‘What’s to be done, Father? Surely you believe me now that I had no part in getting Adele with child.’
The big warrior-like man asserted sadly. ‘I cannot doubt your word, Hugh. But two things must be worked out. Who was the father? And who killed her by clumsy interference?’
Hugh nodded grimly. ‘We must know that – and soon! I made no jest when I said that I would have both their lives.’
Lord Ferrars laid a restraining hand on his son’s broad shoulder. ‘You must be careful, Hugh. We Ferrars have great power in this part of England but we mustn’t assume we can ride roughshod over everyone. If we can find the miscreants, it may be better to let the law deal with them. For every high-handed act we make that needs a favour from the law officers, we increase our indebtedness to them. I wish to stay well in credit when it comes to taking favours in this county.’
Hugh scowled. ‘But the law can never touch a man for making a woman pregnant. We would all be at the gallows or in the stocks if that were so!’
‘That is true,’ his father said, slowly, ‘but there are other ways of taking revenge without putting yourself in peril.’
Hugh jumped up and, like the young apothecary on the other side of the city, paced up and down. He had already had a fair amount to drink that evening, and now stopped at his table to swallow the better part of half a pint of mead. His bristly fair hair and short neck seemed to suit his pugnacious nature. ‘Father, my honour is in tatters! I was to be married at Easter to a handsome woman of an acceptable family. Now I am not only deprived of a bride but will soon be the laughing-stock of half England for being cuckolded before I even reached the altar.’ He slammed his thigh with a sword-hardened hand. ‘Somehow I have to get satisfaction for this double insult. I need to kill someone!’
His father’s reply was interrupted by a knocking at the street door. Hugh’s squire, who lay on a pallet in the vestibule, comforted by a gallon jar of ale, got up to open it and ushered in Reginald de Courcy, swathed in a thick serge cloak peppered with snowflakes.
Their parting that afternoon at St Nicholas’s had been anything but amicable and Guy Ferrars and his son looked coldly at their visitor. However, an unexpected olive branch was waved in their faces. ‘I come to apologise for my behaviour today,’ said de Courcy, in a voice quivering with emotion. ‘I was overcome with shock and grief. I think we all may have uttered unfortunate words in the heat of the moment and I, for my part, regret them.’
Guy Ferrars, Norman chivalry soaked into his very bones, could do nothing but gracefully accept the apology. ‘We are joined by a common tragedy, de Courcy. Our anger should be directed at whatever villains are responsible, not at each other.’
Reginald bowed his head in agreement. ‘That is exactly what my good wife, Eva, told me. She is mortified beyond description by the loss of Adele and I doubt she will ever fully recover. Even the support of our other daughters fails to soften this mortal blow against our family.’
Now that the breach had been healed, each party seemed to vie with the other to be the most magnanimous. De Courcy was divested of his cloak, seated by the fire and pressed to take some wine. They commiserated with each other for a few moments, but the practicalities of what could be done soon surfaced.
‘We have a sheriff and a coroner to keep the peace, yet they seem powerless to do anything useful,’ complained Hugh, but de Courcy was not ready to blame them yet.
‘It has been little more than half a day since they were involved. I doubt we can expect much progress in that time.’
Lord Ferrars was not so charitable. ‘They have done exactly nothing, as far as I can see. Probably each dozing by their firesides at this moment.’
‘We should take the law into our own hands, as our forebears did,’ grated Hugh, his temper rising again. ‘Can we not discover who might have violated Adele for a start? That would be one fellow to slay, at least!’
De Courcy said, cautiously, ‘The prime villain is he – or she – who caused her death. But it may well be that the man who got her with child was the instigator of the abortion and is more guilty than whoever did the act itself, perhaps some poor drab of a wife in a back lane.
Guy Ferrars turned this over in his mind. ‘Surely there are voices in the town who would tell us who indulges in procuring these miscarriages? I would pay a reward of twenty marks for such news, if it led to the name of the killer.’
‘And I would double that, willingly,’ said Reginald enthusiastically. The prospect of doing something useful lifted their spirits a little.
‘Is there no gossip in the city about it?’ demanded Guy Ferrars. ‘With less than five thousand souls within the walls, it is usual for everyone to know his neighbour’s business.’
De Courcy took a sip of wine and said, thoughtfully, ‘The only gossip I hear is about the ravishment of that poor girl of Henry Rifford’s. Tongues are wagging that our master silversmith is a possible candidate for that.’
‘Why should that be?’ enquired Guy Ferrars. ‘I thought he was a staunch burgess, a merchant guild-master.’
‘So he is, but he has a bad reputation as a seducer and it was to his shop that the girl went shortly before she was defiled.’
Hugh Ferrars, who had taken again to his restless prowling with a mug of wine in his hand, stopped suddenly. ‘Silversmith? Which silversmith might that be?’
De Courcy looked up at the younger man. ‘We only have three in Exeter, and one alone produces first-quality work.’
Hugh rushed on impatiently, ‘I’m not a city man, I prefer our country estates. What’s his name?’
‘Godfrey Fitzosbern, in Martin’s Lane.’
There was a bang as Hugh slammed down his mug on the oaken table. ‘Fitzosbern! That’s the name! Adele was dealing with him over several months. She wanted a whole set of trinkets matched in silver filigree for her nuptial costume – headband, earrings, gorget, bracket and rings!’
Adele’s father looked shocked. ‘Of course! I was paying for them, I should have remembered. The whole set was delivered and is locked away in my treasure chest at Shillingford.’
Lord Ferrars stood up, his towering height and wide bulk seeming to fill the small room. ‘What are you saying, Hugh? What has silversmithing to do with this?’
Hugh beat a fist on the table, making his mead cup jangle. ‘The same man, this Fitzosbern! He is suspected of the rape of that girl, who visited his shop the night of her shame. And Adele must have gone to that same shop a dozen times, choosing and fitting those wedding baubles.’
There was a silence as pregnant as the subject of their concern had been. ‘But it was many months ago,’ objected de Courcy.
‘And she was at least four months gone with child, according to the nun from Polsloe,’ retorted Hugh.
‘Don’t let us go too fast. Probably half the rich ladies in Devon have been to silversmiths for their jewellery. Just visiting a merchant doesn’t make him a rapist and a fornicator.’
But Hugh would not be swayed. He had the bit between his teeth and any target for attack was better than none. ‘It is a strange coincidence, that the man whom gossip marks out for a rape is the same whom Adele attended many times.’
The older men were far more cautious, but they were by no means dismissive of the possibility. ‘He should be put to some questions,’ said de Courcy.
‘Questions? He should be put to the Ordeal, if not to the sword!’ shouted Hugh, as hot-heated as ever. His big head swung from side to side on his thick neck, as if he was seeking some target within the dim corners of the room. In his state of chronic anger, he was desperate for something to hit.
Reginald de Courcy made an unconvincing plea for moderation. ‘Come now, we are all romancing, surely? A wild rumour, born of idle gossip about the portreeve’s daughter, born out of a man’s poor reputation with women. Can we jump to an even wilder surmise that he must also be a murderer?’