Figure of Hate (45 page)

Henry de Furnellis stepped back reluctantly.

'So be it, if you are determined upon this foolishness! But 1 will see to it that you fight fair. 1 have a dozen men here to ensure it!'
 

He moved back almost to the ring of spectators, to stand alongside Gwyn. They noticed that Joel Peverel and Richard de Revelle took up similar positions on the other side.
 

There was no formal trumpet blast or herald's cry at this contest. The two men began circling and spiralling in towards each other until they were within sword's reach. A sudden clash of steel and thump of metal on wood signalled the first contact, and from then on it was a solemn, potentially lethal dance of advance, strike and retreat. The two men were equally matched, de Wolfe being more experienced in real battle and cunning in the use of his shield in defence. Ralph was younger, faster and more aggressive, but even his frequent practice in mélées and jousts had not made him the equal of John in the tricks and techniques of swordsmanship.
 

Back and forth they moved, rotating within a small space on the dusty ground, neither giving way to the other as their swords resounded off the ill-used wood of their long shields. The swords were made for slashing, not stabbing - but these were real weapons, not the blunted ones used in tournaments, and their points were still dangerous.
 

The silence was gradually broken by yells of excitement and encouragement from the spectators, though it was not clear who was shouting for whom. The clash of weapons became almost rhythmical, and although probably no more than five minutes had elapsed, it seemed like half a day to Gwyn as he watched his master fighting for his life. The weight of the chain mail, the shield and the sword meant that even the most Herculean fighter could not continue for long, as the physical exertion involved was too much for any man to sustain unless he was on the back of a horse.
 

The two men backed off for a moment, each panting to get his breath back, as they slowly circled again. Gwyn was beginning to feel more optimistic when they clashed again, as John managed to get in a heavy blow to Ralph's left shoulder which made his opponent howl. If this had been a tourney, it would have counted as a point against him, but this was a fight to the finish. After a few more advances and retreats, Ralph struck the side of John's helmet, making a dent and evening up the score, but of more concern to Gwyn was the fact that his master's limp was becoming more pronounced and he was slowing down. The break in his leg from being trapped under his dying horse had healed well and the coroner had made light of it in recent months, denying that anything was wrong, but Gwyn knew that he still had twinges of pain in it, especially after a long ride-or sudden exertion. Now it was .becoming obvious that he was tiring and the leg was dragging-: Ralph began dancing around him more quickly, in a deadly ballet whose outcome now seemed all too predictable.
 

'Christ help him!' muttered the Cornishman desperately. Though he despised most churchmen and their institutions, he believed in God, as did everyone else, except a few deranged heretics, and now his tongue sought to find long-neglected prayers. But God seemed deaf that day, and a moment later a rapid blow from the younger man struck John's wrist and sent his sword spinning away across the dirt. Stumbling back, the coroner dragged out his mace as his remaining weapon and, with his shield held in front of him, stood like a bear chained to a post, waiting for the next attack of the dogs. Ralph came in again and was repulsed by a smashing blow from the spinning chain, the heavy ball gouging splinters from the edge of his shield.
 

'Go on, follow it up!' bellowed Gwyn, now in almost tearful anxiety. There were similar shouts from around the edge of the arena as the two combatants went at it hammer and tongs, the spiked ball whirling a defensive pattern around the coroner as Peverel tried to swing his sword edge down on his opponent. Gwyn's heart lurched with hope as the chain wrapped itself around Ralph's sword, but the iron blade slid out of its grasp and was free again. Now both men were tiring, but de Wolfe was in worse shape and was now limping badly. The end came suddenly as the next sally by Ralph drove John back, and just as he was counter-attacking by swinging his vicious ball around the edge of his shield, his leg gave way completely and he fell sprawling on the ground, virtually at his enemy's feet. He still had the mace in his hand, but his left arm was trapped in the thongs of his shield, on to which he had fallen. With an almost contemptuous movement, Ralph kicked the mace away and pushed the coroner back to the ground with the point of his sword. Gwyn closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that his revered companion of twenty years was about to die in the dirt of a Devon bailey, after all the perils they had shared around half the world. Complete silence had descended on the manor compound, as everyone watched the dramatic tableau with bated breath, expecting the fatal coup de grace at any second.
 

Then there was a hoarse cry from where the family and servants were standing, incongruously delivered in a broad Irish accent.
 

'For the love of God and in the name of Jesus and the Holy Virgin, have mercy, Ralph Peverel!'
 

Father Patrick, his face flushed from both emotion and his early morning drinking, stumbled out towards the vanquished and the victor, waving the cross from his altar unsteadily above his head.
 

'Gain God's indulgence by showing compassion and mercy! Think of your immortal soul and gain credit in heaven!'
 

Ralph, who now had the point of his sword at John de Wolfe's throat, looked up at the flabby priest, irritated by his interference.
 

'Keep out of this, you drunken old fool!' he snarled. But the cleric, whether from bravery or befuddlement, continued to totter across the arena, to wave his cross almost under Ralph's nose.
 

'You have won the fight and made your point - what good can it do you to kill a king's officer and bring great trouble upon you and your family? Will that bring you success in your lawsuit? To say nothing of incurring God's displeasure.'
 

Ralph stared at the' dishevelled priest, then down at the man on the ground, now clutching his leg and groaning with the pain of cramped and knotted muscles. With an abrupt change of mood, he gave de Wolfe a heavy kick in the ribs, then turned and walked away without a word. A ragged cheer, went up from some of the crowd, but whether this was to applaud Ralph's success or in thanks for the coroner's survival, it was impossible to tell. As Gwyn, Morin and de Furnellis hurried to help John to his feet, the spectacle broke up as quickly as it had formed. At this abrupt anti-climax, the villagers melted away, the servants went about their business and the family vanished into the manor house.
 

'It was your leg that let you down, Crowner,' said Gwyn solicitously, his voice quavering with suppressed relief as they helped John hobble across to the stairs to the hall and sit on the lowest step.
 

De Wolfe shook his head wearily, slumped forward with his arms on his knees. 'No, Gwyn, not just my leg, I was an old fool for thinking that I could overcome a younger man on foot. Given a horse, things might have been different.'
 

The sheriff consoled him as he pulled off John's helmet and began unlacing his mailed hood. 'You did well, old friend! But you should leave it another year before you try it again, to let your leg heal properly,'
 

John gave a cynical laugh. 'In another year, I will be fit only to sit by my fireside with a shawl around my shoulders, I should be grateful to Ralph Peverel, not only for sparing my life, but for showing me that my fighting days are over.'
 

He felt humiliated, old and useless, and all the reassurances of his friends around him did little to lift his mood. After a few minutes, the pain in his leg subsided enough for him to stand up, allowing Gwyn and the others to help him off with his hauberk.
 

'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.