Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

The lower chamber in the gatehouse was where messages were left for the coroner by reeves and bailiffs from out of the city. There had been a few reports of deaths, but nothing from Sampford. Gwyn was out now, seeking more information about the new incidents, but until he returned later in the day, there was nothing John could do about them. When he went back to his garret above the portcullis chamber, he found Thomas sitting at the trestle table, copying yet more rolls to provide duplicates for the courts. Looking over his shoulder was Eustace de Relaga, who had begun his trial apprenticeship that morning and was following the quill with breathless attention, as if Thomas were penning Holy Writ. His pink cheeks, still with only adolescent down upon them, looked as if they had been freshly scrubbed and his fair hair curled over his neck and forehead like a girl's. Though not nearly as flamboyant in dress as his uncle Hugh, he wore a bright blue tunic under a surcoat of green serge and shoes with fashionably curled, pointed toes. The contrast between his attire and the threadbare black cassock of John's clerk was heightened by their expressions. The young man was eager and enthusiastic, but Thomas de Peyne looked annoyed, his thin lips clamped together as if to prevent him saying something out of place, as the youth prattled on about almost every word that the clerk was putting on the parchment.

As soon as Eustace saw the coroner, he bobbed his head deferentially and retreated backward across the room, as if in awe of this tall, dark man who hovered over his clerk.

'Learning the trade already, Eustace?' asked John, trying be jovial. He was never at ease with children and young people — to him they seemed a different breed of mankind.

The portreeve's nephew began babbling his thanks and protestations of unfailing dedication to his work, which seemed to deepen the grim look on Thomas's features. When the flow had stopped, the clerk asked his master whether he could have a private word, and John sent Eustace off to the hall with a recommendation that he get something to eat and drink.

'This is his first day, Crowner, but already he's driving me mad!' blurted out Thomas, as soon as Eustace 's footsteps had vanished down the stairs. 'He wants to know every little thing — and he tries to correct my Latin and my penmanship!'

De Wolfe groaned under his breath. He had seen this coming the moment Hugh de Relaga introduced the idea in the Bush, on the night of Thomas's celebration.

'He's young and keen, Thomas, you must make allowances for his age.'

'If he'd just sit and watch, it would be fine,' retorted the clerk. 'But he feels obliged to comment about everything. He gives me an inquisition about the why and when and how of every detail of our work. I'll never get my tasks finished at this rate!'

John suspected that there was more to this pleading than mere irritation and he sought to reassure Thomas.

'He's not here to displace you, you know. He's just a big child, wanting to learn so that he can make his way in the world. Don't think for a moment that the portreeve and I have some dark scheme up our sleeves to get rid of you.'

Somewhat mollified, the clerk fiddled with his goose quill as he stared at the table.

'I'll not leave you, Crowner. I said that in the Bush and I meant it. I wish to be taken back into the Church more than anything in the world, but ordained clerics can perform many tasks, other than becoming some stagnant parish priest or an obscure prebendary in some distant vill.'

John patted Thomas's humped shoulder awkwardly. 'I know, lad, and I appreciate it. Let's see what happens after you've been to Winchester. Maybe your uncle can find you some appointment which will still let you assist me, for I don't know how I would manage without you.'

Thomas glowed inside at this rare praise from his austere master and sighed his acceptance of the irritating Eustace.

'I'll just have to put up with him, sir. Perhaps he will quieten down after the first flush of enthusiasm passes off.' ….

'Get him to copy some of these rolls, why don't you?' suggested John, waving a hand at the yellowed tubes of parchment on the table. 'We need duplicates for the commissioners, who are due next month. Give Eustace some of the drudgery — it may cool him down and will give you a chance to see what sort of job he makes of it.'

Rather than be present when Eustace returned for a rapprochement with Thomas, the coroner stomped back down the stairs and walked back to Martin's Lane for an early dinner. The bells of the cathedral and the many city churches had not yet pealed out for noon, but he was hungry and knew that Mary would soon have something ready to eat whatever time he appeared. He thought of going down to the Bush for a meal, but decided that Nesta would be in a flurry today, picking up the threads of her business after a fortnight's absence.

He sat in solitary state in the cavernous hall, birds twittering high in the rafters above him. The fire was lit, but Mary had put only a few logs across the iron dogs, as the weather was still dry and had turned mild, the autumn trying to make up for the atrocious weather of the spring and summer. John poured himself a drink and reflected that his stock of wine had recovered since Matilda had been away. She must have been going at the drink in quite a heavy fashion these past few months, since the trouble with her brother. This brought his thoughts around to Richard de Revelle and he tried to make out what interest his brother-in-law might have in the Peverel family. He knew that he wanted part of their land, but was this sufficient cause for his interference there?

From there, his mind came around to the mystery at Sampford itself, and he felt annoyed at the impasse that had developed. The silversmith Terrus was adamant that Robert Longus was one of the assailants, yet the armourer denied it and had his assistant and Ralph Peverel to back it up. Even the dead Hugo had told de Wolfe to his face that Longus had been with him all that day. This posthumous evidence, coupled with that of Ralph and the other armourer, made it impossible in law to sustain the evidence of Terrus.

And what of Hugo's death? If Robert Longus was the murderer of one man, could he not also be responsible for the slaying of the other? But what possible motive could there be for killing a master of whom it appeared he was a favourite?

As Mary bustled in with a wooden tray bearing an iron pot of rabbit stew and a thick bread trencher with a wide cutlet of boiled salmon resting across it, he determined to get himself back to Sampford as soon as possible and shake a few trees to see whether anything fell out of them.

Later that day, Gwyn returned and dragged him off to view several bodies at the places where they had met their deaths. One was that of a young boy who had fallen into a mill-stream at Ide, just outside the city. Mills were dangerous places and deaths, especially of children, were common, either from drowning in the mill-race or being dragged under the turning wheels. Others, including the millers and their men, sometimes became caught in the crude but powerful cog wheels that drove the stones, and John had seen horrific injuries that had been inflicted before the machinery could be stopped by the slow process of diverting the sluices.

The other corpse was that of a thief who had fallen from the top of the city wall, after being chased by half a dozen irate householders who had surprised him rifling a dwelling in Bartholomew Street. It was close to the twenty-foot wall that ran right round the city, and the robber had climbed up, hoping to outpace the pursuers, who were still down below. As he sped along the battlements towards the towers of the North Gate, a gate porter suddenly appeared in front of him and, losing his balance, the fugitive crashed over on to the stony footings in Northernhay and stove in the side of his head. He was still alive when the hue and cry reached him, but expired soon afterwards.