De Cunitone nodded his polished head. 'Let's hope the rest will do the same, but it's a bit much to expect.' They went back to their positions and the process was repeated with the next pair of contestants. This time, neither was unhorsed, but on the third pass the lance of one splintered in the middle and he threw it down in disgust. Sliding from his saddle, he hauled out his broadsword, three feet of tempered iron, and waited for his adversary to do the same. They closed and, with blows that raised sparks, hammered away at each other for several minutes. The tips of the weapons were rounded and the edges of the blade were also supposed to be blunted - but as these swords were designed for hacking rather than thrusting, the state of the tips was not all that relevant. As de Wolfe came nearer, he suspected that both men had failed to blunt the sides of their blades, but this was such a common ploy that he was not going to put it to the test.
The contest was soon over, as the heavier man, holding a shield with a black raven upon it, sidestepped and caught the other a resounding blow on his right arm, which made his weapon spin away like a whirling stick. He clutched his arm and yelled, but the chain links saved him from a wound, though no doubt he would have a painful bruise for a week. In the next contest, one young man was knocked from his destrier by a lance strike in the centre of the chest. He was saved from serious injury by the oblong metal plate laced over his hauberk to protect the heart. Again he would have a massive bruise there, which would have been even worse but for the shock-absorber effect of the gambeson, a padded shirt of quilted linen stuffed with loose wool, that every knight wore under his chain mail.
The afternoon passed in a similar fashion, with a bout every fifteen minutes or so. The results were clear cut in most instances, though one pair of jousters, a Fleming and a Breton, were reduced to bad-tempered fisticuffs when both lost their swords in a scrimmage.
The two adjudicators had to forcibly pull them apart and dismiss them from the ground without any result being awarded, to the boos and jeers of the watching crowd, whose wagers were rendered null and void.
As the sun began to slip down the sky, the last few bouts were announced. One was between Ralph Peverel, of Sampford Peverel near Tiverton, and an older knight from Warwickshire, who was a regular on the tourney circuit. Much to everyone's surprise, Ralph unhorsed the Midlander at the first pass, knocking him clean off his destrier to crash on to the hard ground.
He was knocked unconscious and his squire, who ran on to the field, had to call for men from the recet to bring a long board to carry him back to the tents, while the betting men were muttering at this win by an outsider with such long odds.
The next joust, almost the last of the day, was the one the crowd had been waiting for all afternoon, ever since the ballot had chosen who was to fight with whom.
This was a contest between Hugo Peverel, the elder brother of the previous contestant, and the Frenchman, Reginald de Charterai.
Both had an impressive track record of wins and much money was being staked on the outcome. Hugo was tipped as a likely successor to his late father William, who had been a steady winner over many years, until his untimely death at Wilton,. De Charterai, though a foreigner, had appeared at so many tourneys in England that he was very well known and his prowess was common knowledge to all those who followed the contests.
The trumpet brayed and the two men trotted out from the recet, their huge horses tossing their heads in excited anticipation of a few moments' glory in front of an appreciative audience. Hugo Peverel went down to the far end and waited expectantly.
The herald, now getting hoarse after a day's yelling, gave their titles, and at the second blast the thunder "of hoofs began over turf that was now decidedly the worse for wear after more than forty great stallions had hammered across it that day. The first clash of lance upon shield left both riders upright, as these experts were adept at angling their shields to deflect much of the force to the side.
The second pass was equally ineffective in unhorsing either Hugo or Reginald, and they galloped past each other quite intact. Hugo was the bigger man, broad within his byrnie of iron links, his scratched shield carrying a crude emblem of two white chevrons on a blue background.
De Charterai was taller and thinner, his spine as stiff as a fire-iron. He wore no mail hood or aventail, trusting to the code of honour to safeguard his head from attack. Black hair peeped from beneath the rim of his helmet, matching the colour of a thin, sloping moustache that adorned his rather sardonic face. The pair wheeled around for the third pass, lowered their lances and charged. This time the Frenchman was able to vanquish his opponent, as with a grinding crunch his lance-tip hit Hugo's shield at just the right spot to neutralise the attempted deflection and the impact pushed the Devon man sideways off his saddle.
