The Awful Secret

Chapter Five In which Crowner John holds an inquest

In spite of his gloomy apprehensions, John found Matilda surprisingly tractable when he entered the hall. She had changed her garments again and wore a blue kirtle, which he knew was one of her best. He tried to open the conversation by telling her of the skirmish in Southgate Street, but she had no interest in that: her mind was on other things.

‘Did you settle that poor man in a decent lodging? Not that there’s anything decent about that low tavern.’ Her active resentment of Nesta had been held in check since her husband had been disabled after breaking his leg, but she was starting to throw the old barbs at him once again.

‘It’s the best inn in the city – certainly better than sharing a room with sweaty pilgrims in Curre Street,’ he countered gruffly.

‘He should have stayed here. It’s warm, quiet and more suitable for a man of his station in life,’ said Matilda firmly.

‘He said he wanted to move to an inn. It was his choice.’

‘You did nothing to encourage him to take up our invitation, did you?’

He glowered at her as he took his chair on the opposite side of the fire. ‘It may not be a very good idea to get too friendly with that particular man,’ he muttered. ‘If what he says is true, he’s playing a dangerous game, not only with the Templars but with the Church generally and Rome in particular.’

Matilda made a dismissive gesture with a heavily ringed hand. ‘You’re just making excuses, John. I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours.’

‘Hardly a friend, just an acquaintance from the past. I owe him no more than any other man.’

‘Well, we can’t leave him to rot in that common hostelry, with half the scum of Devon around him.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said suspiciously.

‘At the very least he must come to sup with us tonight. I’ve told Mary to prepare a decent meal, if she’s capable of it for once – and to make it sufficient for an extra guest.’

‘You want him to eat here?’

‘Of course! We must make amends to him as you snubbed my offer to accommodate him under our roof. Send old Simon down to that tavern with a message for Sir Gilbert to come up here at dusk, to dine with us. I hope you still have some decent French wine in that chest of yours in the corner.’ She pointed to a dark recess of the hall, where her husband kept a stock of sealed stone flasks purchased from a wine importer in Topsham.

He sat silently cursing the woman for interfering in his business: after hearing the archdeacon’s views, he had a gut feeling that no good would come of this unexpected appearance of Gilbert de Ridefort. But his inertia was a futile defence, as Matilda continued to glare at him until he rose reluctantly and went out to the yard to summon Simon.

He dallied a while with Mary, sitting on a stool in her kitchen. It was a thatched hut with a cooking fire, a couple of rough tables stacked with pots, and in the corner the mattress on which he had once enjoyed an amorous hour or two.

‘She’s set her cap at this visitor, Crowner,’ Mary commented, stirring a blackened iron urn hanging on a trivet over the fire. ‘That poxy French girl has been brushing her hair and fiddling with her gowns for half the afternoon. I think she fancies the man, though much good it will do her if he’s a Templar.’

John grinned as he watched Mary scowling into her cooking pot. ‘I think he’s more an ex-Templar, my girl. Not that it will make any difference to the mistress’s chances with him.’

She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘It’s pathetic when a middle-aged married woman gets a passion for some man. Though I must say he’s a good-looking fellow, enough to turn any woman’s head. He was wasted as a warrior monk, or whatever you call those people.’

De Wolfe reached for a honey-cake but the platter was snatched away from his reach by Mary. ‘Those are for the end of the meal so leave them be, sir! The mistress wants a special effort for tonight and I’ve had to go out and buy more pork and onions – not that there’s much choice of food this early in the season. I can hardly give such an important guest the usual salt fish – the mistress would have me maimed, the mood she’s in.’

De Wolfe was just about to ask her if she had seen the affray in the meat market when a long nose appeared around the door, followed by the face and hunched body of his clerk, Thomas de Peyne. ‘Where did you spring from?’ grunted the coroner. ‘I thought you would be home anointing your backside with goose-grease, ready for the long ride to the north tomorrow.’

