Fear in the Forest

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By noon the following day they had all assembled back in Rougemont. John had travelled so much in the past week that he had to work out that it was now Tuesday. The borrowed men-at-arms went to their billets in the outer ward, to rest until they began the long tramp back to Portsmouth the next day, while the local leaders adjourned to the hall of the keep for refreshment and discussion about the whole forest affair. John, Ralph Morin, de Courcy and Guy Ferrars and his son sat at a trestle table, with Gwyn, Thomas, Gabriel and the ubiquitous Brother Roger sitting at the end, eager to hear what was decided. While castle servants scurried to fetch them ale and cider to wash down cold meats, bread and cheese, the coroner began the proceedings.

‘What about the damned sheriff? He must know we’re back, but he’s conspicuous by his absence.’ John looked across at the door to Richard’s chamber, which was firmly closed.

‘To hell with him,’ growled the baron. ‘I have a feeling his days are numbered as the King’s man in this county. I’ll be in London in a week or two, when I’m going to have a few strong words with some friends on the Curia — and be damned to de Revelle’s powerful patrons.’

Between the steady champing of jaws and slurping of ale, the discussion went on.

‘We’ve broken the back of the main outlaw band, though there’s scores more of the bastards in the forest,’ said Ralph.

‘But they’re a disorganised ragtag, with no object other than stealing chickens and holding up travellers for their purses,’ said Reginald de Courcy.

‘A pity we didn’t get that Winter fellow,’ said Hugh Ferrars, in one of his rare utterances. ‘Where is he now? I wonder.’

‘Without his second-in-command, that Martin Angot, and with most of his men slain, he’s lost all his power,’ replied John. ‘Unless he can rebuild a gang out of the remaining villains that lurk in those woods, he’s no longer of any consequence.’

‘I suspect that Winter’s already fled from these parts, either up to Exmoor or across into Cornwall,’ grunted Guy Ferrars. ‘Without the support of Prince John’s mob, we can forget him.’

The portly castle chaplain leaned forward to speak to de Wolfe, a quart of ale in one hand. ‘Crowner, yesterday, while you we all away, I met John de Alençon after a service in the cathedral. He asked me to tell you something interesting.’

John suppressed some mild irritation. This priest, amiable as he was, seemed to have his nose into everything. ‘What was that?’ he grunted.

‘The archdeacon said that John of Exeter, our revered cathedral Treasurer, had told him privately that in the last few months, some considerable sums of money had come into the bishop’s palace. The purses were dealt with by Henry Marshal’s clerks, but had never appeared on any diocesan accounts and seemed to vanish equally mysteriously.’

There were raised eyebrows and meaningful looks around the table. John of Exeter, unlike some of the senior canons, was a staunch supporter of the King and sided with the archdeacon and coroner when it came to opposing the Prince John faction.

‘Had the Treasurer no explanation of this?’ asked Lord Ferrars.

‘It seems not. He had no dealings himself with the money, but came across the matter by chance. It would appear that the funds were merely passing through the bishop’s custody, destined for somewhere else.’

‘Perhaps they were collected by a Cistercian monk?’ suggested Reginald de Courcy, with heavy sarcasm.

‘I wonder what’s happened to that fellow?’ queried Ralph. ‘Is it worth rattling the abbey at Buckfast to see if we could shake him out?’

‘Ah, I can also tell you something of that,’ said Brother Roger, beaming at his own erudition. De Wolfe groaned under his breath — this priest was a one-man spy ring. ‘A vicar-choral of my acquaintance told me that Father Edmund Treipas spent one night last week in the guest house in the palace.’

Thomas de Peyne plucked up the nerve to butt into the discussion.

‘I heard the same tale from a secondary in my lodgings. The father had a large pack behind his saddle and apparently was on his way back to Coventry, where he came from in the first place.’

De Wolfe slapped the bench in delight. ‘We’ve scared the fellow off! He must have heard of Stephen Cruch’s arrest and the bishop and his abbot have sent him packing, to save themselves any awkward questions.’

Ralph brought the talk around to current problems.

‘What are you going to do about these damned foresters and their accomplices? The soldiering part is over. Now it’s down to you and the law.’