The experienced fighter grabbed the saddle-edge and girth and let himself down lightly, hanging on to his shield, but losing his grip on the long lance. There was a roar from the onlookers as he fell to his knees, but he was up on his feet again long before de Charterai could slow his destrier and pull him around to canter back. It was obvious that Hugo was going to make a fight of it, with his reputation and his property at risk from the foreigner. The latter slowed to a halt, dismounted and laid his lance on the ground, as his squire ran out to take his horse's reins and lead him away. Hugo's riderless horse had ran on several hundred paces and was being retrieved by his own squire farther down the field.
Hugo faced the Frenchman and hauled out his sword, which made a metallic rasp as it slid from the scabbard hanging from the baldric slung around his shoulder. De Wolfe watched keenly as Reginald gave a slight bow and pulled out his own weapon. The two men advanced on each other warily, shields held up by the left forearms pushed through the straps on the back. Their heavy swords were sloped downward until they got within striking range. Then, as they circled each other, the points came up, and with a yell Hugo lunged forward and tried a straight thrust past the edge of Reginald's shield. The Frenchman parried it easily and in turn brought down a slashing blow, which sent chips of wood flying from the edge of Peverel's shield.
Time and again they slashed and smote, but they were evenly matched and neither could get past the other's guard. The spectators yelled their approval at this bonus to their expected entertainment.
Striking at the head was forbidden by the commonly accepted rules of chivalry, so the ambition of each man was to make a strike either with his sword point against his opponent's chest or belly or a heavy slash against any of his limbs. These would count as a win, even though the chain mail of the padded hauberks would hopefully protect against any serious injury. The two judges hovered a few yards away, far enough not to get in the way of the fighters, but close enough to check for a vital strike.
Then an unusual thing happened.
Hugo Peverel, the more aggressive of the two, gave another furious shout and stepped forward to smash his blue shield against the green of de Charterai's.
Tilting it away, he lunged with his blade, aiming for the heart, but the other knight swung sideways and, as Hugo's sword arm came within reach, slashed down upon it.
The blunted edge struck the back of the Devon man's hand just below the wrist, and although he was wearing chain-link mittens the impact of the heavy steel temporarily paralysed his fingers and his sword went spinning away. The foreigner gave his own excited yell of triumph and stood back, clearly the victor. Both de Wolfe and Peter de Cunitone threw up their hands as a signal for a win and there was a trumpet blast in response.
It seemed, however that Hugo de Peverel, now in a vile temper, had other ideas.
Instead of kneeling in submission, as convention required, he cast about for his sword, apparently intending to pick it up again. But it had fallen almost at the feet of his adversary and so, to John's indignant surprise, he bounded sideways and snatched up his lance, from where it had fallen when he was unhorsed. With a roar of defiance, Hugo hefted it near its centre, brought his powerful arm back and threw it straight
at Reginald de Charterai's head.
Astonished at this unheard-of behaviour, the Frenchman stood stock still for an instant, then his well-honed instinct for self-preservation snapped into action and he brought up his shield before his face. The blunted tourney lance struck it with a loud thump and fell to the ground, instead of hitting him between the eyes.
There was immediate chaos on and around the field.
The two judges came running, shouting cries of recrimination. Along the barrier ropes, there was a roar of outrage and yells, boos and hisses rent the air. Even those who had money on Hugo Peverel were disgusted at his blatant disregard of the usual conventions. De Wolfe strode up to the culprit, his face white with anger, closely followed by his fellow adjudicator.
'What in Christ's name d'you think you're doing?' he yelled.
'Have you gone bloody mad?' snapped de Cunitone, hands on hips as he glared at Hugo. Peverel, sweating, red in the face and seething with anger, was far from contrite. 'There's no rule against a man continuing to fight!' he hissed.
