Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

He sighed, as if once again replaying the drama his mind.

'When I went back to the recet to take a closer at the damaged harness, it had vanished, though stallion was there in charge of some of the retainers. I had no proof nor even any further chance of confirming what I had seen.'

'You said you have some other evidence which you concern?' prompted the coroner.

'Lady Avelina, she had firm ideas as to what happened,' continued De Charteral. Though, like me, she has no proof, she is convinced that Hugo plotted his father's death. The sabotaged girth and the fact that Hugo conveniently managed to run his fallen father down with his own horse seem strong evidence that this was no accident.'

'But why should Hugo Peverel wish to commit the awful sin of patricide?' demanded John.

'He was in dire need of money, having lost a deal at the tournaments the previous year, both in forfeiture of horse and arms and injudicious wagers on other fighters. Avelina and I are convinced that he wished to displace his father from the lordship and claim the manor for himself, as a means to clearing his substantial debts."

'But his elder brother was next in succession, so how could he have gained?' objected de Wolfe.

The lean Frenchman fixed him with a sardonic stare.

'You well know what happened next! Hugo took his brother to law and had him displaced on the grounds of incapacity, due to his falling sickness. This must have been planned in advance — his stepmother is utterly convinced that her husband was murdered by his son.'

De Wolfe grunted. 'Well, he has paid for his sins now — stabbed in the back!'

'But by whom?' demanded de Charterai. 'Has recent history repeated itself? Who is now contesting the lordship of the Peverel' estates?'

John nodded slowly. 'That had occurred to me, sir. But there are a number of candidates for the dispatch of Hugo, apart from his brother Ralph.'

'And what do you intend to do about it, Crowner?' demanded Reginald. 'Both father and son slain and no one brought to account.'

De Wolfe slowly shook his head. 'As to the father, I have no jurisdiction whatsoever. This occurred in Wiltshire and is the business of its sheriff and coroner.

Did you not think to report it to them at the time?'

Reginald de Charterai's austere features took on an almost contemptuous look. 'What, with no proof? The harness vanished immediately — a suspicious thing in itself. And I would remind you that I am a Frenchman, not overly loved by many on this side of the Channel, especially as my relationship with the Peverels was not too cordial at previous tournaments. Then that disgraceful affair here in Exeter would make any accusation of mine appear spiteful mischief-making. It was only when I recognised you as a man of integrity that I decided to speak out privately to you.'

John digested this oblique compliment and made a somewhat grudging attempt at satisfying de Charterai.

'I am not acquainted with either the sheriff or the Coroner in Salisbury, but as soon as the opportunity arises I will raise the matter with them — though without any proof, I fail to see what can be done at this late stage.'

He rubbed a hand over his dark stubble as an aid to thought.

'However, the death of Hugo is very much my responsibility — at least, our sheriff here has made it so, in addition to my duties as coroner. I can assure you that the issues are very much in my mind. I arranging to interrogate further witnesses from Sampford Peverel and elsewhere.'

The French knight jerked his head in acknowledgment and suddenly stood up.

'I have taken enough of your time. Thank you for listening to me. I shall be lodging at the New Inn here in Exeter for a day or so, until I get word that a vessel is sailing from Topsham. If there is any news, let me know — otherwise, I will call upon you again when I return from Normandy in a few weeks' time.'

De Wolfe rose and saw him to his horse, which was tethered outside the guardroom, where Gwyn, Thomas and Gabriel were keeping out of the way. They looked curiously at the stiff-gaited Frenchman as he mounted and rode away. Gwyn, never one for the niceties of speech, spat on the ground.

'Miserable sod, that one! He'd likely crack his bloody face if he tried to smile.'

For once, John found no reason to disagree with his officer.

It was proving to be a busy day for Devonshire's coroner, measured by the number of visitors and interruptions. After Reginald de Charterai had left, John went back to his chamber and began struggling again with his reading lessons. Every time he felt he was making some progress, some crisis seemed to drive it all from his mind and he had to start afresh. He could now write his name tolerably well and recognise several dozen words in Latin, mainly those dealing with the legal matters that arose repeatedly in the Shire Court and in Thomas's inquest rolls. His progress was painfully slow, however, and he accepted that at his age he could never become really proficient.

For the moment, John was alone at the top of the gatehouse tower, with only the whistle of the breeze through the pointed window openings for company. Gwyn had gone to the soldiers' quarters in search of a drink and a game of dice, while Thomas had taken himself to the cathedral scriptorium, with the excuse that he must scrounge some more ink from the canon, who ground the best gall and soot pigment in the city. In reality, he wanted to let his feet tread the hallowed stones and boards of an ecclesiastical building, which was the nearest place to heaven that the little clerk could find on earth.

An hour passed and John began to fidget over his parchments, wishing that the noon bell of the cathedral would ring to release him and allow him to go home for his dinner, even though this meant facing Matilda in her present strange mood following her drunken episode. Just as his wandering attention settled on speculation as to what Mary might have cooked for the day's main meal, footsteps again sounded on the staircase outside. This time, there was no soldier to announce the visitor, as the face that poked through the sacking screen was that of a servant from the close. It was a pimply boy who worked as the bottler's assistant in the house of Canon John de Alençon, and he brought a message to the effect that his master the archdeacon would be obliged if the coroner could call upon him at his earliest convenience.

'Give him my compliments and tell him I will be with him very shortly!' commanded John, and as the boy scuttled away down the steps he rose to roll up his parchments with a sigh of relief and take his grey cape from a peg on the wall.

Outside, the October day had turned colder and grey clouds and wind warned of a grim autumn. The wet summer of that year had already provided a very poor harvest, and if winter turned out to be a hard one he feared that starvation would claim many before the next spring.

He walked briskly down Castle Hill to High Street and turned into Martin's Lane. He passed his own front door but refrained from going in, for fear that domestic problems would detain him from meeting his good friend the archdeacon. It was unusual for de Alençon, to send for him, and even the lure of Mary's cooking failed to divert him.

When he arrived at the tall house in Canon's Row, the continuation of Martin's Lane past the north side of the cathedral, a servant showed him straight into the spartan room that the canon used as his study. A table carrying several books, two stools and a large plain cross on the wall were the only furnishings that this austere priest allowed, a marked contrast to the lavish luxury enjoyed by many senior members of the cathedral establishment. But John de Alençon's face was anything but austere today, for he advanced on the Coroner with a beatific smile and sat him on one side of the table while he took the other stool. Almost immediately, his bottler, a skinny old man with a bulbous nose, entered with two glass goblets and a glazed pottery jar whose seal told de Wolfe that it was the very best quality Anjou wine.