marched up almost to the end of the middle lane of the fair and assembled in front of a larger stall, the back and sides of which were wattle panels made of woven hazel withies, under a red striped canvas roof.

A trestle table stretched across the front, on which were a wide selection of silver objects. There were shoe buckles, belt buckles, brooches, rings, bracelets, earrings and several silver platters, and even a three-branched candlestick. Though John was no expert, he saw that the workmanship was fine and that the display was worth a considerable amount of money. A ring of curious onlookers began to gather behind them, sensing that something out of the ordinary was going on, but de Wolfe set Theobald and the steward to clearing them away.

Behind the trestle were two men, both dressed in the sober tunics of craftsmen, one with a leather apron covering his chest and belly. The other was hunched over the end of the table, working on some intricate design with a small hammer and punch.

John noticed that a pair of heavy cudgels and a stout staff leaned against the back of the booth, no doubt to deal with any attempt at robbery of the valuable stock.

As the imposing figure of the coroner and that of his massive officer appeared in front of their stall, the two men straightened up and touched their fingers respectfully to their foreheads. There was no need for them to be told who he was, and they went straight into their story.

'Our master is missing, sir,' said the one in the apron, a short fellow with a bulbous nose and a thick neck.

'We've not seen him since Sunday evening.' De Wolfe held up a hand. 'Wait, start at the beginning. What's his name and where's he from?'

'He's August Scrope, Crowner. A master silversmith from Tomes — in fact, he's warden of our guild in that part of Devon. We are two craftsmen from his shop there.'

'What age was he?'

John used the past tense, but they seemed not to notice.