The little man groaned in anticipation of another full day in the saddle, but the news he brought overshadowed his problems. ‘You asked me to keep a look-out for any important visitors to the city, Crowner,’ he began, in his high-pitched quavering voice.

De Wolfe had impressed on Gwyn and Thomas earlier in the day that they should keep their ears to the ground to discover if anything unusual was going on in town or cloister. They knew nothing of de Ridefort’s fears of pursuit, but the clerk was adept at ferreting out gossip amongst the ecclesiastical brethren and their servants.

‘So what have you discovered, my master spy?’ he chaffed.

‘A foreign priest has arrived and called upon Bishop Marshal today,’ chirped Thomas.

‘What sort of news is that, eh? This city is always awash with priests.’

His clerk smirked. ‘Not with envoys from the Vatican, Crowner!’

De Wolfe stood up suddenly, his head brushing the rough rafters of the hut. ‘From Rome? How do you know?’

‘The rumour is that he is a papal nuncio. So far, that’s all that’s known.’

‘What the devil is a nuncio?’ rasped his master.

‘It’s like a messenger – or a person with a particular task.’

‘Is that the same as a legate?’ De Wolfe was fairly ignorant of the hierarchy of the religious establishment.

Thomas, a fount of knowledge on it, shook his head vigorously, then crossed himself automatically. ‘No, a legate is an ambassador to a royal court – a far superior person, almost always a bishop. There is talk that this man is an abbot.’

‘Who is he, and where did he come from?’

Thomas shrugged, his humped shoulder rising unevenly to the left. ‘No one knows yet. He arrived travel-weary on horseback, with two burly servants as guards.’

‘Where is he staying? At the bishop’s palace?’

The scribe shook his head again. ‘He rode off after paying his respects to Henry Marshal and went out of the city, as far as I know.’

De Wolfe thought for a moment. Gilbert de Ridefort had left his French Commandery only six weeks ago, so it was impossible that Rome could have been notified and had sent this man after him – that would take at least three or four months. But he could have come from Paris or the Temple in London. Or he might be nothing to do with de Ridefort, which was the most likely explanation. ‘Did you hear any description of this priest?’

Thomas tapped his receding chin in thought. ‘The vicar I spoke with saw him. He was short in stature.’

De Wolfe clucked in exasperation. ‘Short! That’s no description. You’re short, damn you, half the population is short.’

Thomas screwed up his face in concentration. ‘He said something else … Oh, yes, he had a strangely shaped nose.’

The coroner groaned. ‘You have a strangely shaped nose too, you fool. It’s like the sheriff’s toe-cap, long and pointed! Is that the best you can do?’

‘I never saw him, Crowner! I had two minutes’ conversation with a passing vicar, that’s all,’ whined Thomas.

Reluctantly John accepted that his clerk had done his best.

‘Well, try all you can to find out this abbot’s name, where he came from, where he’s lodging – and most of all, why he is in Exeter.’

A cunning gleam came into the clerk’s eye. ‘I can’t do that if I’m in Ilfracombe or Appledore, Crowner.’

De Wolfe’s dark face scowled at him. ‘Very well. You only slow us down on that damned broken-winded pony of yours anyway. Stay behind and seek every morsel of information you can on this man. If there’s anything to write on your parchments about our trip tomorrow I’ll dictate it when I return.’

With a glow of satisfaction that his posterior had escaped days of punishment on horseback, the little ex-priest scuttled away to continue his espionage.

In spite of Matilda’s scorn, Mary had made a good meal from what food was still available at the end of a long winter. Herbs added extra flavour to the pork, cabbage and onions, and after this, fresh bread, butter, cheese and honey-cakes were enough to fill any man’s stomach, all washed down with wine and ale or cider.

