Read Online Figure of Hate by Bernard Knight - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernard Knight
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clash of arms the next day. One of them, a young man with a wispy blond beard, recognised the coroner and was enthusiastic about his chances of winning.
'This means much to me, Sir John,' he declared, 'I am but the third son of the lord of a small manor near Okehampton. I have little chance of support from my father and even less of inheriting anything from him.
If I can vanquish one or two men tomorrow, the value of their horses and armour will provide me with funds enough to travel to France and join the King's campaigns, with the glorious prospect of loot and ransom before me!'
De Wolfe smiled at the lad's fervent hopes - he recognised himself in the young man, exactly as he had been twenty years earlier when he rode off. to Ireland with Gwyn at his side, determined to make his fortune.
It had worked for him and he wished the youngster the same luck - though luck was not enough, as he would need much skill with lance and sword, as well as the fortitude to bear rough living, discomfort, hunger and pain.
Satisfied with his survey of the tourney field, John walked across it to Magdalen Street, here a well-worn strip of stony earth, rutted by the iron-girt wheels of generations of ox-carts. It now formed the boundary of the fairground and, whistling again to Brutus to come to heel, he went straight across and strode between the stalls, their canopies flapping in the cold breeze. He shouldered his way through the ambling throng, a head taller than most of them, his distinctive black-clad figure drawing glances from many eyes, both curious and covertly wary. As he ploughed along, he was deaf to the cries of the tradesmen vainly trying to sell him bolts of brown serge, oranges from France, knives from the Rhine and medicines claiming to cure every ailment from earache to cow-pox. There were booths festooned with cat-skins, the fur being known as 'poor man's ermine', men with pincers offering to pull aching teeth and others tempting customers with the aroma of roasting chestnuts. Pedlars paraded up and down with-trays slung from their necks, offering ribbons, needles, thread and sweetmeats. When they saw stewards approaching, they melted away between the booths to reappear in the next lane, as few had hawkers' licences. These stewards were mostly clerks, each with a more lowly servant to accompany them.
They wore a red cloth tied around their right arm as their badge of office and were mainly responsible for checking the permits of the traders, to make sure that they had paid their dues. As few of the stall-holders could read, when they handed over their fees each was issued with a wooden tally with a number carved into it. This was displayed to the steward, who checked the number against a parchment list. Because literacy was at a premium, these stewards had to be drawn mainly from the clerks to the courts and from the burgesses' assistants. Though by far the largest group of literates were the clerics of the Church, all but the lesser orders of secular clerks were forbidden to become involved in this work of Mammon.
All the blandishments of the traders were wasted on John de Wolfe, as there was nothing he wanted to buy. He left all the purchasing for his household to Mary, as Matilda was indifferent to shopping for anything but her own finery. He loped along the middle lane until, just as the cathedral bells rang out the summons to Prime, he reached the centre of the fair, where the stage was set up. Two familiar figures were waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform, one large, the other small. Gwyn and Thomas were here by prior arrangement and had already carried out part of the task he had set them the previous day.
'Any luck so far?' demanded their master, after a brusque greeting.
Thomas shook his head, the cold morning air causing a dewdrop to fly from the tip of his sharp nose.
'We've been along both sides of the row nearest the city wall and questioned every stall-holder, but they know nothing
'This means much to me, Sir John,' he declared, 'I am but the third son of the lord of a small manor near Okehampton. I have little chance of support from my father and even less of inheriting anything from him.
If I can vanquish one or two men tomorrow, the value of their horses and armour will provide me with funds enough to travel to France and join the King's campaigns, with the glorious prospect of loot and ransom before me!'
De Wolfe smiled at the lad's fervent hopes - he recognised himself in the young man, exactly as he had been twenty years earlier when he rode off. to Ireland with Gwyn at his side, determined to make his fortune.
It had worked for him and he wished the youngster the same luck - though luck was not enough, as he would need much skill with lance and sword, as well as the fortitude to bear rough living, discomfort, hunger and pain.
Satisfied with his survey of the tourney field, John walked across it to Magdalen Street, here a well-worn strip of stony earth, rutted by the iron-girt wheels of generations of ox-carts. It now formed the boundary of the fairground and, whistling again to Brutus to come to heel, he went straight across and strode between the stalls, their canopies flapping in the cold breeze. He shouldered his way through the ambling throng, a head taller than most of them, his distinctive black-clad figure drawing glances from many eyes, both curious and covertly wary. As he ploughed along, he was deaf to the cries of the tradesmen vainly trying to sell him bolts of brown serge, oranges from France, knives from the Rhine and medicines claiming to cure every ailment from earache to cow-pox. There were booths festooned with cat-skins, the fur being known as 'poor man's ermine', men with pincers offering to pull aching teeth and others tempting customers with the aroma of roasting chestnuts. Pedlars paraded up and down with-trays slung from their necks, offering ribbons, needles, thread and sweetmeats. When they saw stewards approaching, they melted away between the booths to reappear in the next lane, as few had hawkers' licences. These stewards were mostly clerks, each with a more lowly servant to accompany them.
They wore a red cloth tied around their right arm as their badge of office and were mainly responsible for checking the permits of the traders, to make sure that they had paid their dues. As few of the stall-holders could read, when they handed over their fees each was issued with a wooden tally with a number carved into it. This was displayed to the steward, who checked the number against a parchment list. Because literacy was at a premium, these stewards had to be drawn mainly from the clerks to the courts and from the burgesses' assistants. Though by far the largest group of literates were the clerics of the Church, all but the lesser orders of secular clerks were forbidden to become involved in this work of Mammon.
All the blandishments of the traders were wasted on John de Wolfe, as there was nothing he wanted to buy. He left all the purchasing for his household to Mary, as Matilda was indifferent to shopping for anything but her own finery. He loped along the middle lane until, just as the cathedral bells rang out the summons to Prime, he reached the centre of the fair, where the stage was set up. Two familiar figures were waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the platform, one large, the other small. Gwyn and Thomas were here by prior arrangement and had already carried out part of the task he had set them the previous day.
'Any luck so far?' demanded their master, after a brusque greeting.
Thomas shook his head, the cold morning air causing a dewdrop to fly from the tip of his sharp nose.
'We've been along both sides of the row nearest the city wall and questioned every stall-holder, but they know nothing
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