Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'Shall I give him a few clouts to mend his manners?' he offered.

'You will attend or it will cost you two marks on the first failure, Longus! And then I'll attach you to the county court in the sum of five marks … and if you persist in absenting yourself, you'll find yourself an outlaw, not an armourer. It's not your job you'll have lost then, but maybe your head!'

For the first time, the man had no answer and stood sullenly scowling at de Wolfe, hate radiating from him like heat from an open fire.

The coroner jabbed a finger towards Alexander Crues, who stood open mouthed and loose lipped, listening to this heated exchange.

'This fellow, he is your assistant in the armouring?' Robert jerked his head in reluctant reply.

'And was he in Exeter with you at the time of the fair and the tournament?'

'Where I go, he goes! We both attend on the lords when they are at the jousting.'

'And was he lurking near Topsham with you when you attacked and robbed that silversmith?' John had no scruples about bending the rules of legal procedure when he was not presiding in a court, but Longus failed to let slip anything incriminating.

'I was never at bloody Topsham, as well you know! Even if Sir Hugo can't speak for me, Sir Ralph will attest that I was with him all the time.'

De Wolfe prodded Alexander in the chest with a long linger. 'And I suppose you'll stick to the same story, eh?'

'I dunno what you're on about, sir,' he mumbled thickly. 'I was with Robert here all the time.' He said this with a mechanical certainty that sounded as if he had memorised it after numerous repetitions.

'Wasting our time here, Crowner,' murmured Gwyn.

John sighed his agreement. 'Right, Longus! When you are summoned to Exeter, you will bring this other fellow with you, understand? I'm attaching you both, so it will cost you a couple of marks apiece if you don't show up.'

With that, he turned on his heel and marched away, frustrated by his inability to make any impression on the two men, especially given that they were backed up by the support of Ralph Peverel. Unless he could obtain some further evidence from somewhere, even getting them to a new inquest would probably be a fruitless excercise. As they walked back to the manor stockade to get their horses for the journey home, he thought that the silversmith's death would remain as much a mystery as that of Hugo Peverel, unless someone came across with more information.

Within a few minutes, he was in the saddle and leading Gwyn and Thomas homeward, breathing a sigh of relief as he left the boundaries of that unhappy manor behind him and set off along the high road towards Exeter.

When he arrived back at Martin's Lane in the late afternoon, John found Mary waiting for him in the vestibule, just inside the street door. She appeared worried, unlike her usual placid self.

'You'd better get yourself into the hall, Sir Crowner,' she advised, using the mildly sarcastic title that she employed when she was either annoyed or troubled.

The coroner shrugged off his cloak and slumped on the bench to pull off his dusty riding boots. He looked up wearily at his cook-maid.

'What is it now? Is she in a temper because I've again been away all day?'

The dark-haired woman shook her head. 'Better see for yourself!'

She jerked a finger towards the inner door to the main chamber of the house.

Pushing his feet into a pair of house shoes, he rather apprehensively lifted the iron latch and peered between the screens that stood just inside to keep out some of the draughts. He had a view of part of the large stone hearth and chimney-piece, in front of which were the pair of cowled wooden chairs. At first he saw nothing amiss, then he noticed that a hand hung over one armrest, holding a pottery wine cup, tilted at a dangerous angle. Below it he saw that the flagstones were stained red and, as he watched, the cup fell from the fingers and smashed on the floor.

He jerked his head back and glared at Mary. 'What the hell's been going on?' he demanded, as if it were his servant's fault.

'She's drunk, that's what!' retorted Mary sharply. 'Ever since I gave her dinner, she's been at the best wine. I doubt you've got much left.'

John pushed the door open wide and strode into the high, gloomy chamber, its timber walls hung with faded tapestries. As he crossed to the hearth, Matilda staggered to her feet, looking stupidly down at the mess on the flagstones. She seemed oblivious to his presence and clumsily tried to stoop down and pick up the fragments of the broken cup.

'Let that be!' he commanded. 'Mary will clean it up. You just sit down again before you fall.'

His voice was gruff, attempting to conceal the compassion he suddenly felt for this woman who was in such a bad way. He knew instinctively that the burden of her brother's shame and his own infidelity had finally broken down the stony façade of her grim personality.

Though she had always been fond of eating to the point of gluttony, and was very partial to her wine, he had never before seen her so obviously drunk.

He took her arm and gently pushed her back down into her chair. She-mumbled something incomprehensible, but did not resist him. The linen veil that covered her head was crumpled and in disarray, strands of mousy hair hanging from beneath it. Her face was red and puffy and her eyes watered as she stared up at him as if he were a complete stranger.

"John? Is it you, John?' she muttered.

'Yes, it's me, Matilda, the same old John! Are you unwell? Can I get anything for you? A cup of water?'

He felt the usual male helplessness in the face of female emotion or illness.

His wife shook her head slowly. 'What am I to do, John?'

Her speech was thick, as if her tongue had doubled in size. 'What am I to do? The shame and the misery.'

These words were followed by a longer, rambling monologue which he could not follow, but it gave him time to desperately think of some response to what was becoming an unmanageable situation.

'Shall I call Lucille and get you to your bed? Maybe you will feel better lying down? Or shall I send for your cousin from Fore Street?'

Mary appeared behind him with a leather bucket and a rag to clean up the spilt wine, but he waved her away impatiently.

'Get Lucille,' he hissed, then turned back to Matilda, stooping over her chair like a big black heron.

'Tell me what ails you, Matilda. Is there anything I can do to comfort you?' He had not uttered words like this for more than a dozen years. Her hand grasped his wrist with surprising strength.

'I have no friends, John. No friends at all, not even you.'

' Of course you have, wife! There are all your companions at St Olave's and the cathedral. And you have three cousins and a brother.'

He could have bitten off his tongue as Richard de Revelle's name slipped out and she began sobbing — a strange sucking noise as her chest heaved and her eyes filled with moisture.

'Richard! Why do you hate each other so? Thank Jesus that our mother and father no longer live to see our shame!'

She fell to muttering again, then her head dropped to her chest and John wondered whether she had fallen into a drunken sleep. He looked around desperately, as he would rather face a thousand armed Saracens than a weeping woman, and was relieved to see Mary at the door, with Lucille close behind her. They advanced on Matilda and with difficulty raised the stocky woman from her chair. As they stumbled towards the vestibule with her, his wife seemed to awaken, mumbling again as her head lolled from side to side.

'Has she been like this before, when I have not been here?' John demanded of Mary's retreating back, as Lucille and he rarely spoke to each other.