The Awful Secret

Chapter Thirteen In which Crowner John plays a trick

The services of Terce, Sext, Nones and High Mass took place in the choir of the cathedral from about the ninth hour of the morning. The first three were short devotions, mainly sung psalms. Once the main mass of the day was over, the clergy, who had already been at Prime and then the Chapter meeting since about the seventh hour, were usually more than ready for their dinner at about the eleventh.

But this Sunday morning, even empty stomachs were not enough to keep many of the canons, vicars, secondaries and choristers away from the West Front, attracted by the rumours that had been circulating since the previous day. The prospect of a break from the tedium of the endless round of services, the same faces and the same surroundings of the episcopal city-within-a-city, drew a considerable crowd into the Close and the number of clerics was swollen by scores of citizens.

The mood was one of curiosity rather than a desire for enlightenment, though a few of the older people, both lay and clergy, were either indignant or incensed that someone might have the effrontery to try to preach heresy from the cathedral steps.

As the black-robed clerics streamed out of the door from the nave into the weak sunshine – for it had stopped raining at last – they slowed down into a sluggish pool of humanity surrounding the broad West Front of the huge building. Some, whose desire for food was greater than for dramatic diversion, walked slowly towards their lodgings, determined that if nothing exciting occurred before they reached the edge of the Close they would go home. But many others milled about the foot of the steps, gossiping and staring around, eager to get a glimpse of the renegade who had promised to reveal some awful secret.

Amongst this fluid throng were a number of solid rocks, in the shape of sentinels determined to prevent any such sabotage of the Faith. The three Templars and their sergeants were spaced out across the width of the building, within easy reach of the steps. In the centre, Abbot Cosimo stood, closely flanked by his silent henchmen who stared around them with suspicious hostility. Further back, in an arc at the edge of the open space before the West Front, stood the sheriff, with Ralph Morin, the castle constable and half a dozen men-at-arms under Sergeant Gabriel.

Near the small wicket-gate set in the closed centre door to the nave, Archdeacon John de Alençon stood with the coroner, though for once neither of de Wolfe’s assistants was with him.

Every moment or two, a ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd, as someone saw, or fancied he saw, a stranger appear in the Close. Several times, this rolling murmur came then faded, and each time there was a tensing of muscles and shifting of feet amongst the guardians of truth.

‘Did you see this man de Blanchefort last night to warn him off?’ asked the archdeacon, as another false alarm died down.

‘I’ve not set eyes on him, apart from that one meeting,’ said de Wolfe, truthfully as he had used Gwyn as an intermediary. ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll stay well clear of this ambush, unless he wants to risk the same fate as his friend.’

Suddenly there was a stir at the further end of the front of the cathedral, towards the corner facing Canon’s Row. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a surge in the murmur and chatter sent several of Gabriel’s men pushing forward through the crowd. But they were outpaced by one of the servants of the Italian priest and also the sergeant of Brian de Falaise, closely followed by the Templar knight himself. They converged on someone who had walked around the corner of the building from the north side, keeping close to the wall until he reached the edge of the half-dozen long steps that stretched below the three big doors. Once the movement began, it was almost alive in its self-generation and a wave of people surged forward, the sentinels pushing and thrashing to get to the front.

The archdeacon stretched his thin neck to see better and began to move forward too, but John de Wolfe stayed where he was, a faint smile on his saturnine face. The first to press up to the new arrival was Cosimo’s familiar, who seized him and swung him around. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled well down over his head and a long grey cloak with a hood, which lay in concealing folds around his neck and face. He was a big man, tall and wide within the folds of his mantle.

De Falaise was the next to reach him and, with a cry of triumph, grabbed him by the arm. Simultaneously, the sheriff and Cosimo pressed through to form a tight circle in the midst of the confused throng of clerics and townsfolk.

‘They seem to have got him, so pray God he cannot begin his devilish oratory!’ cried the archdeacon, but the coroner remained impassive, assured that there would be no attempt at any seditious speech. He watched as the man pulled away angrily from the grip of several who were now pawing at him, amid shouts of ‘Heretic!’ and ‘Anti-Christ!’

