Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'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.

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.