Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

The bailiff, Walter Hog, came striding across the courtyard, scattering chickens, pigs and small children from his path as he made for the steward, who was leaning against the weathered oak of the door post.

'Still no sign of him, Roger! Sir Odo refuses to come, says it's none of his business any longer, but Ralph promises to attend when he's finished in the privy. He says you are to start the hearings to avoid any more delay.'

Roger Viel was a heavy-featured man with fleshy jowls and loose skin under his neck like a cockerel's wattles.

A born pessimist, he gave the impression that life was a burden to be borne stoically until death released him into a better place. He sighed as he turned into the gloomy interior of the court. Though Ralph Peverel was not so hot tempered and arrogant as his elder brother, he" tended to be sarcastic and to show off his cleverness when put into any position of authority.

Where the hell had Hugo got to? wondered Roger sourly.

Followed by a shuffling, muttering crowd, he took his place on a heavy oak chair, the only furniture in the place apart from a trestle table and stool where the manor-clerk occasionally sat when some more important issue required a record to be taken down. Along with the parish priest, the clerk was the only literate person in the manor, but today there was no need for his services, as the issues were all ones that could be dealt with summarily. Leaving the steward to get on with the business of dispensing justice, the bailiff walked quickly back to the manor house, a square, two-storeyed stone building. This was farther up the slightly sloping bailey, a two-acre compound within a stockade that defended the lord's residence. Like Rougemont, it had not been besieged since the last civil war between King Stephen and Empress Matilda half a century earlier, but with the present unrest between the King and his brother John, and the growing threat of a French invasion, the Peverels saw to it that their stout fence and gateway were kept in good repair.

Walter Hog clattered up the wooden steps to the main door, set well above head height in the wall. These steps could be thrown down in the event of an attack and a stout iron grille dropped across the heavy oaken doors. There was no communication between the floors above and the undercroft below, so the house was virtually impregnable against anything short of a siege engine.

Today the problem was less military than diplomatic, thought Walter wryly. The Peverels were a quarrelsome lot, always ready to take offence, bickering among themselves and hurling abuse and even blows at anyone in the vicinity. The bailiff had been at Sampford for only two years and was won'dering whether he had done the right thing in moving here from his previous post in Taunton, even though it paid a few pence a day more.

Inside the hall, he found Warin Fishacre, the manor-reeve, waiting for him. He was a thin, reedy man with a stoop and a hacking cough, who permanently wore an expression of irritation verging on anger. His mousy hair was pulled back tightly to a clump on the back of his neck, where it was tied with a piece of cord.

'Any sign of him out there?' Fishacre asked in a rough, throaty voice. The bailiff had no need to ask whether he was talking about Hugo Peverel.

'None at all — the bastard's vanished off the face of the earth,' answered Walter in a low voice, his eyes swiveling to the stairway that led to the upper floor where the family lived.

'Some hope of that!' snarled the reeve, though his eyes too scanned for any sign of someone who could overhear them.

'Roger Viel is starting the court now,' said Walter. 'I suppose I'd better wait for Ralph before going back there.'

The bailiff was a much younger man than the reeve, though well above him in status, as reeves were representatives of the bondsmen and thus unfree themselves. This was not necessarily reflected in their wealth, as there were pauper freemen and rich villeins, but Warin Fishacre was neither, just an average villager with a comely wife, a pretty daughter and two strong sons.

Walter Hog was a compact man of twenty-eight, with cropped fair hair and a round, pink face that bore an earnest expression. He was a conscientious worker and was determined to better himself, either by becoming a steward to some other lord or working for a rich merchant in Exeter or Southampton. But at the moment he had other problems on his mind, and one of them now appeared in the entrance to the staircase.

'Walter, did you tell them I'll be over directly?' Ralph Peverel was the third son of the William who had died neat Salisbury the previous spring. He was a younger version of both his father and his brother Hugo, though rather slimmer and better looking, clean shaven with red-blond hair cut short on the neck and sides to leave a thick circular cap on his crown. He wore a thigh-length tunic of green woollen cloth, with hose pushed into ankle-length leather boots with pointed toes. A surcoat of brown linen swung open to reveal a wide leather belt that was dotted with silver studs and carried a long dagger in an oriental sheath.

'Yes, Sir Ralph, I told them you were on your way. Roger Viel has started already. Shall I come with you now?'

Ralph shook his head and moved towards the outside door.

'Better that you two carry on looking for my brother. Mary, mother of God, but he was drunk last night! He's probably sleeping it off in a hay-loft, on top of some wench!'

It was as well that the speaker was moving away from the two servants, as the expression on Fishacre's face was one of undiluted hate, though whether at Ralph's words or some private inner thought, the bailiff could not determine.

'So where are we going to look again?' demanded Walter, as Ralph vanished down the steps. 'We've had all the house servants and the lads from the stables scouring the place for hours, without seeing so much as a whisker of him.'

'I never want to see the sod again, other than lying dead from some very painful disease,' snarled Warin Fishacre. 'But I suppose we had better look as if we're doing something. The swine will no doubt turn up in his own good time.'

There were lighter steps on the staircase, which was built into the thickness of the wall, and a woman appeared, dressed in a flowing kirtle of white samite.

Her blonde hair was braided into two long plaits which hung down over her bosom, the tips confined in gilded metal tubes. A voluminous mantle of blue silk hung from her shoulders and fell almost to the ground, secured across her neck by a gilt cord. About twenty-five years of age, Beatrice Peverel was undoubtedly beautiful, her fair skin and large blue eyes complemented by full red lips.

The two men bobbed their heads and touched a finger to their temples in respect to the lady of the manor, waiting to be spoken to first.

'Have you found my husband yet, Walter?' she asked in a soft, melodious voice which conveyed more annoyance than concern for Hugo's disappearance.

'Not yet, my lady. All the servants are out and about, searching for him.'

His hand swept around the hall to emphasise the fact that the usually bustling chamber was deserted.

Behind her, in the shadows of the stairwell, her maidservant hovered uncertainly, not sure whether her mistress needed a chaperone when the two men with whom she was alone were only the familiar bailiff and reeve. Beatrice sighed, her fingers playing with several large gold rings that adorned her small hands.

'Very well, I suppose he'll appear eventually, as he usually does.'

'Yes, my lady. I don't think he can be far away — his horse is still in the stable,' said Walter reassuringly.

She smiled faintly and turned to climb the staircase, which led up to the solar where she and Avelina spent their days, as well as to four other rooms where various members of the family slept. The two men went to the farther end of the hall, which was a large square chamber lit only by a pair of slit embrasures in each wall. Here a corner was partitioned off by wooden screens, behind which was the bottler's domain, containing kegs and crocks of ale, as well as skins and flasks of imported wine. Food brought from the kitchen hut behind the house was served up here and some remnants of the early morning meal were still lying around. In the main body of the hall, which had a hearth and chimney instead of a central fire-pit, tables and benches were provided for eating and drinking, which was what the bailiff and reeve now had in mind.