De Wolfe sat silently through most of the meal, listening to his wife fawning and simpering over their handsome guest, who was as gallant with her as Matilda was foolish. He regaled her with stories of life in France and she responded by exaggerating her own Norman credentials. Though born and bred in Devon, living most of her life at Revelstoke and Tiverton, she had once spent a month or two with distant relatives in Normandy, from where the de Revelle family had come a century ago. On the strength of this, she proclaimed herself to be a first-generation Norman, bolstering this illusion by her contempt of Saxons and especially Celts. To a person of de Ridefort’s perception, the silly deceit must have been patently obvious, but he went along with the charade, which heightened her infatuation. Only when they left the table and sat around the fireplace, with more wine brought in by old Simon, did the conversation turn to more immediate topics.

‘There is no sign yet of your friend from France?’ asked the coroner gruffly.

‘Bernardus de Blanchefort? No, I had thought he would have arrived by now, but the Channel crossings are unpredictable. He may have had to wait for a fair wind.’

There followed a diversion, as Matilda, almost breathless with this mention of yet another French nobleman, prised from him all the details of the expected compatriot. ‘He is a Templar like myself and fought alongside me in the Holy Land. Then he returned to a Preceptory near his ancestral estates at the foot of the Pyrenees for a year or so before being sent to Paris, where he was at the Commandery with me.’

Matilda’s broad face creased into an admiring smile. ‘I’m sure he must be another heroic person like yourself, defending the Faith in the Holy Land.’

De Wolfe, whose own crusading record was second to none, felt it was time to throw cold water over the mutual-admiration duet that was developing. ‘I heard today of another visitor from France. Exeter seems suddenly to have become popular in that respect.’

Gilbert’s manner changed at once and he looked warily at John. ‘Who was that? Not a Templar?’

De Wolfe shook his head slowly. ‘A priest by all accounts. Thought to be an abbot from Paris, who called briefly upon the bishop then went on his way.’

The other’s face paled. Whatever it was he feared was no fantasy but a grim reality, thought the coroner. ‘You must know something more about him, surely? What did he look like?’

De Wolfe took a long, slow swallow from his wine cup. ‘I had third-hand information only – cathedral gossip, really. All I was told was that he was short and had a peculiar nose.’ He set down his cup carefully on the flat arm of the monk’s chair. ‘And my clerk said that he was a papal nuncio, whatever that might mean.’

De Ridefort jumped up as if jabbed with a dagger, his foot knocking over a long fire-iron with a clatter. His lean face was ashen and his fingers were clenched. De Wolfe, who had seen him fight fearlessly in the heat of battle in Palestine, now saw him in near terror at the mention of a passing visitor to Exeter. ‘They’ve traced me to this city – there can be no doubt,’ he whispered.

Matilda looked in concern at her new idol, sensing his distress. ‘Who is this priest that he worries you so much, sir?’

De Ridefort paced across the front of the hearth and back, then flopped down on to his stool. ‘Worry is a gross understatement, dear lady,’ he said, struggling to get a grip on his emotions. ‘I do not know his name, but there was an abbot from Fleury who sometimes came to the Commandery to speak to our Master. He was small and had a singular nose. But whoever he is, the fact that he is now styled a papal nuncio can surely mean only that he is on my track.’

‘What’s a nuncio?’ demanded Matilda.

‘According to Thomas, who knows everything connected with the Church, it is a messenger from Rome,’ supplied de Wolfe.

‘And this singular nose?’ persisted his wife, looking at de Ridefort.

‘If it’s the same priest that I recall, he had a nose completely without a bridge. It came down straight from his forehead, with no trace of the usual dip between the eyes.’

‘A truly Roman nose, in fact!’ commented John.

‘This is no time for your stupid puns, John,’ snapped Matilda. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Her husband felt it time to bring them all down to the earth of common sense. ‘Wait, for Christ’s sake! We have no reason to think that this man has anything at all to do with Sir Gilbert. He jogged into the city with two guards, paid a duty call on the bishop then jogged out again. Why should we think he has any interest in Sir Gilbert, whom no one knows is in the city, except us?’