‘Hang the swine out of hand!’ snarled Ferrars, still smarting at the loss of his woodward and his deer. ‘Surely conspiring with outlaws is a felony? They were caught red handed.’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘They’re not declared outlaws — and they are still King’s officers. They will have to have a trial before the royal judges. I can’t advocate one sort of justice for some then hang others without trial.’

Ferrars made noises that suggested that it was all a waste of time and effort, but de Courcy agreed with John.

‘Have your trial, as long as it doesn’t go to the Shire Court, where the damned sheriff would probably not only acquit them but give them a few marks from the poor box for the inconvenience they suffered!’

The coroner used his teeth to strip the meat from a capon’s leg while he considered the matter.

‘Later today we must interrogate them down below.’ He pointed with his chicken bone at the floor, below which the prisoners were incarcerated in the undercroft. ‘The Warden of the Forest should be present, as well as this new verderer, de Strete. They are the seniors of these miscreants, they should hear what they have to say.’

Guy Ferrars nodded reluctant acceptance of this alternative to a quick hanging.

‘We’d better have de Revelle there, too, whether he likes it or not. I want to see him squirm when he sees his accomplices confess.’

‘As he’s still the sheriff, however much we resent it, he surely must fulfil his responsibilities as the enforcer of the King’s peace in the county,’ added Reginald, always a stickler for convention.

They agreed to assemble in the gaol after the bell for Compline, late in the afternoon. As John was fretting to get away to Polsloe, he left Ralph Morin to inveigle Richard de Revelle into attending in the undercroft.

When John arrived at the priory, he found Nesta slightly better than when he had last visited, a couple of days ago. She still had a slight fever and her pallor was not improved, but she seemed more cheerful and had lost the haunted look that had so worried him over the past two weeks. When he complimented her on the improvement, she managed a smile that was almost like her old self.

‘It’s the nursing, John, they are so kind to me that I cannot fail to get better every day. If only this fever would leave me, I’m sure I could go home.’

‘You stay here until you are really well, my love,’ he admonished. ‘You can’t struggle up that ladder in the Bush in your condition — and I can’t always be there to carry you up myself!’

They talked for a little while, with John as usual relating all his recent adventures. Nesta was overjoyed that he had not suffered any injury this time. He avoided asking her whether she had seen Matilda, as last time this seemed to have caused her to give him some odd looks, but on his way out Dame Madge materialised in the corridor. She demanded once again that he display his wound for her inspection, and while he bared his hip he asked whether there was any change in his wife’s resolution to ignore him. The bony midwife for once seemed oddly reluctant to answer him, saying that he had better talk to the prioress about such matters. When she had satisfied herself that his rapidly healing wound needed no further attention, he dropped his raised tunic and thanked her for her devoted care of Nesta.

‘She is a sweet woman, Crowner,’ said Dame Madge. ‘We are all very fond of her.’ Her tone suggested that Nesta deserved better than to be wasted on an adulterer like John de Wolfe, but she did not elaborate.

When he sought out Dame Margaret in her parlour, the nun who acted as her secretary told him that the prioress was at prayer in the new chapel and could not be disturbed. With a vague sense of foreboding, he climbed aboard Odin and set off for home, his mind divided between the problems of the foresters and of the women in his life.

Soon after the distant bell in the cathedral tower rang for Compline, men began gathering in the gloomy vault under the castle keep. Even in the dry heat of midsummer, the grey walls and low arches of the ceiling were dank and slimed with mould — a fitting location for the misery and torment that often took place there.

The four prisoners who were led out of the rusted iron door by the grotesque jailer were subdued and apprehensive even before they faced their accusers.

Though they had been in the squalid cells only since that morning, they were already dirty and tousled. The green tunics of the two foresters and the leather jerkins of their pages were streaked with grime, wisps of dirty straw adhering to their hair and hose.

With Sergeant Gabriel at one end and the obese Stigand at the other, they were prodded into a ragged line, clanking the heavy irons that secured their ankles. Their belts and weapons were laid out near by on the dried mud of the floor, and off to one side Stigand had helpfully set out a brazier, with branding irons stuck into the glowing coals.

Facing them were the men responsible for their capture, together with Nicholas de Bosco, the Warden of the Forests, Philip de Strete, the new verederer, and Brother Roger, who, as castle chaplain, now had a legitimate reason for being present, as a priest was required at such events in case a prisoner died during the Ordeal or torture. Thomas was also there, squatting on a keg, with his writing materials before him on a crate, ready to record any confessions.

