For the first time, the man had no answer and stood sullenly scowling at de Wolfe, hate radiating from him like heat from an open fire.
The coroner jabbed a finger towards Alexander Crues, who stood open mouthed and loose lipped, listening to this heated exchange.
'This fellow, he is your assistant in the armouring?' Robert jerked his head in reluctant reply.
'And was he in Exeter with you at the time of the fair and the tournament?'
'Where I go, he goes! We both attend on the lords when they are at the jousting.'
'And was he lurking near Topsham with you when you attacked and robbed that silversmith?' John had no scruples about bending the rules of legal procedure when he was not presiding in a court, but Longus failed to let slip anything incriminating.
'I was never at bloody Topsham, as well you know! Even if Sir Hugo can't speak for me, Sir Ralph will attest that I was with him all the time.'
De Wolfe prodded Alexander in the chest with a long linger. 'And I suppose you'll stick to the same story, eh?'
'I dunno what you're on about, sir,' he mumbled thickly. 'I was with Robert here all the time.' He said this with a mechanical certainty that sounded as if he had memorised it after numerous repetitions.
'Wasting our time here, Crowner,' murmured Gwyn.
John sighed his agreement. 'Right, Longus! When you are summoned to Exeter, you will bring this other fellow with you, understand? I'm attaching you both, so it will cost you a couple of marks apiece if you don't show up.'
With that, he turned on his heel and marched away, frustrated by his inability to make any impression on the two men, especially given that they were backed up by the support of Ralph Peverel. Unless he could obtain some further evidence from somewhere, even getting them to a new inquest would probably be a fruitless excercise. As they walked back to the manor stockade to get their horses for the journey home, he thought that the silversmith's death would remain as much a mystery as that of Hugo Peverel, unless someone came across with more information.
Within a few minutes, he was in the saddle and leading Gwyn and Thomas homeward, breathing a sigh of relief as he left the boundaries of that unhappy manor behind him and set off along the high road towards Exeter.
Chapter Nine
In which Crowner John has a French visitor
When he arrived back at Martin's Lane in the late afternoon, John found Mary waiting for him in the vestibule, just inside the street door. She appeared worried, unlike her usual placid self.
'You'd better get yourself into the hall, Sir Crowner,' she advised, using the mildly sarcastic title that she employed when she was either annoyed or troubled.
The coroner shrugged off his cloak and slumped on the bench to pull off his dusty riding boots. He looked up wearily at his cook-maid.
'What is it now? Is she in a temper because I've again been away all day?'
The dark-haired woman shook her head. 'Better see for yourself!'
She jerked a finger towards the inner door to the main chamber of the house.
Pushing his feet into a pair of house shoes, he rather apprehensively lifted the iron latch and peered between the screens that stood just inside to keep out some of the draughts. He had a view of part of the large stone hearth and chimney-piece, in front of which were the pair of cowled wooden chairs. At first he saw nothing amiss, then he noticed that a hand hung over one armrest, holding a pottery wine cup, tilted at a dangerous angle. Below it he saw that the flagstones were stained red and, as he watched, the cup fell from the fingers and smashed on the floor.
He jerked his head back and glared at Mary. 'What the hell's been going on?' he demanded, as if it were his servant's fault.
'She's drunk, that's what!' retorted Mary sharply. 'Ever since I gave her dinner, she's been at the best wine. I doubt you've got much left.'
John pushed the door open wide and strode into the high, gloomy chamber, its timber walls hung with faded tapestries. As he crossed to the hearth, Matilda staggered to her feet, looking stupidly down at the mess on the flagstones. She seemed oblivious to his presence and clumsily tried to stoop down and pick up the fragments of the broken cup.
'Let that be!' he commanded. 'Mary will clean it up. You just sit down again before you fall.'
His voice was gruff, attempting to conceal the compassion he suddenly felt for this woman who was in such a bad way. He knew instinctively that the burden of her brother's shame and his own infidelity had finally broken down the stony façade of her grim personality.
