The Elixir of Death

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Confusion reigned in the old castle bailey, as the survivors struggled to understand what was happening. John de Wolfe felt as if his head was bursting, as he tried to make sense of the chaotic situation, which was not helped by Matilda collapsing to the ground, alternately wailing and laughing, as she clutched his legs in an unprecedented paroxysm of gratitude.

Hilda also slid to the floor, still attached to John's wife by the cord, but she sat bowed over, staring blankly at the bloodstained shard of glass which she still clutched in her hand.

Richard de Revelle was bellowing for his wrists to be released and the blacksmith ran across to him to slash through the cords with his knife. Richard staggered across to John and grasped his arm like a drowning man clinging to a floating log.

'John, where in Christ's name did you spring from? You saved my life!' Though de Revelle was wild eyed and almost incoherent, the coroner noticed that he said 'my life', typically ignoring the salvation of his sister and the other woman.

'It seems to be becoming a habit, Richard!' he said cynically. 'Though I think this brave young woman deserves most praise.' He indicated Hilda, who was still slumped among the weeds.

Then he bent down and gently raised Matilda to her feet, putting an arm around her shoulders, but forbearing to actually embrace her. Her almost hysterical keening subsided and she sniffed and rubbed her tear-stained face with her hand, making it even more grubby. Her cloak was soiled with dirt and bits of straw from her prison, making the contrast with her usual immaculate appearance all the more obvious. Gwyn, who sometimes showed more tact and sensitivity than his shambling appearance would suggest, took in the situation with John and his wife and went to Hilda, lifting her up and hugging her in his bear-like grasp, while he gently prised the glass dagger from her fingers.

'Well done, brave lass!' he murmured in her ear. 'Now Thorgils can rest in peace, wherever he is.'

Richard de Revelle belatedly acknowledged that others besides himself had survived and went to his sister, whereupon John readily relinquished her into his arms. Emotional women frightened de Wolfe beyond measure, but now he went to Hilda and rather self-consciously kissed her on the cheek. Rapidly becoming composed again, she put a hand to his cheek and said a simple 'Thank you, John!', but the look that blazed out of her blue eyes as she uttered the words was worth more than an hour's eulogy of gratitude.

At this point, the burly blacksmith appeared, grasping a squirming Alexander by the collar of his peculiar garment. 'I don't know who this strange fellow might be,' he announced. 'He's the only one left. Those two big bastards seem to have run off and the rest are all dead!'

Thomas de Peyne, a horrified observer who had kept well back from the recent mayhem, now came closer and pointed to the strange symbols embroidered on the Scotsman's tunic.

'You are an alchemist, I presume?'

'Ay, I am indeed! And sorry I am that I ever left my chamber in Bristol to come among these madmen!' He waved at the four corpses on the ground. 'Though that gentleman was civil enough, he just fell into bad company with those Moors!'

'How does that dumb giant with no tongue fit into all this?' demanded Gwyn. Alexander seized on the words with delight.

'You know of Jan the Fleming? Is he alive and well?' he shrilled.

'Certainly alive, and well enough for a man with a cross-bow bolt through his shoulder,' snapped John. 'He should survive, but who the hell was he? And who who are you, for St Peter's sake?'

'I am Alexander of Leith, a humble alchemist, searching for the Elixir of Life. That poor man Jan is my servant and assistant.'

Belatedly, the alchemist began to realise that his presence in this camp might take some explaining when law officers started to take an interest. This was rapidly reinforced when de Wolfe declared that he was the King's Coroner for the county and was determined to get to the bottom of whatever had been going on here.

Richard de Revelle also got the same message and his devious mind began to plan evasive action. As he held a linen kerchief to his throat to mop up the blood still oozing from the shallow cut, he glared at Alexander, then gave him a covert wink that was not lost on the Scotsman. Both of them had the same desire to draw as heavy a veil as possible over their activities. In this, they were greatly aided by the fact that all the Saracens were dead and Raymond de Blois was also beyond providing any explanations. If possible, it would be a considerable advantage if the coroner never learned that he was French, rather than Norman.

Richard looked down at the man's corpse, lying on its side in a pool of blood that had welled from the multiple wounds in his chest. Thomas was crouched alongside the body, making the sign of the Cross over it and murmuring suitable incantations in Latin. De Revelle, justifying his self-interest, thought it was just as well that he had been killed, as a spy found in England in the service of Philip of France could look forward only to the gallows.