‘All we need now is the damned sheriff!’ bellowed Guy Ferrars.

‘I thought you said he had promised to come?’ demanded Reginald de Courcy of the constable.

Before Ralph Morin could reply, a shadow darkened the light coming through the small entrance at the foot of the steps leading down from the inner ward. It was Richard de Revelle, scowling like thunder and obviously making a point by arriving last. He had a light mantle tightly wrapped around his body, as if to insulate himself from the others in the undercroft. The faces of the foresters brightened slightly when they saw him, as if they expected him to save them from this nightmare.

‘About time, de Revelle,’ barked the elder Ferrars. ‘This is something you should have done long ago.’

The sheriff glowered, but made no response, standing apart from the others as if he had no interest in the proceedings.

John de Wolfe bent to Thomas’s makeshift table and picked up the rolls of his Commission, which he brandished at the prisoners.

‘These are signed by the Chief Justiciar himself, on behalf of our sovereign lord King Richard!’ he announced. ‘So let no one here try to dispute my right to proceed as I think fit.’

He handed the parchments back to his clerk, then took a step nearer the foresters, his fists planted aggressively on his belt.

‘You, William Lupus — and you, Michael Crespin. I summoned you both to attend my inquests on the tanner, Elias Necke, and Edward of Manaton. You refused to attend and are already in mercy for that. Why did you not come?’

The elder of the two foresters appeared to have regained some of his former arrogance, perhaps emboldened by the presence of the sheriff and the verderer, who he assumed would be on his side.

‘You had no right to interfere in forest affairs. They are regulated by the forest law,’ he growled.

‘Nonsense. The king’s peace covers the whole of England, including his own forests,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘The forest laws deal only with matters of vert and venison.’

‘You had no Royal Commission when you summoned them, de Wolfe,’ snarled the sheriff, opening his mouth for the first time.

‘I needed no special commission to attach witnesses for an inquest,’ said the coroner, testily. ‘That power was granted by the Crown in Article Twenty of the General Eyre held in Kent last September.’

He turned back to Lupus. ‘You and your accomplices have perpetrated a reign of terror and extortion in that bailiwick of the forest of Devon. You have closed forges, forced alehouses to take your own product, destroyed a tannery and caused the deaths of at least three people.’

‘I’ve killed no one. Those outlaws did the deeds,’ shouted Lupus violently. ‘You can prove nothing against us. We did what we were told in the matter of commerce, like brewing and forges.’

‘Told by whom?’ demanded Ferrars, determined to play a part in the coroner’s inquiry.

Lupus looked furtively at Crespin, then at de Strete.

‘By the previous verderer, Humphrey le Bonde.’

There was a snort of derision from several throats at this.

‘You damned liar!’ shouted de Courcy. ‘Very convenient to blame him, now that he can’t contradict you. No doubt he was killed because he tried to moderate your evil schemes.’

‘Which one of you put an arrow in his back?’ demanded Ralph Morin.

‘It was an outlaw, some footpad who wanted to steal his purse.’

‘Strange that every penny was still inside it when he was found,’ said de Wolfe, with heavy sarcasm. He turned to the elderly Warden, who had been standing with a grim expression on his lined face.

‘De Bosco, what do you make of all this?’

‘It saddens me to think that forest officers, who on their appointment swore loyalty to the King, should have degenerated into little better than outlaws themselves. Whatever else happens to them, they are not fit to wear the horn badge of a forester, and I hereby dismiss them, as from this moment!’

‘I doubt you have that power, Warden,’ objected de Strete. The verderer sounded hesitant, as if afraid to commit himself to one side or the other. ‘You certainly cannot dismiss a verderer. I am nominated by the sheriff, elected by the County Court and responsible only to the King.’

Richard de Revelle supported his protégé, his voice high pitched and pompous. ‘The Warden can nominate foresters, but my recent researches show that he cannot dismiss them — once appointed, they are royal officers.’

John de Wolfe lost patience with this bickering. He grabbed the parchment roll from Thomas once more and brandished it in the face of the sheriff and the verderer.

‘Must I tell you again, damn it?’ he shouted. ‘This is all the authority I need to do as I see fit! I speak now, not as the county coroner, but as a Royal Commissioner.’