A second later, his hat was pulled off and his cloak ripped open, which provoked a great roar from the man. ‘Get off me, damn you! Can’t a fellow have a Sunday morning walk without being assaulted?’ The bright red hair, wild as a hayrick in a gale, and the luxuriant moustache revealed the presumed heretic as Gwyn of Polruan, doing his best not to laugh at the chagrin of his would-be capturers.

‘Who the hell are you?’ roared de Falaise, who had never seen the coroner’s officer before. Ralph Morin and Gabriel enlightened him, themselves suppressing grins. Although they had had no foreknowledge of Gwyn’s appearance, they knew instantly who had instigated the jest. The sheriff also knew, but he was by no means amused. ‘You great oaf! What do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped, confronting the Cornishman.

De Wolfe felt it was time he gave his officer some support and pushed his way to his side. ‘Ah, there you are, Gwyn,’ he said loudly. ‘You’re late, as usual.’

Abbot Cosimo and Roland de Ver demanded to know what was going on, as both realised that this was not Bernardus de Blanchefort.

‘This fellow has been making fools of us!’ blustered Richard de Revelle.

The coroner fixed him with a steely eye. ‘Since when is it forbidden for a citizen to walk peacefully in the cathedral Close, Sheriff?’

Richard de Revelle glared at his brother-in-law. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, John. When did your lout of a man ever wear a pilgrim’s hat and a grey cloak? Tattered leather and a sack around his head is his usual attire.’

‘Then we should be pleased that his tastes are improving, Richard,’ countered John sarcastically.

The crowd sensed that the fun was over and most realised that no heretic was likely to appear now. But Cosimo remained suspicious and looked around in every direction, with jerky movements of his head. ‘Can we be sure that this is not some trick, some diversion to allow de Blanchefort to slip past us?’ he hissed to Roland de Ver. He prodded his two retainers hard in their ribs to send them hurrying to each end of the West Front to stare about for any other stranger, who failed conspicuously to appear.

‘Come on, Gwyn, we have work to do,’ barked de Wolfe, with a wink at Ralph Morin. They walked away, leaving the three Templars glowering suspiciously after them and an exasperated sheriff protesting again to the archdeacon, who now could hardly conceal a smile of relief that no challenge to his beloved Church had been made.

Outside his house in Martin’s Lane, de Wolfe retrieved his hat and cloak from Gwyn and asked him about Thomas de Peyne. ‘Did they get away as we arranged?’

Gwyn nodded, still pleased with his role in the little play-acting they had devised. ‘Soon after dawn he collected the Templar from the Saracen and rode with him out of the North Gate. Even at that little dwarf’s riding pace, they should be past Crediton by now.’

‘Where are we to meet them on Tuesday?’

Gwyn dragged thoughtfully at one end of his moustache.

‘It’s difficult if we are with all those others. I told Thomas to hide de Blanchefort away somewhere well outside Bideford, then to come and meet us at the bridge at noon. We should be there by then.’

After Gwyn had gone about his business, de Wolfe entered his house where he had a silent meal with Matilda. She enquired shortly as to whether the heretic had appeared and he told her equally shortly that there had been no sign of Bernardus de Blanchefort. He made no mention of Gwyn’s mischievous masquerade, not wanting to give his wife another opportunity to castigate him.

Simon tottered in with a jug of wine, which Matilda seemed to relish far more than the salted herrings, turnip and cabbage that Mary provided from the kitchen. De Wolfe watched covertly as his wife drank a mug of the red Poitou and immediately refilled it. Since the shame of her brother’s involvement in the abortive rebellion in the New Year, he had noticed that Matilda sought solace not only from her religious devotions but also from the wine flask.

Following the miserable meal, she called for Lucille, who helped her up to the solar to lie on her bed until it was time for her next pilgrimage to St Olave’s.

