Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'Why the celebration, John?' he asked his namesake. 'Is it your birthday or have they at last made you a bishop?'

'Neither, my friend, but I have some good news,' replied the archdeacon, his blue eyes twinkling in his thin face. 'Your clerk — my nephew — has at last been granted readmission to the clergy! I had a message from the chapter clerk of Winchester today, anouncing that Thomas de Peyne is to present himself there in seven weeks' time!'

The stolid coroner was incapable of tears, but he felt an unaccustomed prickling in his eyes for a moment as he thought of the joy that this would bring to his woebegone clerk. It was through de Alençon's intervention that the near-starving Thomas had been taken on by de Wolfe as his clerk, and they both held considerable affection for the little man, whose intellect and devotion more than compensated for his poor body and unprepossessing appearance.

'Does he know of this yet?' John asked, as they raised their goblets in celebration of this long-awaited event.

'It's little more than an hour since I had the message,' replied the archdeacon. 'I've no idea where he might be, which is partly why I sent for you, to discover his whereabouts. '

The matter was soon resolved, as the boy with the pimples was sent off at a trot to the cathedral archives above the chapter house, where the coroner rightly suspected he would be found, in his quest for ink.

Within a few minutes, Thomas appeared, rather apprehensive at the summons, especially when he found his master with his uncle, both of them wearing spuriously grim expressions.

'Oh God!' he gasped, the words being a genuine supplication rather than an oath. 'Please don't tell me that they have changed their minds!'

As he seemed on the point of fainting, the two Johns hurriedly dropped their charade and broke into smiles as they told Thomas the good news. Then he almost fainted again, falling to his knees and bursting into tears, rocking back and forth on the floor, crossing himself and blubbing prayers of thanks between his sobs. His uncle, more used to pastoral emotions than the discomfited coroner, laid a gentle hand on his head. De Wolfe took a spare wine cup from the table and filled it.

'Here, boy, take this and join us!' he said, holding it out. 'I know you dislike ale and cider, but drink this with us in celebration. You're unlikely to have the chance of tasting this quality again!'

Thomas staggered to his feet and gradually his tears subsided as his elfin face became wreathed in smiles. The archdeacon told him' of the need to be in Winchester some weeks hence and they discussed the practicalities of the journey and the need for someone to accompany him on the lonely and dangerous roads.

'I'll send Gwyn with you, to make sure you get there in one piece,' promised de Wolfe. 'How I'll manage without either my clerk or my officer, I don't know, but we'll worry about that when the time comes.'

Thomas's euphoria suddenly evaporated, as a look of desperate concern appeared on his face.

'I'll not leave you, master! Even when I am taken back into the bosom of Mother Church, I will remain your clerk until you have no further need of me.'

John fidgeted with his wine cup. 'Don't concern yourself with that now, Thomas,' he muttered gruffly. 'You enjoy this moment and the prospect of what your heart has desired for so long.'

After a few more minutes of discussion about this great event, Thomas became agitated again and pleaded to be excused.

'I need to spend the rest of the day on my knees before the high altar, giving thanks to God for my deliverance.' He made his escape as soon as he could and the two older men watched him go with benign smiles on their faces.

Thank God for that, and I have never meant it so sincerely,' commented the archdeacon. 'I think my poor nephew would eventually have pined away and died, had this never come about.'

'Even I will go down on my knees beside my bed tonight and offer up my thanks for it,' grunted de Wolfe. 'But before that, we must have a celebration at the Bush this evening and try to get the little fellow drunk for the first time in his life!'

There was much of the day left before any such celebration could take place. First John had to get back to his house to make muttered excuses for his late appearance at dinner. Matilda looked very rough; her eyes were red rimmed and her face even more sallow than usual. For once she had no caustic comment to make on his tardiness at coming to table and sat silently with downcast eyes, chewing without enthusiasm the salt fish followed by boiled mutton that Mary had prepared. Afterwards the cook-maid brought them apples, which were now in season and, though small, were smooth and round, unlike the wrinkled fruit that they would get in the winter.

John made a few attempts at conversation, including the news that Thomas was to be readmitted to the Church. He had hoped that his wife's partiality to things ecclesiastical would allow her to be pleased at the return of a priest to the fold, but her dislike of Thomas prevented her from showing any interest, and he relapsed into silence again.

When Mary came into the hall to collect the remains of the trenchers and the platters, she dropped a wooden tray on the flagstones with a loud clatter. Matilda winced and screwed up her eyes as if a dagger had been plunged into her ear, and John realised that she was still suffering badly from the effects of her drinking the night before. She was still managing to swallow a respectable quantity of the less expensive wine that remained after her excesses, however, and they sat in uncompanionable silence while they emptied their cups. John once again tried to strike up some conversation to ease the strain between them, and this time he had more success when he tapped the snobbish, rather than dote religious, vein in his wife's nature. He told her of the unexpected visit of Sir Reginald de Charterai that morning, and her eyes, though still bleary, showed a spark of interest at the mention of an aristocrat from across the Channel.

'He is very well known, John, as well as a charming and handsome man,' she grunted. 'You would do well to cultivate his friendship.'

Surprised, John enquired how she came to know him.

'I saw him at the feast where he had that altercation with that evil Peverel fellow,' she replied. 'And I have seen him once or twice at tournaments in past years — usually when I went with my brother, as you were absent for most of my life!'

Even in her present low state, she could not resist jabbing her husband with her barbed tongue.

'It seems that he is enamoured of Lady Avelina, the widow of William Peverel,' he informed her, somewhat spitefully, as he suspected that Matilda was harbouring a distant admiration for the august Reginald, a man who seemed the type to appeal to ladies of a certain age. This news appeared to double her interest and she was almost animated as she enquired about the Frenchman's visits to Sampford Peverel. John could almost hear the gossip mill grinding away outside St Olave's church next Sunday.

'It seems odd that he is paying court to the wife of a man at whose violent death he was present and who now, months later, he alleges was murdered!' observed John. 'One might even wonder if he is raising a smokescreen to divert suspicion from himself.'

He himself did not for a moment believe this, but cussedly prodded Matilda's obvious partiality for the Frenchman. His wife immediately rose to the bait.

'What nonsense you do come out with, John! Sometimes I despair of your common sense. Sir Reginald is a knight of impeccable character — and why should he now raise the issue of foul play if he himself was involved?' She glared scornfully at her husband and downed the last of her wine. 'Look elsewhere for your culprit and be glad that this man's sense of honour brought him to you with information that might prove useful.'