He waved the roll again at Philip de Strete. ‘The first action I take under these powers is to dismiss you from your office.’

The podgy verderer found enough courage to protest. ‘You can’t do that. I was nominated under a writ from the sheriff here!’

De Revelle also snarled a contradiction at his brother-in-law.

‘And he was duly elected by the County Court!’

John dropped the roll back on to Thomas’s packing case.

‘The appointment has to be ratified by the Curia or their Justiciar — and I can assure you, Hubert Walter had no hesitation in annulling that confirmation.’

Philip de Strete, now the ex-verderer, responded by walking out of the undercroft, giving the sheriff a look of bitter recrimination on the way.

‘Let’s get on with the business, de Wolfe,’ rasped Guy Ferrars. ‘What are you going to do with these rascals, if you won’t send them to be hanged straight away?’

‘I want some answers from them, for a start. I’m declaring this to be the continued inquests on Elias Necke, Edward of Manaton and William Gurnon, a woodward of Lustleigh. Put that on your record, Thomas.’

His eyes moved slowly along the line of men opposite, his face like thunder.

‘Who killed Elias the tanner? Was it you, Crespin — or you, Lupus? Or did you send one of these louts you call pages to do it for you?’

The so-called pages, bullies usually full of swagger, seemed to have crumpled after a few hours manacled in the cells and now faced with the implements of physical persuasion. The ugly Henry Smok had a haunted, fearful look on his face and was the one who answered the coroner, the words tumbling out.

‘None of us, sir, certainly not me! It was those men belonging to Winter. They came down from the edge of the woods and put a torch to the place.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it, you rogue,’ rasped de Courcy. ‘So tell us who gave them the orders — and who paid them.’

Smok caught a poisonous look from his master, William Lupus, and avoided an answer, mumbling that he did not know.

‘Then who killed Edward, the poacher from Manaton?’ demanded de Wolfe. The four men looked at each other warily, but all shook their heads.

‘Right, it seems that your memories need jogging,’ snapped the coroner. He had identified Henry Smok as the weakest link, though the other page, who was called Miles, also looked as if he would betray anyone if it could save his neck. John crooked a finger at Stigand, who was waiting expectantly a few yards away. The finger moved to point at Smok and the gaoler waddled across to grab the page. The man struggled violently, but Gabriel and Gwyn seized his arms and dragged him across to the brazier. Stigand pulled an iron rod from the glowing charcoal and spat on the small cross-piece at the end. There was a hiss of steam as the gobbet vaporised and an almost simultaneous scream of fear from Henry Smok.

‘It was Crespin, he fired the arrow!’ he yelled in terror.

‘Into the back of Edward?’ persisted de Wolfe.

‘Yes. The poacher was running away, but he said he’d teach the bastard a lesson,’ gabbled the page.

There was a roar of denial from Michael Crespin, but Lupus was silent. If it had not been Crespin, then he would have had to take the blame.

Lord Ferrars felt he had been silent for too long.

‘Who directed you to start all this upheaval in the forest, eh?’

He took a step forward and glared at Lupus and then Crespin, his nose almost touching theirs. ‘Where did you get your orders?’

There was a sullen silence, then Lupus growled that there were no orders, they had done it for their own purposes, to make more money for themselves and the verderer.

‘So you killed three men, burned down a tannery and consorted with a gang of outlaws, all on your own initiative?’ snarled Ferrars. ‘A likely story!’ He turned to the gaoler, who stood hopefully in his filthy leather apron, spotted with burns and what looked like dried bloodstains.

‘Carry on, Stigand, see if you can restore the page’s memory — then we’ll try this other lout, before moving on to the men in green.’

The grossly fat gaoler stuck the first iron back into the fire to reheat and pulled out another, the end of which glowed a dull red. Advancing on the cringing Smok, he reached out and ripped down the neck of his tunic to expose a broad, hairy chest. The page wriggled violently in the grip of the men holding him and screamed out in a last attempt to avoid the branding.

‘I don’t know, I’m just a servant!’ he howled. ‘I suppose it must have been that horse-dealer — he was always bringing purses of money and whispering into the foresters’ ears!’

The hot iron was now near enough to start singeing the hairs on Smok’s chest, but the coroner waved Stigand back, much to the sadistic gaoler’s disappointment. John accepted that the page was not privy to any important information, so he turned back to the foresters.