Gwyn was still comforting Hilda, but he gestured to the brawny blacksmith to drag the four corpses into one of the huts. The man pulled the three Saracens unceremoniously by their heels into the kitchen hut, still strewn with the hay that was to have started the conflagration that would burn their captives alive. Their turbans had come off in the grass, revealing lank black hair coiled into plaits. When Thomas had finished shriving the Frenchman, the smith was more circumspect in handling his corpse, fetching a horse blanket from the stable. He wrapped it around de Blois to smother the blood, then lifted it into his arms and staggered back to the stable with it.

For the moment, de Wolfe's priority was the well-being of the two women, his wife and his former mistress. As the fire of conflict died down and his mind began to function more coolly, he wondered how to manage this matter of Matilda and Hilda. He was aware that his wife knew the identity of the blonde woman, and in view of her caustic sarcasm and constant hostility over the past few years, he thought it best to separate them as soon as possible. He laid a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder.

'Richard, there is much to be explained about this sad affair, but I feel that your sister needs rest and the solace of your home and wife until she is recovered.'

He was not being deliberately sarcastic in his allusion to the Lady Eleanor, though he was well aware that the two wives did not enjoy very cordial relations. 'Your manor is not that far distant and I have already sent Matilda's maid Lucille back there. She also had a bad experience when those bastards dragged Matilda from the chapel, so the bailiff of Ringmore has taken her to Revelstoke, where she can care now for Matilda's needs.'

He wondered what had happened to the rescue party he had ordered William Vado to rouse from Revelstoke — there had been no sign of them, though admittedly events had moved very fast that afternoon.

Richard readily agreed, as he felt it would give him more time to think up some credible cover story. His self-confidence was returning quickly, and he solicitously led his sister across the bailey, to where several horses were tethered to a rail outside the third hut, used as a stable.

John was wondering what to do about Hilda, when his wife stopped dead and spoke rationally for the first time. All traces of her recent well-justified hysteria seemed to have vanished.

'Hilda must come to Revelstoke with us!' she announced firmly. 'She has been kind to me and I cannot leave her cast adrift here.'

John was astonished at this change of heart by Matilda, but he was wise enough to conceal it. One problem was that none of the horses had side-saddles, but Hilda, rapidly recovering from shock herself, solved the problem by tearing the skirt of her kirtle up the front as far as her knees and accepting Gwyn's help to mount one of the smaller rounseys. De Wolfe experienced further astonishment when Matilda, after one look at the woman from Dawlish, bent down and did the same to her own gown, which John felt was akin to sacrilege, given the way his wife usually worshipped her garments. Almost too hastily, Richard de Revelle helped her into the saddle of another palfrey and, climbing on to his own horse, on which he had arrived, hurried the two women off along the path back to the distant road.

'I shall follow you shortly!' de Wolfe called after him. 'I need to explore this den of murderers first.'

He turned first to Alexander, who stood uncertainly in the midst of all this activity. 'Now, sir, what's been going on here?'

'Nothing but my art and my science, Sir John!' replied the Scot, evasively. 'I was employed by this knight who now lies dead, to come from Bristol with my assistant, to join with another alchemist in attempting to complete my life's work, the preparation of the Elixir of Life.'

'You expect me to believe that?' snapped John, sarcastically.

'It is the truth, Crowner! I was deceived, for this Turk was an impostor!'

'Who was this knight?' demanded de Wolfe.

'His name was Raymond de Blois. I know almost nothing about him, he was very secretive. He sought me out in Bristol and offered me a sum I could hardly refuse to meet with an alchemist from the Orient — one he alleged was renowned for his expertise, as are many Arabic philosophers. He claimed to have met him in Outremer, when he was there as a Crusader. This Nizam turned out to be a brazen sham, but it took me a week or two to discover that.'

'Why should this de Blois give you money for such an unlikely enterprise, eh?'

Alexander shrugged. 'Various claims have been made for the discovery of the elixir — I have come very near it myself. Any man who succeeds would rapidly become rich beyond any imagining!'

De Wolfe regarded the Scot with a stony stare, unconvinced by his tale.

'God's guts, man, do you expect me to believe that some unknown knight hires a Scottish alchemist to work with three bloody Arabs in England, to discover a potion to give everlasting life? And why in a secret hideout like this? Do you take me for a fool?'

The quick-wined Scot had a ready answer. 'There is a simple explanation, Crowner. As I have indicated, such an elixir would be worth a fortune, which is why Sir Raymond sought to acquire it. Rivals would kill for its secret — as they have done in the past — so absolute secrecy is essential to avoid the theft, of the formula!'

He shook his bulbous head sadly. 'Unfortunately, these Mussulmen tricked de Blois into giving them a great deal of money, though they were charlatans!'

John glared suspiciously at the little man. 'Are you trying to tell me that he brings them across the Channel, lets them slaughter a whole ship's crew to preserve their secret, just to conduct some half-magical rituals?'