Though she had always been fond of eating to the point of gluttony, and was very partial to her wine, he had never before seen her so obviously drunk.
He took her arm and gently pushed her back down into her chair. She-mumbled something incomprehensible, but did not resist him. The linen veil that covered her head was crumpled and in disarray, strands of mousy hair hanging from beneath it. Her face was red and puffy and her eyes watered as she stared up at him as if he were a complete stranger.
"John? Is it you, John?' she muttered.
'Yes, it's me, Matilda, the same old John! Are you unwell? Can I get anything for you? A cup of water?'
He felt the usual male helplessness in the face of female emotion or illness.
His wife shook her head slowly. 'What am I to do, John?'
Her speech was thick, as if her tongue had doubled in size. 'What am I to do? The shame and the misery.'
These words were followed by a longer, rambling monologue which he could not follow, but it gave him time to desperately think of some response to what was becoming an unmanageable situation.
'Shall I call Lucille and get you to your bed? Maybe you will feel better lying down? Or shall I send for your cousin from Fore Street?'
Mary appeared behind him with a leather bucket and a rag to clean up the spilt wine, but he waved her away impatiently.
'Get Lucille,' he hissed, then turned back to Matilda, stooping over her chair like a big black heron.
'Tell me what ails you, Matilda. Is there anything I can do to comfort you?' He had not uttered words like this for more than a dozen years. Her hand grasped his wrist with surprising strength.
'I have no friends, John. No friends at all, not even you.'
' Of course you have, wife! There are all your companions at St Olave's and the cathedral. And you have three cousins and a brother.'
He could have bitten off his tongue as Richard de Revelle's name slipped out and she began sobbing - a strange sucking noise as her chest heaved and her eyes filled with moisture.
'Richard! Why do you hate each other so? Thank Jesus that our mother and father no longer live to see our shame!'
She fell to muttering again, then her head dropped to her chest and John wondered whether she had fallen into a drunken sleep. He looked around desperately, as he would rather face a thousand armed Saracens than a weeping woman, and was relieved to see Mary at the door, with Lucille close behind her. They advanced on Matilda and with difficulty raised the stocky woman from her chair. As they stumbled towards the vestibule with her, his wife seemed to awaken, mumbling again as her head lolled from side to side.
'Has she been like this before, when I have not been here?' John demanded of Mary's retreating back, as Lucille and he rarely spoke to each other.
'Not as bad as this, but recently she has been taking wine more than usual, both in the afternoon and the evening,' said the maid over her shoulder.
De Wolfe followed them through the side passageway to the yard like an anxious sheepdog following a flock. The steep open staircase up to the solar was a serious obstacle, as it was too narrow for the two maids to support Matilda on either side. John solved the problem by lifting her bodily into his arms and staggering up the steps with her, which said something for his physique, as his wife, though short, was solidly built. She snorted and muttered as they went, and at the top he left her with Mary and Lucille for them to get her undressed and on to the wide straw-filled palliasse that w
as their bed. Back down in the hall, John found his old hound Brutus looking puzzled at these unusual happenings, and stroked his grizzled head in reassurance.
'What's to become of us all, old fellow?' he muttered, picking up the shards of the broken cup and laying them in the hearth for Mary to deal with later. He went to the side table where the wine was kept and with some regret saw that all his good Poitou red had gone, the two pottery crocks being empty. Groping under the table, he found a small wineskin of an inferior vintage and, pulling out the wooden stopper, poured himself a liberal cupful. Brutus came and laid a dribbling mouth on his knee as John sank into the chair that Matilda had been using.
He slumped there for some time, turning over in his mind the events of that day and of those that had preceded it. A procession of scenes marched through his mind as the level in the wineskin dropped - the bizarre funeral at Sampford, with cow turds and a dead rat on the coffin, the arrogant indifference of the armourer, the strange Peverel family - and now the apparent breakdown of Matilda's normally iron resolve.
