Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'What are they doing now?' murmured Eustace, as they followed John and Gwyn from the forge back out into the village.

'Going to see two other suspects again,' said the clerk. 'It often happens that, deep inside, the conscience of a guilty person gives them the desire to confess. If you keep at them, sooner or later they may break down.'

Thomas delivered this with the air of an expert, though in fact he had only once witnessed the coroner pull this off. Eustace was suitably impressed, however, and looked at the clerk with added respect. They all went out of the manor bailey and up to the reeve's dwelling, where they found Warin Fishacre outside in his half-acre croft, hammering in a stake to tether the house cow on to a fresh circle of grass. His son-in-law Absolon, whose father was Nicholas the smith, was holding the stake, while Warin struck it with a heavy wooden mallet. He stopped as de Wolfe led his men through the lopsided gate and they both waited uneasily for them to approach. They were some distance from the thatched house, where a young woman sat outside on a stool, feathering and gutting a pair of fowls.

'What brings you here again, Crowner?' asked the reeve, suspiciously.

John went straight to the heart of the matter, his frustration over this case making him feel that there was nothing to lose.

'Did you or your son-in-law kill Hugo Peverel?' he asked bluntly. 'You both had good cause, as I understand it.'

Fishacre looked quickly across to the house and decided that his daughter was out of earshot. 'Good cause indeed, Crowner! I would gladly have hanged for his death — but God saw fit to bring it about by other means.'

'And I thought of killing the bastard, but I was too much of a coward,' said Absolon, a large young man with an open face and shoulders like an ox from working in his father's smithy. 'No, Crowner, we didn't send him to hell, where he surely is. But I will admit to you that 1 threw that cow turd on to his coffin, for I suspect that you'll not tell our masters in the manor house.' He looked with sad eyes towards his young wife. 'Though it's early days, she already suspects she's with child. And the devil of it is that we'll not know if it's mine or his.'

'Unless the child is born with red hair,' muttered Warin, looking up at his son-in-law's black locks. 'But it won't be the first Peverel bastard in the manor. There are a few here already, living in squalor while their fathers enjoy the fruits of our labour, living in style in their big house.'

His voice dripped with bitterness, and de Wolfe glimpsed again the enmity and hate that seemed to pervade this village. He kept at them for a few more moments, trying to shake their stubborn denials, but his heart was not in it. John felt instinctively that much as the Fishacres had yearned for Hugo's death, they had no hand in it — and in truth, looking at this riven family, he would have had little stomach for trying to prove it, even if they had.

The Exeter men moved on up the track to the thatcher's hut, which was smaller than the reeve's dwelling, just a single room of wattle and daub. At least it had a good roof, as Godwin could ply his own trade upon it, using reeds and straw left over from other buildings.

The thatcher's family were having their dinner when John arrived. He motioned to the others to stay at the gate, while he went to the open doorway and put his head inside. The hut had virtually no furniture apart from a few stools grouped around the clay rim of the central fire-pit. Hazel-withy hurdles divided off two corners where straw and ferns under sacking covers provided beds for Godwin, his wife and surviving son, a youth of about eighteen. The far end of the long room had a more substantial wooden partition, beyond which could be heard — and smelt — a cow and a suckling calf. In a small wooden cage on the floor, a slinky ferret scrabbled at the bars, desperate to escape. No doubt the owners would claim it was to catch rats, but John knew that a more likely purpose was illegal coney hunting.

Godwin, a burly man of about fifty, had flaxen hair turning grey at the temples. One side of his face was stained a livid red from a birthmark that extended from his eyebrow to his jaw. He sat on one of the stools, eating porridge from a wooden bowl with a horn spoon. His wife, a wan, sickly creature, was standing over the fire, ladling the thick gruel from a pot into a bowl held by her son, who crouched on the other stool. There was no table, but a shelf on one wall seemed to function as the woman's kitchen, as it carried a few earthenware cups and some homemade wooden platters.

When they saw the coroner's shadow in the doorway, the thatcher and his son climbed to their feet and stared at him, while the Wife backed away to the wall, a hand to her mouth in consternation.

'You're back, sir?' said Godwin, more as a question than a statement. 'We thought the law had given up on Sir Hugo's death.'

John raised his hand, palm forward in a placatory gesture. 'Sit down and finish your dinner. I'll not keep you long. I've not been able to return lately, as I had to go out of the county these past couple of weeks.'

'What brings you now, sir?' asked the youth, a younger copy of his father in his Saxon colour and features, though he had been spared the disfiguring birthmark. He had bits of straw in his hair, which showed that he was following his father's trade.

'We've not forgotten the crime that was committed here,' said de Wolfe. 'These matters take time, but the law never gives up trying to administer justice.' He managed to say this with more conviction than he actually believed, given the calibre of many law officers, such as the corrupt de Revelle or the lazy de Furnellis.

Godwin waved an arm at his wife, who was cowering against her cooking shelf. 'Gunilda, bring that other stool for the coroner. Sir, will you have a cup of ale? That's all I can give you, unless you would like some of this poor fare.' He pulled his spoon out of the porridge, which made a sucking noise, so glutinous was the texture.

John hastily declined both the offer of a seat or refreshment.

'I have to ask this, Godwin Thatcher — of you and of your son here. It is common knowledge in the village that you had cause to hate your last lord, Hugo Peverel., Is that not so?'

Gunilda gave a muffled sob and buried her face in her arms. Her husband looked stolidly at the coroner. 'Why should we deny it? He was a cruel and vile man. He took my eldest son and killed him on his damned gallows-tree, before our very eyes.'

The son suddenly kicked his stool across the room in a fit of anger.

'And for what? Killing an already wounded hind, so that we could have something decent to eat for once. This is not part of the royal forest with their harsh laws, he could easily have overlooked it.'

John nodded, for he knew that poaching was a way of life in the villages, especially for the poorest people. The only real offence was getting caught.

'That's as may be, but did you kill him in revenge? You had motive enough and everyone in the manor had the opportunity.'

The wife burst out crying and fled to the other end of the hut, where she vanished behind the screen to cower down with the cattle.

'Would I admit it now, if I had, Crowner?' said Godwin calmly. 'I tell you, if I had known that I could have got away with such a deed, I would have killed the bastard. But I am a coward and have a sick wife and a son to look after. I could not afford to let my neck be stretched like my poor Edwin.'

'And your other son here? Did he avenge his brother's death?'

The younger man shook his head slowly. 'It never came into my mind, sir. Perhaps it should have, but it seems beyond the comprehension of simple cottars like us to even think of killing one of our lords. We don't dare even to speak out of turn before them, let alone murder them.'