Alexander shrugged. 'I know nothing of how they came here, sir! I just jogged in on a horse with my manservant. They were already here long before I arrived.'

Still unconvinced, John ordered Alexander to show him the underground laboratory in the crypt of the old priory. When they reached the bottom of the steps, he was at least reassured that some of the Scotsman's blather was true. With Gwyn and Thomas at his side, he looked in mystification at the flasks, crucibles, alembics and furnaces that cluttered the benches around the hearth.

He turned to his clerk. 'You are the one with most learning, Thomas! What do you make of all this?

The small priest had been peering with interest at the assortment of apparatus, especially several large parchment folios. 'It is certainly the paraphernalia of alchemy, master! The subject is foreign to me, but those books are full of the symbolism and cabbalistic texts of that art.'

'Of course,' said Alexander, somewhat huffily. 'I am well known among the community of alchemists, especially in relation to the elixir — which is why this Sir Raymond sought me out in Bristol.'

De Wolfe looked into the two storerooms where the prisoners had been kept. 'So how did all this apparatus appear here?' he demanded. 'Don't try to tell me that these Saracens brought it by sea, for they had to row ashore in a little curragh after the swine had slain the ship's crew! And where did your food and their horses come from? Did they make them by magic in their crucibles?'

Alexander shrugged, still looking innocent. 'It was all here when I came, Crowner. I presumed that de Blois arranged it all secretly. It was none of my business, though if I had known how it was to turn out, I would never have left Bristol, not for all the gold in Christendom!'

This expression was an unfortunate slip of the tongue if Alexander wished to keep the coroner well away from the truth. John seized upon it immediately.

'Gold? Is that not also of prime interest to alchemists?' he snapped. 'My learned clerk here tells me that seeking this fabled elixir of yours is closely allied to the search for creating gold from base matter!'

The Scot looked sheepish, but again did his best to wriggle out of a difficult situation.

'Some say that, sir, but I do not believe it to be true,' he lied. He waved a hand around the gloomy crypt, where the rush-lights were beginning to gutter and fade away. 'Look around here. You'll not find any gold, unless those scheming Arabs had some of their own.'

De Wolfe ignored the invitation and prodded the alchemist towards the stairs, from where they emerged into the twilight of the fading day. The blacksmith had relit the fallen pitch brand and stuck it in the fork of a bush, so that there was some illumination of the area in front of the huts. As they left the priory ruins, John had more questions for the hapless alchemist.

'You come from Bristol? You are sure that it is not Gloucester?'

On moderately safe ground here, Alexander contrived to look surprised as he lied once again. 'Gloucester? I have never set foot in the place.'

'So you have never had any dealing with the Count of Mortain or any of his retainers?'

This was dangerous territory, and for once Alexander was glad that Jan the Fleming had no tongue, for otherwise he might already have told a different tale to this sharp, grim law officer. He shook his head vigorously.

'Prince John? I am but a lowly philosopher, sir. I do not mix with people in such exalted circles. I know my place.'

'In that case, how did you come to be here with Sir Richard de Revelle, a knight and former sheriff of this county?' demanded the coroner.

Thinking quickly, the little Scotsman came up with an answer, and only hoped that de Revelle would tell the same story. 'I do not know him in any real sense, Crowner! he answered gravely. 'He seems to have been a friend of this poor man who lies dead, Raymond de Blois.'

He stopped and assumed an air of sudden inspiration. 'I suspect they were business partners in trying to obtain the priceless Elixir of Life. Maybe it was he who provided everything here. This was his second visit to see de Blois and to try to get those deceitful Turks to achieve some results.'

De Wolfe rasped a hand over his stubble. The story was becoming more plausible as the idea of Richard becoming involved in any dubious scheme that would make him even richer was not difficult to believe.

By now they had reached the kitchen shed, where the faithful blacksmith was standing guard, still grasping his great hammer. Gwyn stuck his head through the doorway and looked down at the three white-clad corpses.

'What are we going to do about these devils?' he growled.

The sight of the bodies reminded John of something that until now had been driven from his mind by the urgency and confusion of the past half-hour.

'This bastard you called Nizam, the leader of this gang,' he rasped. 'Why did he suddenly keel over like that? I was looking forward to spitting him on my sword!' Gwyn decided not to remind him that Nizam had a knife at Richard's throat at that precise moment and Alexander, with a trace of pride, answered the coroner. 'That was my doing! Though it was a close thing, as I had no means of telling when and how completely they would finish that mess they called food.'