Some of de Ridefort’s colour had come back into his face, but he was still uneasy. ‘Thank you for trying to comfort me, John, but the coincidence is too great. An envoy from the Holy Father arrives in one of the most remote cities in Europe a few days after a renegade Templar. Why else would he be here, if not to seek me out?’

They argued the matter for some minutes, de Ridefort being adamant that the search for him was getting closer. ‘I must leave Exeter and hide somewhere more obscure until Bernardus arrives,’ he exclaimed in agitation. ‘Can you suggest some remote village outside the city?’

‘What about a monastery or an abbey? There are plenty of those about the county who would be glad to offer you hospitality,’ offered Matilda, desperate to play the part of a maiden of salvation to her hero.

But de Ridefort rejected this suggestion vehemently. ‘Religious houses will be the first place they will search. They can depend upon priests, of whatever Order, to hasten to obey the command of Rome to report all travellers and strangers answering my description.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘I’ll wager that was the message this abbot is distributing about the country – he would have taken it to Bishop Marshal to pass on throughout his diocese.’

‘I can soon find out from the archdeacon if that is so,’ said de Wolfe. Then he smote his forehead in realisation that he would be absent for several days, in which he had so far avoided telling his wife. ‘I have to leave for Ilfracombe at dawn tomorrow, so there is nothing further I can do until my return.’

He caught a poisonous glare from Matilda, and knew that she would give him a piece of her mind as soon as their guest had left.

‘I should stay at the inn and not venture out, except at night, if you have to. I still think that no one can be looking for you in the city – who would know what you look like? Especially now that you have no beard or moustache. I failed to recognise you myself.’

‘When will you be back?’ asked de Ridefort. ‘I need to move to somewhere utterly remote.’

‘I shall spend two nights away and be back at curfew on the third day. Then I will arrange somewhere for you. It’s the best I can do.’

And with that, the errant Templar had to be satisfied.

In spite of the absence of Thomas, who was always a brake on their progress, the journey to Ilfracombe took a day and a half, partly due to heavy rain, which made the track a quagmire during the first afternoon. The coroner and his officer, followed by Sergeant Gabriel and four soldiers, rode as far as Umberleigh on the first day and spent the night in a barn. In the morning they rode on, straight through Barnstaple, reaching Ilfracombe by noon.

Here John found little that was new since his last visit, except that the wrecked ship had broken up completely, a few scattered planks in the rocky coves being all that was left. The sole survivor, Alain the Breton, had improved in health and had been brought into the little port from the shepherd’s hut on the cliffs. He was now being looked after by the family of a ship-master in the town, until a vessel called that could take him to either Bristol or St Malo, where he would be returned either to his employers or his family.

The coroner interrogated Alain again, but the youth had no further recollection of anything that might identify the pirates, except that there had been a dozen oarsmen on board.

Gabriel asked the reeve what had happened to the dead body.

‘We buried him behind the church – there are a dozen graves of seamen there, mostly without names, men who have been washed ashore over the years.’

Both the sergeant and the coroner questioned the reeve and a few others at the harbour about any tales of piracy in the area. Apart from some vague rumours that covered virtually every port and fishing hamlet from Minehead to Padstow, there was nothing concrete about their allegations, which seemed to arise mainly from personal animosity for the various villages.

There was little else to keep the coroner and his men in Ilfracombe, and after some food and ale in the reeve’s house, for which de Wolfe gave the man’s wife a couple of pence, the seven men set off for Appledore. The little port was on the opposite side of the river, where the Taw and the Torridge joined, and although as the crow flies it was only about twelve miles distant, they had to travel through both Barnstaple and Bideford to get there, almost doubling the journey.

It was twilight by the time they reached Barnstaple and again de Wolfe requested a night’s lodging at the small castle of de Tracey, though the lord himself was still absent, this time at a hunting lodge somewhere out in the countryside.

Next morning, they rode to Bideford to cross the only bridge over the Torridge and then the three miles to Appledore. Here they unenthusiastically surveyed the huts along the shoreline and the few more solid houses set back on the slope above.