John took the opportunity to go down to Idle Lane, where he also went to bed – in Nesta’s little room on the upper floor of the Bush. They made love energetically and repeatedly until they lay side by side in delicious exhaustion, his arm about her shoulders. As the thumping of his heartbeat subsided almost to normal, he stared up lazily at the rough roof beams, his eyes tracing the twisted hazel withies that supported the thick straw thatch above them. He told her about the scene in the cathedral Close that morning and Nesta wanted to know why he gone out of his way to help de Blanchefort.

‘Like de Ridefort, he was both a Crusader and a Templar, for whom I have always had admiration for their bravery and fighting prowess,’ he explained.

‘You old soldiers always stick together, eh?’ she said, in a gently mocking tone. He pinched her bare belly with his free hand and she squirmed under the sheepskin that covered them. ‘Not only that, but I had made a promise to Gilbert to help them both get away – and as I feel partly responsible for his death, I had to keep my word.’

She turned her head impulsively to kiss his black-stubbled neck. ‘It was not you who killed him, John. Someone else wielded that club and spear. Do you have any idea yet who it may have been?’

His gaze dropped to the rough boards that partitioned off this corner of the loft. Though it was a crude chamber, he had enjoyed more pleasure within its walls than anywhere else on earth. He shook away the thought and answered her question. ‘It must be either one of the Templars or their squires – though I would prefer it to be this poisonous abbot or his men. Not that I have any chance of discovering who it was now,’ he added regretfully. ‘I had hoped to use Bernardus as a tethered goat to tempt the killer to try again, but it could never have worked in the middle of Exeter. I had to smuggle him out for his own safety.’

The landlady of the inn snuggled closer into his armpit, her copper hair flowing over his chest, wide green eyes looking up at the stern profile of his long face. ‘How do you intend getting him out of the country, then?’

‘Thomas has ridden on ahead with him and I will see if we can find a ship in Bideford or nearby that can take him to Wales or Ireland.’

‘What if he is seen by any of the others who are hunting him?’

‘I must try to keep them apart, but they have never seen him without the Templar profusion of whiskers, so hopefully he would not be recognised.’

‘Could you not have found him a passage more easily from the ports around here – Topsham or Brixham?’

Perhaps his mind was too relaxed by the pleasant sensation of wallowing in a warm bed alongside a naked woman, but in this unguarded moment he made a serious slip. ‘I had thought of it. Maybe Thorgils the Boatman in Dawlish would have taken him off, but he only sails back to France, which is the last place that Bernardus wants to be.’

He felt Nesta stiffen against him. Though at the time of his foolishly heroic battle on the tourney field in January, Nesta and Hilda, wife of Thorgils, had come together in common concern for his life, they still looked upon each other as rivals for his affection and his body. True, Nesta was fairly confident that she had priority in terms of being cherished by him, but she well knew that the willowy blonde could easily seduce him into a quick tumble whenever the opportunity presented, and she could not suppress the jealousy that welled up within her at the mention of Dawlish.

De Wolfe cursed his own insensitivity and pulled her to him, as if to squeeze her back into his body, but Nesta lay inert and distant. Perversely and against his will, the image of Hilda crept into his mind. He had not spoken to her since the day he had broken his leg and had not lain with her since just after Christ Mass, but now a picture of her supple body and beautiful face flooded unbidden into his mind’s eye. He had known her since she was a child and they had been sporadic lovers since she was fifteen, but as the daughter of one of his father’s manor-reeves, she could never have been his wife.

With a groan of frustration, he screwed up his eyes to blot out the vision, and rolled on his side and clutched Nesta in an almost violent spasm. He kissed her eyes, neck and mouth in a desperate attack and felt her suddenly melt against him, returning his kisses and pressing herself to him with an urgency that told him the present battle was won.