‘And what can you two fine men tell me about it?’ he asked ominously. ‘There’s plenty of charcoal to keep the fire going, remember.’

‘You wouldn’t dare torture us, we’re officers of the King,’ Crespin said defiantly.

‘No, you’re not any longer! Didn’t you hear the Warden dismiss you just now?’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘And if he hadn’t, I would have, under the terms of my Commission. You’re just common men now, subject to the law like anyone else.’

He turned to face the elder man. ‘Who was behind all this, Lupus? We know Stephen Cruch instructed and paid you, but he was just a messenger.’

‘Stop beating about the bush, de Wolfe! Was the Count of Mortain behind all this, Lupus?’ Ferrars seemed permanently angry, but today he was even more pugnacious than usual.

The granite-faced forester looked stonily at the coroner. ‘The Prince’s name was never mentioned. I know nothing of politics, I did what I was asked and was paid for it, that’s all.’

‘Were you also asked to stab William Gurnon to death at the deer-leap — or was that your idea?’ growled Ferrars, still smarting at the loss of some roe buck and his servant.

‘We were told to get Winter’s men to dig the saltatorium — but I killed no one afterwards,’ said Lupus stonily.

De Wolfe pointed to the men’s weapons lying on the floor.

‘Are those your daggers?’ he demanded, motioning to Gwyn to bring them across. He held the belts up for them to see.

‘Which is yours and which belongs to Crespin?’

Sullenly, the men confirmed which was their property. John slid the knife belonging to Michael Crespin from its sheath and looked at the intact blade. He laid it on Thomas’s writing desk, then pulled out the weapon belonging to William Lupus. Dropping the belt to the floor, he used his free hand to feel in his waist pouch, pulling out a shrivelled green leaf. His fingers freed a shining triangle of steel and, wordlessly, he held the dagger up for all to see. As he displayed the broken tip, he showed how the fragment from his pouch fitted exactly.

‘I took that scrap of metal from the body of William Gurnon. Does any one here need better proof?’

There was silence, broken only by the footsteps of Richard de Revelle, as he followed the example of Philip de Strete and walked out of the undercroft without another word.

John went home to his empty house for a meal. He could have gone to the Bush, where he had eaten so often in the past, for the cook-maid was providing the same good fare as before Nesta had been taken to Polsloe. However, with his mistress absent, he had no urge to sit at their table by the hearth without her and preferred to eat in his own hall. Mary kept him company for a while, as she brought him various dishes from her shack in the back yard. As he tackled the ham-and-bean stew and the boiled knuckle of lamb with cabbage and onions, she sat across the table, her handsome dark head supported on her fist, listening to his account of the past few days. When she came back with bread, butter and cheese, she raised the subject of Matilda, her worries about the future still nagging away.

‘I’m going up to Polsloe later this evening,’ said John, with a reassuring tone that failed to convince her. ‘Gwyn and Thomas have asked if they can come with me, as they’ve not seen Nesta for some time, with all this commotion in the forest.’

He paused to cut a thick slice from the loaf with his knife.

‘This time I’ll insist on seeing my wife. It’s ridiculous that I can’t get some kind of answer from her about her intentions, one way or the other.’

‘Lucille is even more concerned than I am,’ said Mary. ‘At least for me there’s always the house and the cooking to be attended to — but without a mistress, what use is a mistress’s maid? I don’t like the girl, I’ll admit — but I’m sorry for her, being so uncertain about her future.’

Once more, John promised to discover what he could that evening, and when his meal was finished he walked the few yards across the cathedral Close to the house of his friend, the archdeacon.

The evening period after Compline was the most restful time for the clergy, as this was the last of the nine canonical hours, the services that occupied most of the ecclesiastical day. There was free time now until Matins at midnight, when priests could pray, read, sleep, eat or gossip.

John found the archdeacon in his usual place at that hour, sitting in his austere room, reading a book, with a flask of good wine on the table in front of him. He greeted his namesake with a smile and set another cup before him. Though de Wolfe rarely made formal confession, it was to the Archdeacon he came when that was necessary — but more often he unburdened himself to him as friend to friend, over a measure of wine.

This was how it was tonight, as he unfolded the whole story of his visit to Winchester and the subsequent escapade in the forest.