John's black brows came together in puzzlement. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'When they went chasing my man Jan, I took the opportunity to dose their food with a lethal concoction that I prepared for such an eventuality. It would have killed them all eventually, but Abdul and Malik came to a more violent end before it could work upon their systems!'

De Wolfe and Gwyn stared at the weird Scot with more respect.

'What was the stuff you gave them, eh?' demanded Gwyn.

Alexander grinned, his impish face creasing into a knowing smile.

'Among the many experiments I have made seeking the elixir, I had many failures. Some of them dropped rats and cats dead on the spot, others had a delayed action. One batch of the liquid I accidentally proved to be effective on a human, though he was a condemned prisoner,' he added nonchalantly. 'I made up a small vial of that one' yesterday and kept it hidden in case I had use for it.'

Gwyn roared with laughter and slapped the alchemist on the back.

'Remind me never to eat or drink in your company, old man!' he boomed.

De Wolfe seemed less amused and returned to the problem in hand.

'The Christian knight deserves a proper burial, for he was a brave man, trying to attack those bastards with his hands tied behind his back.'

Thomas crossed himself piously as he agreed and made a suggestion.

'If he was a friend of Sir Richard, then perhaps he should attend to his last rites. He may know who his relatives are and could inform them of his death.'

De Wolfe nodded. 'I will tax him with it when later we go across to Revelstoke. But what about these infidels?'

'Are you going to hold an inquest?' asked Gwyn, his doubtful tone suggesting that it would be a waste of effort.

John considered the matter for a long moment. His dogged adherence to orders which had always made him such a staunch follower of King Richard, inclined him to stick to the rules and hold an inquiry on the spot into the four deaths. But common sense was telling him that these were all foreigners and non-Christians, who seemed totally outside the jurisdiction of the Crown. What was the point of sticking to the established routines of First Finder and Presentment of Englishry — and what possible jury could he empanel that would be of the slightest use? Come to think of it, the First Finder was John himself, as much as any of the others present.

The whole process seemed futile, and the ramifications regarding this little alchemist, his dumb servant — and even Richard, Matilda and Hilda — were likely to lead to complications that none of them would welcome. Hilda had stabbed a man to death, and though it seemed wholly justified in the heat of the moment, if the event was recorded on Thomas's rolls, the justices would have to haul her before the next session of the Eyre, with all the attendant publicity throughout the county. Furthermore, he had no desire to have his own wife embroiled in any legal proceedings and suffer the malicious gossip of her acquaintances in Exeter.

He made up his mind, not without some misgivings. 'To hell with it. There's nothing to be gained by probing this open sore!' he growled. 'I must tell the sheriff and Justiciar something, if only to explain the deaths at Shillingford and of the crew of Thorgils' vessel. But I will trim the truth to sensible proportions.'

'So what are we to do with these cadavers?' persisted Gwyn.

'Have you searched them? Maybe they carry something that shows who they were and where they came from.'

The blacksmith, who had stood guard while the others were in the crypt, pointed to some objects on the ground near his feet.

'I went through their clothing, but apart from that gold chain and three wicked knives, there was nothing, apart from these little pouches.'

He bent and handed over some small envelopes of soft leather, inside which were lumps of a dark, brittle substance and some grimy powder.

Thomas sniffed warily at one. 'This is some kind of aromatic herb, no doubt an exotic drug,' he declared. They all had a sniff at it, but were none the wiser, although Gwyn said it reminded him of the souk in Jaffa.

'Let's show it to that fat priest in Rougemont,' he suggested. 'Brother Rufus seems to know a lot about the seedier side of life in the Holy Land!'

'But what are we to do with these corpses?' Thomas repeated Gwyn's question, anxious to get away from this dark and forbidding place.

De Wolfe put his head inside the doorway again and looked at the still figures and the pile of hay.

'The sods were going to burn my wife and my woman alive in here, God curse their evil souls!' he said harshly. 'Let them go the same way!' He strode to the stunted bush and pulled the guttering pitch brand free of its bare branches. With a contemptuous toss, he flung it through the door on to the pile of hay and shoved the rickety door shut. They waited until John was satisfied that the flames were taking hold, and as soon as smoke started to seep through the many gaps in the planking and the thatch, he picked up Nizam's golden chain and crescent moon and beckoned to the others to move away towards the stables and their horses.

Alexander stood uncertainly by his mare. 'This is my steed and the pony belongs to the dumb fellow,' he said tentatively. 'I am fond of the big fool. I would like to see that he gets to Totnes very soon, to have an apothecary tend his wound.'

De Wolfe, having already committed himself to bending the rules, waved a dismissive hand at the little Scotsman.