They were too satiated to make love again and remained hugged together without speaking for a long time, John revelling in the feel of her body touching his from lips to breast to belly to thigh. In an effort to banish the hovering image of Hilda, he forced himself to think of Matilda, and in the way that a mind wanders in that sleepy dreamland after love-making, he recalled the early days of their marriage, sixteen years before. It had been a loveless match engineered by his father, who saw the advantages for his son of an attachment to the wealthy de Revelle family. Matilda had never relished her nuptial obligations and their night-time relations had soon wilted, especially as de Wolfe spent ten months of the year away on some fighting campaign.

Since he had given up being a professional warrior a year or two before, their enforced cohabitation had not seen any revival of passion. His mind’s eye now saw her again at their midday meal, drinking red wine as if it was ale, and recalled with some shame that the last time they had attempted to make love had been when she was drunk many months ago. The episode was a dismal failure and ended in bitter recrimination from his wife and a resolve on his part never to repeat the fiasco.

Now that Nesta had recovered from her dark mood, her natural curiosity revived and she asked him about the Templars’ involvement with the mission to Lundy next day.

‘Their excuse is that they wish to test William de Marisco’s will in keeping their Order from his island,’ explained John. ‘But I suspect that they don’t trust me over de Blanchefort and wish to keep me in their sight.’

‘And they’re right, you crafty man!’ she teased. ‘But have you any real hope of making progress with this lord of Lundy?’

De Wolfe scowled at the roof. ‘Almost none, from what I hear of him. There’s no doubt that he runs a nest of pirates from his island fiefdom, but whether it was one of his ships that slew most of the crew of the vessel that was wrecked near Ilfracombe, I cannot tell.’

‘What made our dear sheriff agree to this expedition, then? He’s not usually one to put himself at risk.’

‘He has a reverence for the Templars, for some reason. I suspect he thinks that by ingratiating himself with them, he may advance his own ambitions. They are so powerful a force in this and every other land. Even King Richard is partial to them, so maybe de Revelle hopes that by showing them assistance, he can gain favour with the king after his fall from grace at the New Year.’

She slid a hand on to his stomach and stroked small circles with her fingers. ‘Why should you be involved in this, John? It sounds a hazardous mission and not one that involves a crowner’s interest.’

‘It does, you know. There was a wreck, which is my business, and there was a slain corpse there, as well as a good history of the killing of the rest of the crew. That alone makes it my concern.’

He pulled his arm from under Nesta as his fingers were becoming numb, and continued his lecture. ‘Although there’s been no time to inform the king’s justices and get a reply, any coroner can be sent a special commission from the Justiciar or the royal judges to become involved in almost any aspect of the law or administration. I’m sure that if the Curia Regis knew of a revival of piracy in the Severn Sea and that Lundy may be its nest, they would demand some action such as we propose tomorrow.’

Nesta’s voice was sleepy. ‘What’s this Curia Regis you talk about?’

‘The king’s court – the nobles about him who give him advice and counsel. Now that he’s in France, in practice the Chancellor and the Chief Justiciar run the country, but the major barons and the archbishops also have a say in what goes on.’

But Nesta had slipped into slumber, and before long, he had joined her, their heads together on the pillow.

The next morning, John de Wolfe recaptured some of the excitement of former days when he rode up to Rougemont and saw the preparations for their journey to the north of the county. He felt a surge of the anticipation of battle, when he rode Odin through the gateway to the inner ward and saw well over a score of armoured soldiers jostling with their mounts. The smell of many horses and the clatter of harness, shields and swords brought back nostalgic memories of a dozen campaigns.

He watched as Ralph Morin and Sergeant Gabriel harried their men-at-arms into a column. They were all in battle array, with chain-mail hauberks and round basin-like helmets with long nose-guards. Each man had a rectangular iron plate slung across his breast with leather thongs, to protect his heart from a lance thrust, and each had a long oval shield slung on his saddle-bow. As they were mounted for a long ride, they did not carry lances or pikes like foot-soldiers, but every man had either a heavy sword or a battle-axe.