'Rule? You've been in more than enough jousts to know what's proper!'
De Wolfe's nose was almost touching Hugo's now and he was in a towering rage. 'You're a knight, damn it, you have a duty to show an example to the squires and younger men. I'm ashamed of you, Peverel!' Half afraid that he might strike him in his temper, John stepped back and forced himself to signal to the herald forty paces away. The man took the hint, and as the trumpet sounded again he roared at the top of his voice that the bout had been won by Reginald de Charterai.
The man named had remained standing where he was, his face white with shock at this unheard-of breach of conduct by someone who should know better. He said not a word, but turned and walked off stiffly to where his bewildered squire was holding his horse's head. The victor walked his mount back to the enclosure, to the sustained cheers and shouts of congratulation from both the crowd along the ropes and the more aristocratic audience in the stand.
'You had better send your squire to treat with de Charterai over the forfeit of your armour and destrier,' snapped de Cunitone, the contempt obvious in his voice as he spat the words at Hugo Peverel. 'Better keep clear of him yourself, or you might get a punch in the face, which you richly deserve!'
With that, the second judge turned and marched after the coroner, who was making his way back to speak to the herald. Left alone in the middle of the field, the lord of Sampford Peverel glowered at everything within sight, unwilling to admit even to himself that he had seriously transgressed the unwritten codes of chivalry.
Chapter Four
In which Crowner John intervenes in a fight
The last few jousts following the Peverel debacle were something of an anti-climax, and less than an hour later everyone was streaming away from Bull Mead, heading for either home or the alehouses. They had plenty to talk about, and the Bush Inn was one of the places where the gossip was most rife. At his table near the hearth, John de Wolfe was relating the story to Nesta and Gwyn, with Edwin the potman and a few regular patrons standing behind them, their ears flapping to hear the details from the horse's mouth, so to speak.
'I've always heard that Hugo was a nasty piece of work,' growled Gwyn, over the rim of his pottery jug of ale. 'Terrible temper, they say. He was suspected of beating some poor sod of a groom near to death iast year, for some trifling fault.'
The coroner's officer-had not long arrived back from st James' Priory, though John had expected him much earlier. It seemed that the silversmith's assistant had suffered a dizzy attack after rising from his sickbed and the monks had insisted on his resting for a few more hours before leaving on the hired horse.
'How well do you know this Hugo?' asked Nesta, sitting close to John, her arm linked comfortably with his.
'I know little about him, except to recognise him by sight. After today, I don't want to acknowledge him at all, unless I have to in the line of duty.'
'He was in Outremer with us, wasn't he?' asked Gwyn, vigorously scratching his unruly mop of red hair where the lice were irritating his scalp.
'I recall that he was there briefly, but never in our formation, thank God. I believe he arrived at Acre at the same time as the King, but on a different ship from us. I never saw him in the Holy Land, but we have to give him the credit of being a Crusader, I suppose.'
'I heard a rumour that he left within a couple of months and went back to Cyprus,' persisted Gwyn.
'The other fellow, the Frenchman, he was there as well,' piped up Edwin, who, as an old soldier, was keen on any gossip that had a military flavour. 'He was with Philip's army at Acre, so they say.'
Gwyn scowled into his pot. 'They soon went home with their tails between their legs,' he said with unusual spite. The Church and the French were the Cornishman's two pet hates. De Wolfe could understand his aversion to their French enemies, but he had never discovered the cause of his anethema to all things ecclesiastical.
'What happened after the joust?' asked Nesta. 'This Reginald could hardly have been happy about the outcome.'
'Well, he won twice over - unhorsing Peverel and then striking his sword from his grasp. It was a fair fight until Hugo lost his temper and threw a lance at him.'
'And at his bloody head, too, by your account,' growled Gwyn, disgusted at this breach of knightly etiquette.
'So they just walked off together?' persisted Nesta, always curious about people's behaviour.