‘Another poor-looking place, Crowner!’ grumbled Gwyn, looking about him at the shabby dwellings and the rickety fish-huts with their nets hanging alongside.

‘If they are pirates, they can’t be very good ones,’ added Gabriel cynically.

The village was built on a promontory jutting out into the sandy estuary of the two rivers, the open sea a mile away to their left, where wide dunes edged the ocean. There was no proper port, as in Ilfracombe, and vessels were beached on the sheltered side of the low peninsula. Four or five small fishing boats lay above the tide-line, but there was no sign of any deep-sea ship. The village seemed deserted at first, but as they trotted along the single track between the dozen dwellings, a few women, some with babies on their hips, came to the doorways to stare at them.

‘There can be no pirate fleet working out of here, surely to God?’ asked the sergeant, looking in disgust at the place they had ridden for almost two days to reach. ‘They would be hard put to raise a crew for one decent vessel in a place this size.’

Gwyn was doubtful. ‘I agree it seems unlikely – yet a dozen fit men, with a few weapons between them, could prevail against a small merchantman if they were better sailors and better fighters.’

De Wolfe glanced around him. Seeing only women and children, he said, ‘Let’s find someone we can question.’ One of the men-at-arms dismounted and went across to the nearest thatched hut, where a fat woman was leaning against the doorpost. A moment later, he came up to the coroner’s stirrup. ‘She says all the men are either out fishing or at the manor court in Bideford. But there’s a sick man two houses along.’

They moved a few yards down the sand-blown track and the soldier went into another dwelling. He came out with a middle-aged man hobbling on a single crutch jammed into his armpit. With recent memories of his own broken leg, the coroner slid from his horse and went across to meet the invalid. ‘I’m Sir John de Wolfe, the county coroner,’ he said courteously.

The man nodded, his bald head shining in the sudden gleam of sunlight from between the scudding clouds. ‘Your soldier told me. What trouble have you brought to this poor vill?’ The arrival of a troop of men-at-arms and a king’s official could never be good news, but the man became less anxious when he learned that they were seeking news of pirates. ‘Here, in Appledore?’ He sounded incredulous at the suggestion. ‘We scratch a living in the fields behind here, and some of the men catch a few fish for our lord and to sell in Barnstaple. We don’t even have a proper reeve – the one from Bideford comes to boss us about.’

‘That needn’t stop you taking a boat out pillaging now and then,’ challenged Gwyn, glowering at him.

‘We don’t have a sea-going vessel – nothing bigger than those.’ He swayed as he pointed his crutch at the beached fishing boats, none of which were more than twenty feet in length.

Gwyn stared at them then agreed. ‘That Breton lad said the boat that attacked them was rowed by six oars a side. So it would have to have that many sets of thole pins along the gunwales. It would be far bigger than those cockleshells.’

Gabriel had a suspicious nature and was not yet convinced. ‘Those are only the boats here at the moment, fellow,’ he growled. ‘You must get larger vessels at other times?’

The villein shook his shiny pate. ‘I tell you, we don’t have a bigger boat! The traders all go up-river to Bideford. It’s more sheltered and there’s a quay and a proper town there. Sometimes a vessel from Wales or Cornwall will bring us a load of lime for the fields and take away some grain, but that’s only a couple of times each year.’

‘What’s in that bigger hut?’ demanded the coroner, pointing to a wattle-and-daub shed with a tattered thatch roof that came down almost to ground level.

‘Part is a barn, with the winter hay, and a stock of lime and clamps of turnips for the winter. All gone now, we’re living on fish.’

To be sure that the building was not stacked to the rafters with looted merchandise, the visitors went across to look, but the villager was right: the mouldering interior held only the remnants of the hamlet’s winter stores.

De Wolfe dismissed the man and led the party away, trotting back along the west bank of the Torridge towards Bideford. ‘If there is any piracy in this area, it can surely be carried out only with the knowledge of Richard de Grenville,’ he said. ‘The men of his various villages could never vanish to sea for days on end without him knowing.’