Standing apart from the troops were the three Templar knights, not yet mounted but resplendent in their own armour, with long hauberks slit at front and back to sit astride their horses and polished metal-link aventails hanging from their helmet brims to protect their necks. Each had a huge sword hanging from a leather baldric, and over their armour they wore their white or black surcoats with the scarlet cross of the Order on the chest. Their sergeants waited attentively in a group behind them, holding the bridles of the beautiful palfreys. They were dressed in brown surcoats over similar armour, battle-axes or spiked maces hanging from their saddles.

In front of them strutted the sheriff, a groom holding his horse whilst he inspected the line of men-at-arms, to the ill-concealed irritation of Ralph Morin. De Revelle was kitted out in immaculate chain-mail, which, unlike that worn by de Wolfe and the Templars, was free of the scratches, dents and bent links of former combat. Over it he had his own white surcoat, emblazoned with a red griffin, which was repeated on his shield in the new fashion for displaying a family crest. The coroner walked his horse to the foot of the curtain wall of the inner ward, where Gwyn stood inconspicuously, holding the reins of his own big brown mare. Dressed in his usual thick jerkin of boiled leather, he had made a token gesture to possible fighting by donning a leather helmet with battered metal plates riveted around the crown and over his ears. He stared at the sheriff with scorn, as de Revelle fussed up and down the line of men-at-arms. ‘You’d think he was preparing to storm Jerusalem! I wonder if he knows which end of the sword to hold?’ he grunted scathingly.

The coroner, though no admirer of the sheriff, felt he should give him what little honour he deserved. ‘Come, man, he was in Ireland for a year or so at one time.’

‘Yes, in the company of Prince John. It would be hard to know which of them made the worst mess of it.’

It was true that, back in ’eighty-five, King Henry had given his younger son the responsibility of subduing Ireland, with catastrophic results due to the prince’s incompetence – it had been during this time that Richard de Revelle had become one of his sympathisers.

There was further flurry of activity in the bailey as Morin and the sheriff mounted their horses, the group of Templars following suit. Gwyn hauled his great body aboard his mare and pulled her round to come alongside his master. ‘This will be a slow journey with all the weight of armour on their horses,’ he grumbled. ‘They should have sent it ahead in carts or on sumpters.’

John agreed, but suspected that the sheriff wanted to make the best impression both on the citizens and burgesses of Exeter and on his Templar guests. Like Gwyn, the coroner had not worn chain-mail but also sported a leather cuirass with metal shoulder plates and had a round helmet hanging behind his saddle.

Playing the part of the great leader, the sheriff took his frisky horse to the head of the column, with the castle constable close behind. They began moving towards the gatehouse, when suddenly de Revelle held up his arm and came to a stop. Under the raised portcullis came three more riders and the coroner cursed when he saw the leader. ‘What in the name of Holy Mary is he doing here, Gwyn?’

The Cornishman glowered as Abbot Cosimo and his pair of familiars clattered across the cobbles of the entrance on to the softer ground of the bailey. De Wolfe tapped Odin with his heels and moved over to hear what was being said between the newcomers and the sheriff.

‘I decided that it might be interesting to visit the north of your lands,’ explained Cosimo, in his thin, high voice. ‘I have never been to England before and would see as much of it as I can whilst I am here. Also, not speaking English, it is more pleasant for me to remain with the Norman-French tongue for as long as possible.’

At this somewhat unconvincing excuse, Ralph Morin spoke up from behind the sheriff. ‘There may well be some fighting, if we meet up with pirates – or if the lord of Lundy opposes our will.’

The abbot’s thin lips rose slightly in a smile. ‘Never fear, sir, I shall keep well clear of any such adventures.’ As the papal envoy had previously made clear that he had the unlimited authority of the Vatican behind him for whatever purpose he chose, the sheriff bowed to the inevitable and courteously invited him to join their cavalcade. John knew full well that his brother-in-law was so thick with Bishop Marshal – another of the Prince’s men – that he would never say nay to any senior churchman. He also strongly suspected that, like the Templars, the Italian was more concerned with even the slightest possibility of his missing heretic turning up in the north than with any interest in the Devonshire scenery. He realised, too, from the suspicious glances that all these parties flashed at him, that they felt he himself still had some connection with de Blanchefort – especially since Gwyn’s antics outside the cathedral the previous day. He guessed that they still suspected he knew of the man’s whereabouts and might even have him hidden somewhere – which, of course, he did.