'You should find him at the alehouse in Bigbury. Now make yourself scarce and forget you ever had the greedy misfortune ever to set foot in Devon. Get yourself back to Bristol and keep out of everyone's sight, especially law officers!'

Gratefully, Alexander took the hint and began to thank the coroner profusely. John ignored him, as he gave his own thanks to the blacksmith for his steadfast help. The smith offered to show the alchemist the way back to the village and, throwing a leg over the pony, led him off at a trot along the pathway.

De Wolfe and his two companions turned back to watch the kitchen hut, which was now well ablaze. Thick grey smoke belched up from under the eaves into the evening sky and flames began issuing through the dilapidated thatch. There was a rank smell of burning vegetation, mixed with another odour — that of scorching flesh. Suddenly the roof fell in amid a great geyser of sparks that shot up into the air, and within moments the walls had caved in and the hut was converted into a blazing bonfire.

'That's the end of those swine,' said Gwyn with satisfaction. 'Though nothing can repay them for such vicious cruelty.'

Their own horses were still back in the village, so they took the spare ones left by the inhabitants of the camp to ride around to Bigbury. A moon had risen and, aided by the last streak of daylight in the western sky, they followed the path back to the road that joined St Anne's Chapel to the village. Just before the junction, they came across further evidence of the Turks' murderous activities. At the side of the path were two bodies, each with a cross-bow bolt in the back. They were lying face down alongside a dead campfire, and some pieces of bread near by suggested that they had been shot while eating their meal. Each wore a jerkin carrying the insignia of a blackbird on a green ground.

'That's de Revelle's device,' said Gwyn, turning the bodies over to look at their faces, as Thomas dropped alongside them to murmur his compassionate absolutions. His return to the priesthood was getting plenty of practice, if only in shriving the dead.

'He must have left them here on guard, by the looks of it,' agreed the coroner. 'Pretty poor guards they turned out to be — their idleness cost them their lives.'

Gwyn was not so harsh in his judgement. 'Not a lot you can do, taken unawares with a cross-bow fired from cover! Those bloody Saracens were highly skilled with their weapons in Palestine.'

There was nothing the trio could do about the bodies, so they remounted and rode on.

De Wolfe commented, 'De Revelle must have seen them, as he passed here when he left. It's up to him to collect them — he can do it when he sends a party to bring back this de Blois fellow.'

This reminded him that the posse he had sent the bailiff to fetch from Revelstoke had never shown up. 'Maybe de Revelle will encounter it on his way home and get them to return with him … and to hell with us, now that the fighting's over!' said Gwyn cynically.

They rode down to Bigbury to collect their own mounts, discovering at the alehouse that Alexander of Leith had already collected his injured servant. The strange pair had vanished down towards the river to take the tidal path up to Aveton, keen to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the law officers. The villagers were relieved to hear that their ghostly neighbours in the forest had been eliminated, and even more grateful when the coroner left them the horses from the camp as a gift.

'If they were provided at de Revelle's expense, he's lost them for good now!' said John spitefully. He touched Odin's flanks with his heels and they set off westwards. 'Let's catch up with the lying bastard. But I feel that once again he'll scrape out of this affair with his skin intact.'

'But at least he's had a bloody good fright, coming within an ace of being burnt alive!' declared Gwyn.

'And he came nearer having his throat cut than any man I've known!' added de Wolfe cheerfully.

Gwyn joined him in a belly laugh, and even Thomas managed a weak grin.

Five evenings later, a group of people were huddled around John's favourite table in the Bush Inn at Exeter. The remains of a lavish meal provided by Nesta lay in the centre, surrounded by pots of ale and cider and a cup of the best wine for Thomas. The taproom, lit by flickering rush-lights hung around the walls, was warmed by a large fire and the fug generated by a score of patrons. Outside it was frosty and Idle Lane wore a patchy white mantle. It had snowed that day, but the light fall had almost melted away.

'They'll be able to travel in this,' said Gwyn confidently. 'By tomorrow, Hilda will be safely back in Dawlish and your wife will be home to make your life a misery once again!'

John de Wolfe caught Nesta's eye and looked away uncomfortably. She smiled and put a reassuring hand on his thigh under the table. That day, a servant from Revelstoke, on his way to the other manor at Tiverton, had called at Martin's Lane and left a message with Mary that Matilda and Hilda were on their way home, attended by a strong escort.

As well as Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn, the garrison chaplain, Brother Rufus, sat at the table. After several years as a military priest, the burly monk had no qualms about visiting alehouses and accepted with alacrity Gwyn's invitation to join them that evening. He was examining the substances in the small leather pouches that had been taken from the bodies of the slain Arabs. After sniffing at them and cautiously tasting a fingertip rubbed on the brown lumps and dipped in the dirty white powder, he delivered his verdict.