Eventually, Mary came in to report that his wife was now in a deep sleep, snoring fit to rattle the shutters, and that Lucille had gone off to Fore Street to fetch Matilda's cousin to sit with her. She was one of the poor relations of the family - not poor in the sense of lacking money, as her husband had a successful glove-making business, but as one who had married 'into trade', out of the de Revelles' social class. Matilda treated her in a patronising fashion, but seemed moderately fond of her.
'Shall I make a meal for you this evening?' demanded Mary. John could tell that, though she was one of his staunchest allies, the cook-maid was laying some of the blame for his wife's condition on him.
'No, I'll take myself down to the Bush - or I'll be out of favour with yet another woman!' he grunted.
After Mary had flounced out with a disparaging shrug of her shoulders, the coroner sat for a while longer until he had finished his cup of wine, then snapped his fingers at Brutus and made for the street.
The cathedral Close was cool in the autumn evening and there were only a few children playing among the graves and a solitary beggar sitting on the steps of the great west front. John strode through the lanes, oblivious to the murmured greetings and forelock-pullings of passers-by, until he reached Idle Lane and the new front door of the Bush, set in a clean whitewashed wall, repainted after the recent fire.
A smiling Nesta hurried over and took his arm to steer him to his table by the hearth. She at once noticed his doleful expression and soon he was telling her of his visit to Sampford Peverel and the strange state in which he found his wife when he returned.
'It's not just me, cariad,' he said in the Welsh they habitually used together. 'She's had years to get used to my misdeeds. I've done nothing particularly terrible lately.'
His mistress shook her head pityingly at the lack of insight of men.
'You were the instrument for disgracing her beloved brother - not that you could have done anything else,' she pointed out. 'He was the main culprit, even in her eyes, but that doesn't alter the fact that she feels that in the end it was you who pushed him over the edge.' Like Mary, though Nesta was inordinately fond of this dour, dark man, she had an inexhaustible well of sympathy for anyone in trouble, including wronged wives.
'Lately, she's been talking a great deal about her family in Normandy,' he said. 'Not that they're close to her, nor do they probably want her bothering them again. But maybe she ought to go across the Channel some time, to get it out of her system.'
Nesta nodded her agreement. 'I know how she feels, John. It's three years since I left Gwent to come here with Meredydd and I've not seen my mother or my brothers and sisters since. Only two messages have come by carters to at least tell me they are still alive.' She sounded wistful, not only when she spoke of her family, but also of her dead husband. If the Welsh archer had not been an old campaign friend of John's, he might have felt a twinge of jealousy.
'Maybe you too should make a journey home before long, Nesta,' he suggested. 'Though what would I do, with both the women in my life deserting me!'
The landlady poked him hard in the ribs with her elbow. 'I know damn well what you'd be doing the moment the dust had settled on the high road behind us!' she snapped, only half in jest. 'Where would you go first, man? To Dawlish or to the stews in Waterbeer Street?'
He grinned sheepishly, as Nesta knew all about his other former mistress, the blonde Hilda from Dawlish.
In fact, she had once met her, and they had got along famously, having more things in common than just John de Wolfe.
He stayed at the tavern for a couple of hours, drinking the good ale supplied regularly by the old potman and eating an excellent supper of mutton stew followed by grilled herrings. Nesta, looking even more attractive than usual in a new yellow kirtle under her white linen apron, was hoping that her lover would stay either all night or at least for a few hours in her little room in the loft, but she soon sensed that the upsetting episode with Matilda had taken the edge off his usual keenness to get her into bed. Silently regretful, she settled down to be a sympathetic audience as he poured out his thoughts on the problems still plaguing him.
'I've made not a jot of headway on this slain silversmith,' he complained. 'This Terrus fellow claims that the armourer from Sampford was one of the villains, but it's only his word against that of the suspect, which was backed up by his lords, both dead and alive. Both Hugo and Ralph claimed that this Robert Longus was with them all the time and could never have been near Topsham when the man was robbed and killed.'