The column began moving again and the papal trio fitted themselves between the tail of the soldiers and the six Templars, who formed the rearguard until the coroner and his officer tagged themselves on the end. They all trotted out of the castle and down the high street, scattering children, dogs and the occasional beggar as they made their way out of the city. Most townsfolk stopped their work or marketing to look with curiosity at this band of armed men, as in those days of relative peace, it was uncommon to see so many soldiers and knights on the move within Exeter. In the early-morning light, they clattered under the arch of the North Gate and settled down to the forty-mile ride to Bideford.

Though a herald or king’s messenger could cover fifty or even sixty miles in an average day, using changes of horse, the usual distance for unburdened riders was about thirty, so it was about noon the next day when the posse reached Bideford, the little town on the banks of the river Torridge. They had spent the previous night at a manor near Great Torrington, the soldiers sleeping in two barns of a small manor belonging to the local lord, Walter FitzGamelin. As seasoned old campaigners, the Templars, with de Wolfe, Gwyn and Ralph Morin, were content to lie out in the hay with them, as did the abbot’s sinister attendants, but the Italian and Richard de Revelle enjoyed the rather reluctant hospitality of FitzGamelin in the hall of the manor-house. Sudden inflictions of visiting officials were never welcomed by manors and villages, especially when food for two score men and beasts had to be provided without recompense, but it was not nearly so bad as when a cavalcade of royalty or a major baron passed through, which might bankrupt a small community. Nevertheless the local manorial tenant had to provide hospitality without protest, even if with ill grace.

The same applied to Richard de Grenville at Bideford, but at least he knew in advance of their coming and of his further obligation to provide some of his own knights and men-at-arms. As with all honour holders, he held his lands from the king, either directly or through a baron, bishop or abbey, and as a condition of his grant, he was obliged to provide services and men in time of conflict or when otherwise needed.

As it happened, de Grenville was not particularly put out by the visitation. His little empire was quite affluent, with the dues from the port, the town markets and his several manors, so he could easily afford to assist the sheriff for a few days. Also he had little love for William de Marisco, who was one of his nearest neighbours, though separated by twenty miles of sea. His maritime customers had lost many ships in past years, and this was never good for trade. Although some had been taken undoubtedly by a whole range of pirates, from Turks to Welsh, he was convinced that Lundy had been responsible for a few and the hope that de Marisco might be brought to heel caused him to contribute willingly to the expedition.

When the party from Exeter arrived at the simple motte and bailey castle of Bideford, the troops were settled in some of the outhouses and sheds built against the inside of the stockade walls, whilst the knights and the abbot enjoyed the better accommodation in the hall. This was not the small keep on the mound at one end of the bailey, but a larger wooden building at its foot, where de Grenville and his family resided.

He was a pleasant, rather jovial man, middle-aged and running to fat. His red nose and pink cheeks suggested a partiality to wine and ale, which was confirmed by his generosity when the jugs and flasks circulated to his guests. His wife, a buxom, motherly woman, appeared briefly to greet them with her husband, then retired to her solar, leaving the men to their meal and ample drink, even though it was early afternoon.

‘Two ships are prepared for us, but the tide will only be suitable early tomorrow morning as we cannot embark tonight in the dark,’ de Grenville announced, as they all sat around the long table waiting to be served.

‘Will there be enough room aboard for the whole company?’ asked Ralph Morin. ‘We have forty men and you have your own troop.’

De Grenville stood at the head of the table and waved a pewter tankard reassuringly. ‘We will be six knights including myself, and half a score men from the castle guard. The vessels will easily carry us – we have no horses or equipment other than what we carry ourselves. The crews are local men, who know these treacherous waters and also Lundy – as well as anyone can, for Marisco never allows any but his own men to land there.’

