'But this is a large, fertile manor,' said de Wolfel 'It should be rich with all that land under the plough and those many carucates of pasture for cattle and sheep.' The bailiff shrugged. 'I do my best, Crowner. Sir Odo is keen on making the best of the land, but he never gets support from the others. They never restock enough, neither beast nor seed — and they've sold off too much to repay their debts. Bad management, that's what's ruining this manor.'
Walter Hog's recriminations were cut short by a call from one of the villeins who acted as sexton. He was tapping something solid with the end of his spade, as his companion began scraping earth sideways.
'We're down to the box, Bailiff. Do you want 'er taken out or shall we open 'er where she lies?' he called, in the thick local dialect.
Walter looked enquiringly at the coroner, who shook his head.
'The corpse will be needed only for an hour or two.
If you can get the lid off easily, just take the body out and carry it on that bier up to the courthouse.' The coffin was a plain box made in haste from elm planks, and the top gave way without trouble when strips of iron provided by the smith were levered into the joints. John and Gwyn leaned over the grave as it was removed and watched with interest as the diggers peeled back the linen wrappings that shrouded the cadaver. Hugo Peverel appeared much the same as when they had seen him on Monday, still dressed in the tunic in which he had died. When a kerchief was lifted from his face, it was seen to be somewhat swollen and reddened, but otherwise in fair condition.
'Damned liars, saying that he had to be buried because he was going off!' muttered Gwyn. 'There's days of use left in him yet!'
They left the bailiff to see that the corpse was removed and carried up to the barn for the inquest, while they sought some sustenance after their ride from Exeter. John could have returned to the hall, where no doubt his rank would have ensured that he would have been fed, albeit grudgingly, by the hostile family.
But he chose to avoid them and, with his two assistants, made for the alehouse on the green. As they passed the open space, Gwyn jerked his head towards the manorial gallows, two" high posts supporting a crossbar, which, together with a pillory, stood threateningly alongside the area where the village lads played at football and the men practised their archery. It was empty today, but a rope noose swayed ominously in the breeze.
'That's where the thatcher's son came to his end,' he said. 'I wonder if his father or brothers had enough guts to stick Hugo the other night?'
De Wolfe grunted and shrugged his shoulders. 'God knows! It could equally have been that reeve or his son-in-law, inflamed at Peverel bedding the daughter on her wedding night.'
The tavern was empty, as all the men were either in the fields or being rounded up for jury service, and the three officials had the room to themselves. The alewife had a blackened pot hanging from a tripod over the fire-pit and from it she ladled a thin broth into wooden bowls. Silently, she set these on the window ledge for them, together with a fresh loaf torn into pieces. From a leather bucket of dirty water set by the ale casks, she produced some horn spoons and rubbed them dry with the hem of her grubby apron. The stew tasted better than it looked, and even the ale she offered seemed less sour than on Monday.
'If I come here too often, I might even get to like the bloody stufft' grumbled Gwyn, as he tucked in.
The more fastidious Thomas ignored the drink, but found that the long ride had given him an appetite, so that he ate his broth with something approaching relish.
They discussed the relative merits of each candidate for the killing, but came to no conclusions. It seemed that virtually anyone in the village could have stabbed Hugo in the back, as the opportunity to creep up on him asleep on a dark night was universal — and motives were thick on the ground. When they had exhausted the possibilities, none of which John felt was likely to be confirmed at the inquest, Gwyn brought up the matter of the silversmith, murdered the previous week.
'What are you going to do about this Robert Longus, the armourer who refused to come to your inquest in the city?'
'Rest assured, I've not forgotten him! Before we leave, I'll attach him by sureties to attend a resumed inquest next week. If he doesn't show up, then I'll get him summoned to the Shire Court. Four failures to appear there and he'll be outlawed.'
'What about the other man that was said to have been with him when they robbed and killed the silversmith?' asked Thomas. 'If the armourer is from this manor, then so perhaps is the other?'
De Wolfe stared through the window opening as he finished his ale, thinking about this other problem.
'Unfortunately, that man Terrus who survived the assault says he has no recollection of the face of the other attacker, so there would be no point in getting him all the way up here from Totnes to try to pick him out. '
'I'll keep a close eye on the bastard today, to see if he has any particular crony in the manor,' offered Gwyn.
'With the lately deceased Hugo giving him such a firm alibi, we've only got the word of Terrus against theirs,' said John regretfully. 'I wonder if Ralph Peverel will back up the story too?'
'He will, Crowner,' said Thomas gloomily. 'If only to spite you. These people stick together like glue.'
'Especially an armourer,' added Gwyn. 'There's a special bond between a tourney fighter and the fellow who tends to his weapons and accoutrements, for the knight's life may depend upon him.'
The Cornishman Said this with genuine feeling, as he had long been in that position himself. As de Wolfe's virtual squire, as well as friend and companion for twenty years, he was more like John's brother than servant — though he never took advantage by overfamiliarity.
Through the window opening, the coroner noticed an increasing drift of people from the lower end of the village, all making their way towards the manor-house stockade. As well as the men and boys needed for the jury, women and children trudged past, the latter intent on congregating outside the barn to eavesdrop on the proceedings. Eventually, John decided it was time to move and, giving the ale-wife a penny for their food and drink, led his team out into the rutted road and walked up to the manor.
The barn was large and bare, with one chair and some benches at one end for the lord, his steward and other manor officers. The freemen and villeins spread themselves around the walls in their accustomed places, as they were well used to attending the compulsory manor leets.
When the coroner walked in, he found the Peverel brothers, including Odo, already seated. Their steward and bailiff, together with the priest, stood behind them.
Though strictly speaking they should all have been in the body of the court with the jurors, John decided not to make an issue of it, though he took exception to Ralph lounging in the one and only chair. He strode across and stood in front of the putative manor-lord.
'I rather think it is the coroner who presides at an inquest, sir,' he said, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Recognising that he was pushing his luck a little too far, Ralph eased himself from the chair and sardonically waved de Wolfe into it, then sat down on a nearby bench next to Roger Viel, the steward. At this point, de Wolfe was irritated to see the dapper figure of Richard de Revelle enter and sit next to Odo, who seemed quite recovered from his falling fit.
John motioned to Gwyn to boom out the opening call for the proceedings, just as the sexton and another man carried in the bier with the shrouded form of the deceased lord. They set it down before the coroner, between him and the three score men who formed the jury.