Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'Not as bad as this, but recently she has been taking wine more than usual, both in the afternoon and the evening,' said the maid over her shoulder.

De Wolfe followed them through the side passageway to the yard like an anxious sheepdog following a flock. The steep open staircase up to the solar was a serious obstacle, as it was too narrow for the two maids to support Matilda on either side. John solved the problem by lifting her bodily into his arms and staggering up the steps with her, which said something for his physique, as his wife, though short, was solidly built. She snorted and muttered as they went, and at the top he left her with Mary and Lucille for them to get her undressed and on to the wide straw-filled palliasse that was their bed. Back down in the hall, John found his old hound Brutus looking puzzled at these unusual happenings, and stroked his grizzled head in reassurance.

'What's to become of us all, old fellow?' he muttered, picking up the shards of the broken cup and laying them in the hearth for Mary to deal with later. He went to the side table where the wine was kept and with some regret saw that all his good Poitou red had gone, the two pottery crocks being empty. Groping under the table, he found a small wineskin of an inferior vintage and, pulling out the wooden stopper, poured himself a liberal cupful. Brutus came and laid a dribbling mouth on his knee as John sank into the chair that Matilda had been using.

He slumped there for some time, turning over in his mind the events of that day and of those that had preceded it. A procession of scenes marched through his mind as the level in the wineskin dropped — the bizarre funeral at Sampford, with cow turds and a dead rat on the coffin, the arrogant indifference of the armourer, the strange Peverel family — and now the apparent breakdown of Matilda's normally iron resolve.

Eventually, Mary came in to report that his wife was now in a deep sleep, snoring fit to rattle the shutters, and that Lucille had gone off to Fore Street to fetch Matilda's cousin to sit with her. She was one of the poor relations of the family — not poor in the sense of lacking money, as her husband had a successful glove-making business, but as one who had married 'into trade', out of the de Revelles' social class. Matilda treated her in a patronising fashion, but seemed moderately fond of her.

'Shall I make a meal for you this evening?' demanded Mary. John could tell that, though she was one of his staunchest allies, the cook-maid was laying some of the blame for his wife's condition on him.

'No, I'll take myself down to the Bush — or I'll be out of favour with yet another woman!' he grunted.

After Mary had flounced out with a disparaging shrug of her shoulders, the coroner sat for a while longer until he had finished his cup of wine, then snapped his fingers at Brutus and made for the street.

The cathedral Close was cool in the autumn evening and there were only a few children playing among the graves and a solitary beggar sitting on the steps of the great west front. John strode through the lanes, oblivious to the murmured greetings and forelock-pullings of passers-by, until he reached Idle Lane and the new front door of the Bush, set in a clean whitewashed wall, repainted after the recent fire.

A smiling Nesta hurried over and took his arm to steer him to his table by the hearth. She at once noticed his doleful expression and soon he was telling her of his visit to Sampford Peverel and the strange state in which he found his wife when he returned.

'It's not just me, cariad ,' he said in the Welsh they habitually used together. 'She's had years to get used to my misdeeds. I've done nothing particularly terrible lately.'

His mistress shook her head pityingly at the lack of insight of men.

'You were the instrument for disgracing her beloved brother — not that you could have done anything else,' she pointed out. 'He was the main culprit, even in her eyes, but that doesn't alter the fact that she feels that in the end it was you who pushed him over the edge.' Like Mary, though Nesta was inordinately fond of this dour, dark man, she had an inexhaustible well of sympathy for anyone in trouble, including wronged wives.

'Lately, she's been talking a great deal about her family in Normandy,' he said. 'Not that they're close to her, nor do they probably want her bothering them again. But maybe she ought to go across the Channel some time, to get it out of her system.'

Nesta nodded her agreement. 'I know how she feels, John. It's three years since I left Gwent to come here with Meredydd and I've not seen my mother or my brothers and sisters since. Only two messages have come by carters to at least tell me they are still alive.' She sounded wistful, not only when she spoke of her family, but also of her dead husband. If the Welsh archer had not been an old campaign friend of John's, he might have felt a twinge of jealousy.

'Maybe you too should make a journey home before long, Nesta,' he suggested. 'Though what would I do, with both the women in my life deserting me!'

The landlady poked him hard in the ribs with her elbow. 'I know damn well what you'd be doing the moment the dust had settled on the high road behind us!' she snapped, only half in jest. 'Where would you go first, man? To Dawlish or to the stews in Waterbeer Street?'

He grinned sheepishly, as Nesta knew all about his other former mistress, the blonde Hilda from Dawlish.

In fact, she had once met her, and they had got along famously, having more things in common than just John de Wolfe.

He stayed at the tavern for a couple of hours, drinking the good ale supplied regularly by the old potman and eating an excellent supper of mutton stew followed by grilled herrings. Nesta, looking even more attractive than usual in a new yellow kirtle under her white linen apron, was hoping that her lover would stay either all night or at least for a few hours in her little room in the loft, but she soon sensed that the upsetting episode with Matilda had taken the edge off his usual keenness to get her into bed. Silently regretful, she settled down to be a sympathetic audience as he poured out his thoughts on the problems still plaguing him.

'I've made not a jot of headway on this slain silversmith,' he complained. 'This Terrus fellow claims that the armourer from Sampford was one of the villains, but it's only his word against that of the suspect, which was backed up by his lords, both dead and alive. Both Hugo and Ralph claimed that this Robert Longus was with them all the time and could never have been near Topsham when the man was robbed and killed.'

'So why are you insisting that this Longus must come to court in Exeter or risk being outlawed?' asked the practical Nesta.

'Just because the bastard refused to come,' snapped John. 'I'll teach him to flaunt the King's law officer.' The Welsh ale-wife wrinkled her nose in doubt. 'I see no reason why this armourer's masters should lie for him. What would be in it for them?'

'Gwyn suggested that he was robbing on their behalf. It seems the Peverels are short of money, having lost heavily in the last year in wagering on the tournaments. But I think that's too far-fetched an idea.'

Nesta absently tucked a lock of copper-coloured hair back under her linen helmet. 'So who killed this Hugo? I fancy the French knight myself, for according to you he promised that he would.'

De Wolfe slid a hand on to her thigh under the table and for a moment her hopes of getting him up the loft ladder were rekindled.

'De Charterai? I don't think he meant it that seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment. And he's too chivalrous a fellow to stab a man in the back.'

'I'd believe anything of a man who has been insulted that badly,' countered Nesta. 'You measure everyone by your own standards of honour, John.'