They settled down to eat, but discussion concerning the expedition punctuated their meal. ‘What do you know about piracy in these waters, de Grenville?’ asked de Revelle. ‘We have a death and a lost crew to investigate from Ilfracombe, as you must know.’

‘There are so many possible culprits,’ replied the lord of Bideford, taking a capon’s leg from his lips to reply. ‘As much as I would like to think Lundy was responsible, so many other possibilities exist. There is a nest of pirates in the Scillies, and though the Bretons from St Malo operate mainly south of Cornwall, they sometimes find rich pickings from the Bristol trade up here. Then the Welsh come across from Swansea, Flat Holm and Porthclais near Menevia, and the Irish from Wexford and Waterford.’

‘I have heard that some marauders come from as far away as Spain,’ growled Morin, his grey forked beard wagging as he spoke.

‘And further yet! Moorish galleys from the Barbary coast have been seen off Hartland, and it is said that some even come from Turkey.’

De Wolfe fixed his host with a suspicious eye. ‘Yet I am told that we need not look that far away for many of our pirates. Our own coast may harbour them, from Cornwall to Somerset.’

De Grenville shrugged. ‘I’m sure that may be right. Who is to tell what any vessel and its crew does once it leaves its own port? Weapons can be concealed in the hold and a few extra crew to outnumber the victim. The home village is not going to advertise the fact, if their men bring home a free cargo in these hard times. As long as they leave no shipmen alive to tell the tale, how can they ever be accused?’

‘You know of nothing like that in this river?’ persisted the coroner, though he knew that de Grenville would hardly admit to it.

Even this direct question failed to blunt de Grenville’s good humour. ‘I know you heard some tale about Appledore, when you came recently. But of all the places who are likely to be involved, that poor vill is the least likely. They have no safe anchorage and no vessel bigger than a miserable fishing boat. I cannot speak for Barnstaple, but no pirates sail from Bideford or I would know of it – and they have no need as commerce here is good enough. You should look to smaller havens, more remote and with a need to prey on others.’

The talk drifted on to other matters, and as soon as he could decently quit the table, de Wolfe quietly made his way outside. He checked quickly that Odin was well watered and fed and that Gwyn was happily eating and drinking his fill outside the kitchen with the other men. Then he left the castle gate, with an awkward salute from the somewhat overawed guard, and walked along the track by the riverbank into the small town.

The market was almost immediately outside the castle, and though it was late in the day for trade, many stalls and booths were still open. As he passed by to reach the bridge, a miracle play was being performed on a curtained stage, and a small crowd had gathered in front of the platform to watch. Most were women and children, but there was a sprinkling of men. De Wolfe recognised Thomas amongst them, his small hunched body next to a larger, muffled figure, who must have been de Blanchefort, though no part of his features was visible beneath his cloak collar and big hat. De Wolfe moved around until he was plainly in view of his clerk and waited until Thomas noticed him.

When he did, de Wolfe beckoned and, sensibly leaving the former Templar to continue watching the drama, Thomas came casually across to his master.

‘I thought we were to meet at the bridge?’ growled the coroner.

‘I was there at noon, but there was no sign of you, so eventually we came nearer.’

‘The journey was slower than I expected. We had that damned priest to hold us up. Have you had any problems?’

‘Only that de Blanchefort keeps wanting to declare his awful secret to the world at large. I dissuaded him by pointing out that Bideford is such a remote town that it must be the least effective place on earth to reveal some great truth,’ he added drily, crossing himself as a precaution against contamination from the man’s heresy. ‘Otherwise nothing. We have found a lodging out of the town, with an ale-wife in a village a mile or so away. No risk of being recognised there.’

‘Have you tried to find a passage out for Bernardus?’

Thomas looked abashed. ‘I spent the morning doing that, Crowner, but there is no vessel leaving, except to go to other harbours along this coast. The only two bigger vessels have been commandeered by Lord Richard for your expedition tomorrow.’

