Martha had John de Alençon on her left, the archdeacon being a considerate and intelligent companion, for all his priestly asceticism. Beyond him was Henry de Furnellis, the new sheriff, not a great purveyor of conversation, but an amiable enough fellow on social occasions.
De Wolfe, last but one on the table, had the warden of the guild of tanners on the end next to him, but thankfully he was too devoted to eating and drinking to spend time boring John about the problems of the leather industry. He owned the largest tannery in the city, so was not himself a worker, but he still gave off the distinctive odour of his profession, contributed to by the pits of dog droppings that were used to deflesh the cow hides.
As the meal progressed and the autumn evening faded towards twilight outside, candles and tapers were lit around the room. The level of noise increased steadily as the wine, ale and cider flowed from the casks and wineskins stacked behind the top table. Hugo de Relaga and Guy Ferrars made thankfully short speeches of welcome and commendation for all who had worked hard to make the fair and tournament a success. Wisely, they did this early in the meal, before things got too rowdy and when there was still a chance of some of their audience bothering to listen.
The early courses had been devoured and much of the debris cleared away, the capons, geese, swans, ducks, mutton, fish and part-eaten trenchers all having been reduced to scraps, which were taken out to the street, where a small crowd of beggars were waiting expectantly to scrabble for the leftovers, chasing away the mangy dogs that had the same idea in mind. Now the sweets and puddings were served, together with fruit — mainly apples, pears and some more exotic imports from France, such as figs and oranges. A trio of musicians attempted to entertain the diners, but though they persisted valiantly, they could hardly be heard over the hubbub, and those who could hear them took little notice. The festivities had reached the stage where a few men were staggering out to be sick in the central gutter of High Street, and several more had fallen down senseless with drink, little notice being taken of them by anyone, except their indignant wives.
John's tanner eventually went to sleep across the table, his head on his arms as he snored. The coroner, who had eaten well himself, had little to do except study the crowd below, as Matilda was deep in conversation with his friend the archdeacon, no doubt discussing Church matters, which fascinated his wife even more than the social hierarchy of Devonshire.
As his eyes roved around, he picked out many of the contestants from Bull Mead upon whom he had adjudicated that day. The Frenchman, Reginald de Charterai, was just below him, near the top of the central spur table, talking animatedly with a fat merchant who had a thriving trade in woollen cloth, exporting it to Flanders and Cologne. De Wolfe's observations had long ago confirmed that his brother-in-law, the former sheriff, was not present. Although Richard de Revelle had a thick skin, John thought it unlikely that he would show himself at public functions in Exeter for some time yet, until the immediate memory of his disgrace began to fade.
But as he looked around, he was surprised to see another face, someone who, unlike de Revelle, seemed sufficiently immune to recent scandal to present himself at the feast. At the farther end of the right-hand line of trestles, his back to the aisle where de Charterai sat, was Hugo Peverel, alongside a younger man whose strong facial resemblance suggested that he was one of his brothers, presumably the same one who had had the successful bout this afternoon, though then the helmet and chain mail around the face had made identification difficult. John remembered that the deceased William Peverel had four sons, but he could not recall their names. Like many of his neighbours along the table, Peverel was well advanced in his cups, but he seemed in no danger of either passing out, retching or sleeping. In fact, the reverse seemed true, as he was loudly declaiming about something and banging a fist on the table as he ranted, though over the general clamour in the hall, de Wolfe Could hear nothing of what he was saying.
A few moments later, the observant coroner saw that the French knight had risen from his seat and was pushing his way between the rows of revellers to reach the front of the hall, presumably on his way to relieve himself either in the street or the yard behind. As he came level with Hugo's broad back, the coroner fancied that he deliberately turned his head away to avoid any chance of eye contact, but fate was against him. Just as he was passing, a man seated at his own row of tables decided to lurch to his feet, his shoulder jostling Reginald and making him stumble against Hugo Peverel. It was a trivial incident which in any other circumstances would have gone unnoticed, but it distracted Hugo from his harangue to his cronies and he glanced back truculently. When he saw who was standing there, he gave a roar of anger and leapt unsteadily to his feet, knocking over his stool with a crash.
'Haven't you already caused me enough trouble today, you bloody foreigner!' he yelled, giving de Charterai an open-handed shove in the chest which sent him staggering back in the confined space between the tables. In spite of the noise in the hall, there was an immediate hush around the two men, which rapidly spread like the ripples around a stone thrown into a pond.
The Frenchman stared stonily at his former opponent and made to pass on without responding, but the belligerent Hugo moved into the narrow aisle to prevent him.
'Lost your tongue, foreigner? Or are you too high and mighty to speak to the likes of me?' he rasped, in a voice that carried around the now expectant hall.
De Wolfe was already out of his own seat and squeezing down the congested space between the end table and the wall, heading for what he knew was going to be a trouble spot. As he did so, Reginald lifted a hand against Hugo's shoulder to push him out of the way.
'I seek no trouble with you, Peverel! Our business was completed on the tourney field today.' For answer, the Devon man gave his enemy another push, this time so hard that de Charterai staggered back and fell across the very man whose unintended action had triggered the crisis. Hugo drew back his fist to punch the Frenchman while he was still off balance, but two of his companions, one of them his brother, were still sober enough to restrain him, though they failed to still his tongue.
'By God's bowels, it was far from completed!' he yelled thickly. 'If those yellow-bellied judges hadn't interfered, we could have finished it properly — and I'd have bloody well won and saved my horse and armour, damn you!'
By now de Wolfe had reached the far end of the table and was coming around into the aisle, joined by Peter de Cunitone, the other adjudicator, who was hurrying along with a pair of stewards. Guy Ferrars and several other members of the tournament council were struggling to push through from the top table, but John was nearest to the rapidly developing altercation.
De Charterai was doing his best to avoid inflaming the situation, and when he found his feet again, he took a pace backward, his long, aristocratic face white with suppressed anger.
'You are a disgrace to your knighthood, Peverel!' he hissed, his voice vibrant with emotion. 'What you did today was against all the chivalry of the tournament. You have dishonoured yourself — and well you know it!'
'Ah, shut your ugly mouth, you damned French spy!' roared Hugo, his heavy, reddened features stuck forward pugnaciously as he stood swaying slightly on his feet. 'You're a craven coward as well as being a lousy fighter. I knew you in Palestine — your lot buggered off home early with that chicken-hearted simpleton you call your king and left us to do the fighting without you!'