'The dark stuff is what they call hashish, made from a feathery kind of plant. I tried it once, though I admit a few cups of brandy-wine had more effect on me!' The jovial Benedictine gave a loud belly laugh and nudged the disapproving Thomas in the ribs.

'What about the powder?' asked John.

Rufus hunched his big shoulders. 'I don't know. It's not opium, as far as I can tell. But those fellows out there have all sorts of strange concoctions made from herbs and plants.'

'So why do they eat them?' demanded Gwyn. 'What's the effect?'

'It varies a lot — some just send the devils to sleep, to dream of Nirvana or wherever they fancy spending eternity. Other drugs are said to give them lurid dreams or else make them fighting mad. I'm not an expert, but I've seen some strange goings-on out in Palestine, as I expect Sir John and yourself have experienced.'

Thomas was proud of his own scholarship and unwilling to surrender all the explanations to the monk, especially after his recent hurried researches in the library over the Chapter House.

'This 'hasish' gives rise to the hashishin, the common name for this murderous branch of the Nizari sect of the Shi'ites,' he said importantly. 'They have been slaying both their Sunni rivals and Christians — especially Crusaders — for years. They even had three attempts at Saladin himself!'

This was something de Wolfe knew about. 'Count Conrad de Montferrat, who was to be King of Jerusalem, was murdered by them when we were out there, Gwyn. Remember all that scandal?'

The Cornishman nodded. 'Two Saracens, dressed as Christian monks, stabbed him in the street. Didn't that bastard Philip of France try to put the blame on our King Richard, because he favoured someone else for the throne of Jerusalem?

John nodded. 'He also claimed that the Lionheart had sent hashishin after him, even all the way to France. He had a permanent bodyguard to protect himself.'

'But there was a letter sent by the Old Man of the Mountains, the chief of these hashishin, exonerating King Richard,' declared the all-knowing Thomas.

'Yes, and it was declared a forgery by the French!' added Rufus, determined not to be outdone.

De Wolfe scraped at his stubble before he spoke. 'Hilda said that this mad leader, Nizam, claimed that he was also there at Conrad's murder, as a back-up in case they failed.'

Nesta shuddered, and not just at the mention of Hilda's name. 'These people sound completely crazy!' she said. 'Are they always under the influence of this horrible stuff?' She pointed at the leather pouches on the table.

This time, Thomas got in before Rufus.

'I have read that members of this sect are persuaded into complete obedience to their master by being drugged, then taken to his hideout in the Syrian mountains, where they are given the best of food and the company of seductive women. Then they are sent out to kill certain targets, whereupon they are always slain themselves, but die gladly because they have been promised entry into a paradise where these promiscuous delights will last for eternity!'

'Sounds good to me!' jibed Gwyn, receiving an outraged punch on the arm from Nesta.

'But this terrible man and his accomplices surely had no such political ends when they came to England?' she asked, with wide-eyed concern.

'According to Richard de Revelle, who seems to have the best recollection of those awful hours at Bigbury, this Nizam was on a personal crusade of his own,' growled de Wolfe. 'Just before he was going to kill them all, he claimed that all his family had been butchered by Frankish and English knights during their retreat from the siege of Damascus, back in 'forty-eight.'

'That was a total disaster, like all of the Second Crusade,' cut in the monk quickly, with a sideways look at Thomas. 'I remember my father talking about it — his cousin was a bowman there. The whole enterprise was ill founded, a political and military triumph of ineptitude!'

'But why would this Turk come all the way to Devon on account of that?' persisted Nesta, whose curiosity was as insatiable as the monk's.

'According to Richard, he had sworn an oath to carry out his father's dying demand for revenge,' explained John. 'This Nizari sect spent years seeking the names of those who were at Damascus. Eventually this madman Nizam got himself to France, where it seems he murdered a whole series of either those who were at the siege or their descendants.' He stopped and took a long draught from his ale-pot. 'Then he managed to cross to England posing as an alchemist, using some far-fetched deceit about discovering the Elixir of Life.'

There was a pause while Thomas gave them a short lecture on alchemy and the Elixir of Life, which provoked Gwyn into a gaping yawn.

'Never mind all that!' cut in de Wolfe, irritably. 'I have the gravest doubts about such a tall story, but as they are all dead, there is little I can do about it.'

John had debated long and hard about whether to denounce his brother-in-law once again for involvement in some highly dubious scheme. He had taxed him about it in private when he had gone back to Revelstoke on the night of the drama at the old castle, but got nowhere with the crafty and evasive de Revelle. Richard freely admitted to being in partnership with Raymond de Blois in a venture to achieve the making of the Elixir of Life. On the defensive, conscious that his liberty or even life might depend upon convincing this incorruptible law officer, the former sheriff shed his usual contempt for John and was at his most persuasive.

