Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'What do you want to do, John?' asked de Furnellis. 'You should rest that leg for a time and should have some food and drink.'

'I'll not go into that damned hall again and face the smirks of those people,' he growled, a little spirit returning, 'Let's get over to that poxy alehouse, at least we can have lousy fare without them crowing over me.'

He sat down again while Gwyn and Ralph Morin motioned a soldier to bring over the packhorse to carry his armour. Gwyn examined his leg but could see nothing amiss, though the muscles on the back of his calf were exquisitely tender,

'A day's rest and it will be sound again,' he said consolingly. 'No doubt Nesta will have some salves that will help.'

'If I challenge anyone again, it'll be from the back of Odin!' promised de Wolfe. 'I'll not trust being on my own two feet again!'

Already his confidence was returning, even though a few minutes earlier he had fully been expecting to feel the point of Ralph's sword puncturing his throat. When the hauberk was tied across the pony's back, the castle constable advised him to hold on to it for support as they set out for the tavern on the village green, but after only one step a voice above him brought him to a halt.

'How are the mighty fallen, John!' sneered his brother-in-law from the top of the steps. 'Perhaps my sister would have had a twinge of regret if Ralph had spitted you on his sword, but few others would mourn your passing, apart from your alehouse mistress!'

Mortified at Richard's advantage over him, John could find no words in reply, but Henry de Furnellis angrily stepped into the breach.

'Your spite does you no credit, de Revelle, but you never were an honourable man,' he flared. 'So watch your tongue, for the eyes of Winchester are still upon you and you can ill afford to take liberties. You owe your own life to de Wolfe, remember? But for his intercession, you would long ago have swung by the neck.'

Richard made a rude noise in reply, but retreated back into the hall under the baleful glare of all those below.

'Get the crowner to that tavern,' commanded the sheriff, who today seemed to have found new energy and initiative in place of his usual amiable. torpor. 'I have business inside this hall, so we'll have those men-at-arms over here in case there's trouble.' He motioned to Ralph Morin to fetch Gabriel and his troops across from the other side of the bailey, while Gwyn slowly led the sumpter horse away, with the defeated coroner clutching at its baggage.

Though his leg was still sore, de Wolfe was able to limp up to Rougemont the, next day to attend to the urgent matter of the two armourers. He had got back from Sampford the previous afternoon without trouble, as once on a horse with the weight off his leg he felt perfectly fit. It was his self-esteem which had suffered most injury, the humiliation of being first defeated and then spared by Ralph Peverel almost too much to bear. In fact, he almost wished that Father Patrick had not intervened, as a quick death may have been preferable to this nagging shame that now plagued him. And yet a worm of defiance was already beginning to writhe inside his head, which demanded retribution for the insult he had suffered.

Nesta had been overcome with relief when he showed up at the Bush the previous evening — and the fact that he had been ignominiously defeated seemed of little consequence to her, as long as he was safe. Gwyn wisely did not give her the details of how close John had been to death at the end of Ralph's sword and left her to fuss over applying her ointments and salves to John'S leg, undet a winding of linen bandage.

Thomas and Eustace were also enormously relieved to have him home in one piece, and the news that the sheriff had dragged back the two suspects was welcome news to them.

Henry de Furnellis, still surprising people with his new-found energy, was waiting for John in his chamber, the inevitable jug of wine ready on his table.

'Try to forget yesterday's trouble,' he advised solicitously. 'You acquitted yourself well, so put it behind you now. We have to get to the bottom of these killings and need to squeeze as much as we can from these two villains.'

After John had limped off to the alehouse the day before, the sheriff had virtually invaded the manor house with his posse and, ignoring all the violent protestations of the Peverel brothers and Richard de Revelle, had hauled out the two armourers and put them on a couple of spare horses that they had wisely brought with them, Hands tied and surrounded by Gabriel and his soldiers, they were brought back to Exeter and thrust into the squalid cells beneath the keep of Rougemont, delivered into the tender care of Stigand, the repulsive gaoler who ruled the undercroft.

'This Robert Longus was screaming his innocence all the way back,' said Henry, 'But the big, stupid fellow seemed cowed and silent. It was just as well that Longus was bound to his horse or I think he'd have killed Crues for implicating him.'

When the constable arrived at the sheriffs chamber, they all went out into the inner ward and down some steps into the undercroft, which was the basement of the keep, partly below ground level. A dark and dismal cavern, its vaulted roof'Was damp and black with mould. A rusty iron grille set in a stone wall, behind which were a few prison cells, divided the space in half, The rest was partly storehouse and partly torture chamber, as well as being the gaoler's living quarters — a grubby mattress sat in one of the rat-infested alcoves.

Already assembled on the rubbish-strewn floor were Thomas and Eustace, the latter looking apprehensive about what awful scenes he might have to witness, Also present was Brother Rufus, the portly and usually jovial monk who was the garrison chaplain, as well as Sergeant Gabriel and three of the men-at-arms who had been part of the expedition to Sampford.

'Bring them out here, Stigand,' ordered Ralph Morin, pointing to the gate in the iron grille, The grossly obese Saxon waddled across with his ring of keys and, with Gabriel and a soldier as escort, went in and returned with the two armourers in wrist shackles, Longus struggling and blaspheming all the way. As Henry de Furnellis had described, the large, drooping figure of Alexander Crues seemed quite apathetic, staring despondently at the ground, He was the one they questioned first, John leading off, as soon as one of the escort gave Longus a buffet across the head to silence his loud protestation.

'Crues, tell us again what you admitted to me yesterday about these deaths,'

Dully, the man came out again with his allegation that he had simply stood by while Robert Longus strangled the girl Agnes with a piece of old harness strap. This provoked more bellows of denial from the armourer, and Morin had him taken back to the cells to give them some peace while they dealt with his assistant, though his shouts could still be heard, echoing from beyond the grille.

The essence of Alexander's tale was taken down by Thomas, who sat on a sack of horse feed and rested his parchments and ink on an empty wine cask. It was to the effect that in the last few days a tale had begun circulating about the village that Agnes had begun to recollect hearing voices when she left Lord Hugo on the night he was killed. Afraid that she might eventually remember whose voices they were, Robert had decided that she must be silenced, He got Crues to offer her a penny for her favours that night, and when they met by arrangement at the trout pool, the armourer was hiding in the trees. When she lay down for Crues, Longus leapt out and strangled her, pushing her head into the water in the hope of passing it off as an accident by drowning.

'But why be concerned at whose voices she might have heard?' asked the sheriff. The answer was obvious, but he wanted it down on Thomas's rolls.