'So why are you insisting that this Longus must come to court in Exeter or risk being outlawed?' asked the practical Nesta.
'Just because the bastard refused to come,' snapped John. 'I'll teach him to flaunt the King's law officer.' The Welsh ale-wife wrinkled her nose in doubt. 'I see no reason why this armourer's masters should lie for him. What would be in it for them?'
'Gwyn suggested that he was robbing on their behalf. It seems the Peverels are short of money, having lost heavily in the last year in wagering on the tournaments. But I think that's too far-fetched an idea.'
Nesta absently tucked a lock of copper-coloured hair back under her linen helmet. 'So who killed this Hugo? I fancy the French knight myself, for according to you he promised that he would.'
De Wolfe slid a hand on to her thigh under the table and for a moment her hopes of getting him up the loft ladder were rekindled.
'De Charterai? I don't think he meant it that seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment. And he's too chivalrous a fellow to stab a man in the back.'
'I'd believe anything of a man who has been insulted that badly,' countered Nesta. 'You measure everyone by your own standards of honour, John.'
'There are plenty of other possible killers, sweetheart. Gwyn and Thomas did their usual spying in the manor and came up with a number of folk who hated Hugo. And from what I saw myself, he had few friends there. In fact, he seemed a figure of hate to everyone.'
Always a lover of scandal and intrigue, Nesta rested her round chin on her hand and gazed at the bristly face alongside her. 'Tell me about them again!' she commanded.
'Well, this manor-reeve, Warin Fishacre, undoubtedly hated Hugo's guts. I suspect that it was he who slung that ox turd into the grave. Either him or his son-in-law, as they both felt murderous towards their lord for deflowering their girl on her wedding night.'
'Damned disgraceful!' muttered Nesta, though the sentiment sounded much stronger in Welsh.
'Then there was Godwin the village thatcher, who'd had one of his sons hanged by Hugo not long ago. I put him down for throwing that dead rat.'
'And the family?' she persisted.
'I wouldn't put the dowager out of the running. It seems she suspects that Hugo had something to do with his father's death at the mélée in Wilton. And poor sweet Beatrice must have had a bellyful of shame over her husband's flagrant ravishing of the village girls - as well as perhap
s wanting to be free to take up with young Joel.'
'What about this Joel, is he a contender too?'
John took his hand off her leg to lift his quart pot to his lips. 'He was making sheep's eyes at the new widow all the time I was there. Whether he would kill just to get his way with her, I couldn't guess.'
'Do you suspect the other two brothers as well?'
'I suspect everyone in that bloody place!' growled de Wolfe. 'Ralph seems to have the best chance of becoming the manor-lord, so he had a good motive for getting rid of his elder brother. And poor Odo, the one with the fits, may have thought he would have another chance at being recognised as the heir if Hugo was out of the way.'
They sat talking about the problem for a while, with Nesta having to get up every now and then to sort out some problem or other, ranging from sudden scuffles between patrons who had had too much to drink to a panic in the kitchen shed when a pan of beef dripping caught fire.
It was well after dusk when John's conscience began pricking him strongly enough to drive him home to see whether his wife had recovered from her drunken stupor. He would dearly have liked to stay with Nesta, but they both knew that this was not the night for that, with his guilt pressing down on him. Dragging Brutus away from the meaty bone that old Edwin had thrown under the table for him, John gave his mistress a chaste kiss and wearily made.his way back through the darkened streets to Martin's Lane.
Henry de Furnellis was a totally different character to his snobbish, supercilious predecessor. Whereas Richard de Revelle always closeted himself in his chamber with a guard on the door, remote from the common herd outside, Henry was often to be found in the main hall of the keep, sitting at a table with a mug of ale or a bowl of stew, chatting to whoever he could find to gossip with him. An old soldier, he was fond of companionship and liked nothing better than to swap tales of old campaigns with the castle constable, Ralph Morin, or Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms.
Figure of Hate Page 23