De Wolfe had discussed the whole affair with Henry de Furnellis as soon as he returned to Exeter, giving him a somewhat selective account of what had happened near Bigbury. The sheriff, always willing to take the easier way out, agreed with him that they should give Hubert Waiter, the Chief Justiciar, a suitably edited version of the truth.

John tried to keep Richard de Revelle out of the story as much as possible, as when he had gone to Revelstoke, Matilda had beseeched him to protect her brother from further trouble. She had done this several times before, and in view of the narrow escape from a terrible death that both she and her brother had experienced, he agreed to do what he could for Richard.

In any event, he had no proof that de Revelle had been involved with any new scheme of Prince John's. The Scottish alchemist's story of the mysterious Raymond de Blois joining with Richard to fund a search for the Elixir of Life was far fetched, but no more unbelievable than converting Devon tin into solid gold. The only gold that had been found was the ornament around Nizam's neck and John had quietly given this to Hilda, with instructions that it be sold to a goldsmith and the money shared between the families of the Dawlish shipmen who the owner had murdered.

'He said he met this de Blois fellow in London,' John now related to the group in the Bush. 'De Revelle was very vague as to what he knew about the man or even where he came from. But I can't prove otherwise.'

'So where did these alchemists come from?' asked Nesta, pouring more ale for the men.

'Richard said that de Blois knew of an Arab who he had met in Syria, famed for his expertise in alchemy. This man claimed to be within sight of succeeding with the elixir, but needed more facilities, so de Blois paid for him to come to Normandy and then fetched him across on poor Thorgils' ship.'

'Sounds a bloody thin story to me,' grunted Gwyn. 'So how did the lord of Revelstoke come into this?' asked Rufus.

'He says he funded the supply of food, horses and apparatus for this place in the forest near Bigbury. That was his part of the deal, in exchange for splitting the proceeds of the elixir, when it was produced.'

'How did they get to be tucked away in this hideout?' asked the chaplain. 'Why all the secrecy?'

John shrugged. 'The explanation gets thinner and thinner! That land belongs to Henry de Vautortes, but he holds it as a sub-tenant from … guess who?'

Nesta looked at him blankly. 'Tell us, then,' she commanded.

'The Count of Mortain … Prince bloody John himself! But it's no crime to rent out a piece of useless land, so there's nothing I can do about it.'

Thomas, who had subsided after giving his sermon on alchemy, had another question. 'What about those two strange men, the Scotsman who poisoned the main villain — and that grotesque foreigner with no tongue?'

De Wolfe ran his hands through his dense black hair, smoothing it down to the back of his neck. He was getting weary and also anxious about what he had to do very soon.

'According to my dear wife's lying brother, they were recruited to help this Arab alchemist in his final search for the elixir. He says Raymond de Blois found this Alexander in Bristol, where he had a reputation as a noted philosopher. I suspect that this is about the only part of the story that could be proved to be true.'

'So what are you going to tell the Justiciar?' asked Rufus.

'Nothing but the truth,' snapped de Wolfe. 'But perhaps forgetting a few details that will help no one.'

'And letting de Revelle off the hook is one of them,' grumbled Gwyn into his ale-pot.

'I'll tell Hubert Walter that the plot he was warned of no longer exists. Three dangerous Moorish assassins burnt themselves to death rather than be captured after failing in their mission — that's readily believable, from what we know of the members of this sect, who seem to relish dying!'

'What about the deaths of the old Templar, the shipmen and the two at Shillingford?' asked the chaplain. 'To say nothing of the blasphemous desecration in the cathedral? '

'I'll be able to resume all the inquests on those now,' answered John, with genuine satisfaction. 'The blame will quite rightly be attributed to these foreign assassins, who got into the country by stealth in order to carry out their murderous schemes against old Crusaders and their families. This is the absolute truth — all this nonsense about the Elixir of Life was a smokescreen and I see no need even to mention it!'

'So what about this Raymond de Blois?' asked Brother Rufus.

John shrugged. 'I don't know who he was or what he was doing here. I have my own suspicions, but they would only open a bag of worms that's best left undisturbed. He was a brave man, trying to save the others at the cost of his own life, so I will let him lie in peace.'

'Where is he lying, by the way?' asked Nesta.

'We buried him three days ago in that little church of St Peter the Poor Fisherman, at the foot of the cliffs in de Revelle's manor. Matilda and Hilda came with us and we saw him put in the earth in a most decorous manner, thanks to the priest that conducted the Mass in such a fine manner.'