'Hardly together, the Frenchman couldn't bring himself even to look at Peverel. He stalked away, white around the gills, and left Hugo glowering around like a baited bull. I presume their squires had to get together to arrange the hand-over of the winnings.'
'De Charterai will get his armour, his sword and his horse and harness, the usual loot for a winner,' added Gwyn, with evident satisfaction.
The landlady shook her head in wonder at the strange things that the aristocracy got up to. She had never heard tell of such goings-on in Wales, though it was true that some of the princes and heads of household were starting to ape the Normans in many of their ways.
Eventually, the group exhausted the talk about the tournament and the fair, moving on to other matters.
Nesta pressed John to take some food, but he excused himself on the grounds that he had to attend a feast that evening in the Guildhall, given by the tournament council in celebration of the day's jousting. All the participating knights would be there, as well as the organising officials and the adjudicators -John was intrigued and a little apprehensive as to whether Hugo Peverel and Reginald de Charterai would be present.
Though he had seen little of Matilda these past few days, he knew full well that she would insist on attending, as any event where the great and the good of the county were present was a magnet to her ambitions of social advancement. The dismissal of her brother from the shrievalty had certainly dampened her aggressive social climbing, but he knew she would turn out for an event such as this.
The tavern was even busier than usual this evening and the big taproom was crammed to capacity, with drinkers standing shoulder to shoulder, jostling those sitting at the few tables and benches set on the rush, covered earth floor. With the fire going and a full house, the atmosphere could almost be cut like a cheese, redolent with wood smoke, spilt ale, sweat and unwashed bodies. When Nesta and the potman had been called away to settle some domestic crisis, John turned to Gwyn to "talk business.
'You took this Terrus fellow to his lodging, you say?' His officer nodded, wiping ale from his luxuriant moustache. 'He was a bit weak after his ride, though it was no great distance. I left him with the silversmith who stayed behind on your orders.'
'We'll see him in the morning. I'll have to hold this inquest later, as the body won't keep much longer, even though the weather's fairly cool. And the family will be up from Totnes, wanting to take it for burial.' Gwyn nodded. 'I'll round up those men from the quay-side and a few others for a jury - though I can't see us getting very far towards any conclusion. The ba
stards that killed the merchant could be in the next county by now.'
De Wolfe swallowed the last of his ale and stood up.
'I'm hoping they may still be hanging about at this fair, so maybe we'll get lucky tomorrow. We need that Terrus fellow to be out and about with his eyes open, to see if he can spot them. Now I'm off home to get ready for this damned feast.'
He waved a goodbye to Nesta, who was standing across the room with arms akimbo, watching Edwin and one of her regular customers drag a vomiting drunk out through the back door to pitch him into the yard to sober up. John smiled at the thought of such a pretty, affectionate and passionate woman having such an indomitable strength of spirit after all the troubles she had suffered these past few years, and he turned his steps homeward with a glow of pride at having her still love him.
* * *
The Guildhall was a single large chamber with a high beamed ceiling, entered directly from High Street through an arched doorway. The new stone building had replaced a previous smaller wooden one, needed as Exeter developed its commerce and wealth, mainly due to the wool, cloth and tin industries that were rapidly making it a rich city. But there were many more merchants and crafts than these staple industries, and most had their own guilds to protect the interests of their owners and workers, the Guildhall providing a centre for these organisations. The burgesses elected a pair of portreeves to lead the city council - though there was now talk of having a 'mayor', as in London and a few other cities. These two worthies were already sitting in the centre of the high table as John de Wolfe escorted his wife into the hall. As he had anticipated, Matilda had swiftly raised herself from her depression over her brother's fall from grace. The prospect of an evening among the upper class of the county was too great an attraction for her to miss, especially as she had to put on a good face before her matronly friends from St Olave's, who were the wives of burgesses and some manor-lords who had houses in the city. For Matilda not to lose face and to ride out the gossip and sniggers about her brother, she had to continue to appear in public as before - apparently unconcerned and proud to be the wife of the coroner, the second-most important law officer in the county.
Figure of Hate Page 10