De Wolfe considered this, but no other plan came to mind. ‘Keep trying, then. Our Templar says he has plenty of silver to buy a passage, so that should be no problem. All we need is a ship going to Wales or Ireland.’ He arranged with his clerk that he should be at the bridge at two hours after dawn on Thursday, and if there was no sign of the expedition returning by then, at a similar time each day until they met. With a covert wave at Bernardus, he returned to the castle and brought Gwyn up to date with events.

He spent a couple of hours with Ralph Morin and Gabriel, checking the readiness of the soldiers for the morning. Everyone had taken off their mailed hauberks, which were hanging up on wooden poles thrust through the sleeves from side to side. The men were rubbing the steel links with handfuls of hay daubed with beef fat, to preserve them against rust, especially as they would be exposed to salt spray on the morrow. De Grenville was also out in the bailey, marshalling his armed men and knights. They had a motley collection of armour and weapons, but looked tough enough for the task ahead.

That evening, the hospitable lord of Bideford put on a good meal, which though hardly a banquet was a liberal entertainment, especially in the quantity of drink provided. A pair of minstrels at the bottom of the hall and two jugglers diverted the guests between courses. De Grenville’s lady and their two eldest daughters attended for the meal, then tactfully retired before the serious drinking began. As well as the sheriff, coroner, constable, Templars and abbot from Exeter, there were the Bideford knights, chaplain, steward, treasurer and several others from the borough seated along the long table, with de Grenville at its head.

John de Wolfe found himself placed next to Cosimo, sharing with him a trencher, which was kept liberally loaded with food by attentive servants. Though the coroner had grave suspicions of the Italian, he had little option but to be civil to him out of deference to their host, though he would have preferred his room to the Italian’s company. However, he was unable to be anything but blunt with the priest when conversation was inevitable. ‘In spite of the confidential nature of your business in England, which you so firmly put to us, I feel little doubt that those two errant Templars were your prime concern,’ he said.

The sly eyes in the olive face rolled up to meet his. ‘You may think what you will, Crowner. I’ll not deny that they formed at least part of my reason for venturing across the Channel from France. And I would dearly like to know the truth about Bernardus de Blanchefort.’

De Wolfe struck the point of his dagger into a slice of salted pork on the slab of bread between them and carried it towards his mouth. Before it vanished between his lips, he replied, ‘I told you the truth, that he waylaid me and told me he wished to make some kind of public declaration before the cathedral. Obviously he thought better of it and is now on his way to a safer haven somewhere.’ All of which was true, he thought, as he chewed on the pig meat – though not the whole truth.

Cosimo picked more delicately at the food with a thin silver poniard. ‘So where is he now, I wonder? He is a dangerous madman, who should not be loose in Christian kingdoms.’

John, though not over-concerned with religion or the future of his immortal soul, had, like most people, an ingrained wariness of priests, instilled in childhood by family and chaplains. He avoided outright lying to them but was willing to prevaricate a little. ‘I have no knowledge of where he might be, Abbot,’ he said, salving his conscience with the thought that Thomas had not actually told him in what village they were lodged.

The priest sucked at his food for a moment then spoke to the trencher, rather than to de Wolfe. ‘The whole edifice of civilisation in Europe depends on the stabilising influence of the Holy Roman Church. Without that framework of uniformity and constancy, the warring nations and tribes would tear themselves asunder inside a year or two.’

He nibbled at his meat, and, almost against his will, de Wolfe waited for the conclusion to this profound but obscure statement. ‘Anything that could damage that stability threatens the very structure of life as we know it in these western lands and could plunge us into the barbarism of Africa and Asia. And that stability rests on the basic beliefs of Christianity, of which the Roman Church has been the guardian for more than a thousand years.’

The sly eyes looked up, to lock with those of the coroner. ‘I will do anything to preserve that stability by preventing the serpent seed of disbelief from being planted in the minds of common folk. You may well bear a heavy responsibility on your shoulders, Crowner, for which you may have to answer in the next world, if not in this.’

With that barely veiled threat, the abbot turned back to his dinner and said not another word to de Wolfe for the rest of the meal.