Thomas blushed and hung his head in embarrassment at the unexpected compliment. The conversation went on for a time, until John had run out of explanations and the others had exhausted their theories about this strange business. One by one, they drifted away, Thomas to get ready for midnight Matins in the cathedral and Gwyn back to the castle for a game of dice in the guardroom. Rufus decided to join him, and at last John and Nesta were left alone at the table. He felt very uneasy and stared into his quart pot, turning it around restlessly in his fingers.

Nesta placed a hand over his. 'Come on, Sir Crowner,' she murmured, in the half-mocking, half-affectionate way she had when he was out of sorts. 'Up the ladder and rest your weary head. It's been a hard few days, especially for old fellows like you, well past their prime!'

He pinched her bottom in reprisal, but wasted no time in following her up to the loft, watched by the envious eyes of some of the patrons, who came to the Bush as much for the sight of the fair Nesta as for her excellent ale.

In the little chamber in the corner of the large space beneath the thatch, John slumped down on the large feather mattress laid on a raised plinth, just above the floor. He still regretted the loss of their French bed, consumed in the recent fire, and resolved to remind the new ship-masters in Dawlish that the new one he had ordered must be brought over from St-Malo as soon as sailing started again in the spring. The thought of Dawlish brought the beautiful Hilda into his mind and added to the turmoil there, as Nesta sank down beside him, her head on his shoulder.

Mentally gritting his teeth, he plunged straight into the problem. 'Nesta, my love, tomorrow Matilda will be back in Martin's Lane.'

He steeled himself to continue, willing himself to remember the words that he had been rehearsing since the messenger had brought the news of his wife's return. But the remarkable woman who was his mistress raised her head to kiss his cheek and laid her forefinger across his lips.

'Hush, cariad, there's no need to explain!' she whispered in Welsh. 'Of course you must return home. You can't leave the poor woman there after all she's been through.'

John looked at Nesta almost fearfully, his long-held suspicions that she must have the power of second sight confirmed.

'How did you know what I was going to say?'

She smiled sadly and patted his big, rough hands as they lay across his lap. 'I've known for a few weeks that you would not stay with me, John. You miss your freedom, your dog, your cook-maid, even fighting with your wife!'

John's long face flushed slightly. 'I would have stayed with you for ever, but for this happening. I cannot leave her now.'

Nesta nodded gently. 'I believe that you truly love me, John. If there were no Matilda and you could take your dog, your chattels and even your maid with you, we could go away and be happy somewhere else. But as long as you are married and are the King's Coroner, it cannot happen.'

'I'll not give you up, Nesta!' He sounded like a petulant youth, she thought affectionately.

'I know that, John, but home you must go! Let your wife get over this awful thing in her own time. To have been within minutes of being burned alive will have scarred her mind and will disturb her nights for months to come. I should know, for it almost happened to me not long past!'

He turned to her and seized her almost desperately, pulling her back on to the bed, kissing her passionately.

'You are my elixir of life, Nesta! Without you, it would have no meaning. My body may have to return home, but my soul will stay here!'

As they fumbled at each other's garments, she vowed that his body would also return to the Bush as often as possible!

It was late the next day before de Revelle's retainers appeared in Martin's Lane, ending the leg of the journey from Buckfast Abbey. As the sound of hoofs brought John to his street door, the sight of the blackbird devices on their jerkins gave him a momentary vision of the two guards on the track near Bigbury, with cross-bow bolts sticking from their backs. Then he was hurrying out to help a grim-faced Matilda from her palfrey, Mary following close behind to chaperone Lucille as one of the escorts hauled her from her pony. Leaving the two younger women to organise the bags and packages from the horses, John led his wife inside and took her into the gloomy hall, where a huge fire was blazing in the chimneyed hearth. Mary had placed food and wine ready on the table, and with uncharacteristic gallantry John led Matilda to her favourite cowled chair before the fire and helped her off with her heavy riding cloak.

'You must be chilled through after that long ride,' he said solicitously. 'I'll pour you a cup of wine and soon Mary will bring hot stew.'

He fussed over her for a few minutes as she silently warmed herself before the fire. Then he brought his own goblet to sit on the other monk's chair, wondering desperately how to find something to say that would not spark controversy. But as had Nesta the evening before, Matilda saved him the trouble.

'Are you living back here now?' she demanded, her gimlet eyes boring into his.

'I am indeed, wife! You need not fear any further assault now — those men are all dead.'

She turned to stare at the flames in the hearth.

'I am glad you are back, John: she murmured tonelessly. 'The house was not the same without you here to cause me trouble.'