‘Maybe his steward or reeves are in on the conspiracy without his knowledge?’ suggested Gabriel. He and Gwyn rode at either side of the coroner.

The Cornishman, used to the ways of seaside villages, dismissed the possibility. ‘Where would they get a vessel big enough to go out to sea without their lord knowing? They couldn’t afford to build one or keep it without his knowledge. Either he is the architect of the piracy or we’re barking up the wrong tree in thinking it may be Appledore.’

‘What about outlaws?’ asked Gabriel. ‘God knows, there are thousands roaming England’s forests and moors. Any at the coast could set up as pirates instead of as highway robbers and thieves.’

Gwyn pulled his fingers through his luxuriant moustache. ‘Possible – but where would outlaws get a decent vessel? Only by raiding a village or port and stealing one, and there’s no reports of such a crime in the West Country.’

As they rode, they discussed other possibilities. Perhaps the pirates had come across from Wales, Ireland or even Brittany, but Alain had been adamant that his attackers had spoken English, which ruled out any incursions from the Celtic countries.

A score of men and boys passed them in the opposite direction, going back to Appledore after attending the fortnightly manor court as witnesses, jurors and appellants. They gave curious and somewhat frightened looks at the party of armed strangers coming from their village, but apart from muttered acknowledgements and tugging at forelocks they trudged past as fast as they could.

‘That lot doesn’t look as if it could ambush a ship,’ muttered Gwyn. ‘Stealing a couple of pigs would be about their limit.’

By now they had returned to Bideford. The small town had half a dozen vessels grounded along its quayside and the rising tide was beginning to lift some of them off the muddy sand. Gwyn’s nautical eye scanned each intently for six sets of oar pins, but they all seemed innocent of such additions.

The town’s defences were an earthbank topped by an old wooden stockade, though the three gates had been rebuilt in stone. Richard de Grenville lived in a small castle, which was more a fortified manor house, but he was absent from his domains in Winchester, petitioning the Chancellor, Walter Longchamp, about some land dispute. His wife and family had gone with him, leaving his steward in charge, who had presided over the court that day. Now he pressed the coroner to food and drink and invited the party to stay overnight. While eating good bread and cheese and drinking some of de Grenville’s best wine in the castle hall, John broached the matter of piracy with him.

A burly man of about de Wolfe’s own age, with a black beard and moustache, the steward answered, ‘We suffered the loss of a vessel last year. Some say it sank after leaving here for Bude, but we never found any signs of the wreck.’

‘So why d’you think it was pirated?’ asked John.

‘One dead body was washed up on Braunton Sands a fortnight later. He had wounds that I’m sure were from an axe or cleaver. Some said they were due to being pounded on rocks by the waves, but there are no rocks where he was found. And I say the injuries were from a sharp-edged weapon.’

‘That was before you had a coroner to look into it,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Almost the same thing has happened near Ilfracombe and we need to find who’s responsible – then hang them!’ He told the steward bluntly, that Appledore had been under suspicion, but this raised a laugh rather than indignation. ‘Those dolts couldn’t capture a coracle full of nuns, let alone a merchant vessel! It’s a wonder they can find the sea with their fishing boats, they’re that stupid. It’s the in-breeding, you see, in a place so small and remote.’

As half the hamlets in England were equally small and remote, de Wolfe wondered why the steward had such contempt for this particular village, but before he could pursue it, de Grenville’s henchman went back to piracy. ‘Don’t waste your time looking at places like Appledore, Crowner. I know damn fine who took our vessel – and I’m sure the same goes for the one at Ilfracombe.’ He paused for effect, his dark eyes staring into de Wolfe’s. ‘De Marisco, he’s the man you want. Not that you can ever get near him, stuck out there on his rock of Lundy. He thinks he’s not part of England – nor does he take any notice of its laws. His men are a bunch of bloody brigands and pirates. You need look no further than them.’

His air of conviction was impressive and de Wolfe began to think that he was probably right.