De Alençon listened intently, crossing himself when the coroner described the extermination of the outlaws. ‘It seems brutal, John, but as the law stands they would have died one way or the other, with every man’s hand against them,’ he said soberly.

‘They had burned the tanner alive, shot the verderer in the back and inflicted many other miseries on the forest dwellers,’ pointed out de Wolfe. ‘I have no stain on my conscience about them.’

‘What about these two foresters and their pages?’

The coroner shrugged and took another sip of the excellent wine.

‘Crespin was denounced as a killer by Lupus’s brute — and I showed clearly that it was Lupus who stuck his dagger into the back of Ferrars’ woodward. Our impatient baron wanted them hanged straight away, but I have attached them to the next visit of the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, who will undoubtedly send them to the gallows.’

‘And the pages, what about them?’

‘They are stupid louts, but I will do likewise with them and let the Commissioners decide on their fate.’

The archdeacon drummed his fingers lightly on the leather cover of his book.

‘And your dear brother-in-law? How is he to come out of this?’

John gave one of his rare lopsided grins. ‘The sheriff’s reputation, such as it was, is in tatters. Hubert Walter is well aware of the situation in Devon and I am sure he will begin maneuvering within the Curia to get rid of de Revelle. But you know as well as I that our sheriff is supported by some powerful names, both by barons and those in the Church.’

‘Some no more than a few hundred paces from here!’ agreed de Alençon, dryly. ‘Speaking of that, did you get my message about that monk from Buckfast?’

The coroner nodded. ‘And I also hear that he has left for Coventry, for good, it seems.’

‘He’s gone back to that nest of insurrection built by Bishop Hugh. We’ll hear no more of him in these parts. The Cistercians will close ranks, as they have no love for this king, but have high hopes of who they think will be the next.’

They sat silently for a moment, both thinking of the injustices that the division between Church and state could throw up.

Then the archdeacon roused himself to broach another subject.

‘I have done some research into canon law on your behalf, John,’ he said rather diffidently. ‘I fear I can find no precedent for annulling a marriage because the wife has entered a monastic order. It would require an appeal to the Holy Father in Rome, and even then I doubt whether it would succeed.’

John de Wolfe nodded glumly. ‘I had expected that would be the answer. I don’t know what’s going to happen there. She still refuses to speak to me. I’ve only clapped eyes on her once since she left — and that at a distance in the priory.’

He threw down the rest of his wine and stood up.

‘I’m going up to Polsloe now, to see how Nesta is faring. According to Dame Madge, she came near to death from blood loss when she miscarried and is still far from well.’

With the concerns of his friend and promises of his prayers in his ears, de Wolfe took his leave and walked up to Martin’s Lane in the evening warmth to fetch Odin from the stables. Gwyn and Thomas were waiting patiently for him on their mounts at the East Gate, and half an hour later they were at the gate in the wall of St Katherine’s.

‘We’ll wait here until you have finished your visit, Crowner, then slip in one at a time to pay our respects to Nesta,’ said Gwyn with uncharacteristic tact, having been primed previously by the more sensitive Thomas.

John strode to the door of the little infirmary and went inside. He had visited often enough now, not to seek one of the nuns to admit him, and he walked the few steps to Nesta’s cell, the first in the short corridor.

The door was ajar and he pushed it open. His usual greeting died on his lips as he was confronted by a familiar broad back, bending over Nesta’s low bed.

It was Matilda, and her hands were on his mistress’s throat.

For a second, John was frozen from the shock of seeing both Matilda and what she might be doing to his lover. Before he could throw himself at his wife and drag her off, he caught sight of Nesta’s face looking up at him. It bore an almost roguish smile of guilty amusement. Matilda saw it as well and swung round in surprise, holding her hands open before her, the fingers sticky with a mixture of goose grease and wintergreen.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ she snapped, her square face glowering at him.

She turned back to the bed and laid a folded length of flannel around Nesta’s throat, tucking the ends gently behind her neck. Then she stood erect and rubbed her greasy hands on the apron that covered the front of her black habit.

‘She’s had a sore throat since last night, but this salve will help to ease it.’ Without looking her speechless husband in the eye, she swept out of the room and vanished down the corridor.

‘That is a truly Christian woman,’ came a voice from behind him and, turning, his battered senses recognized Dame Madge hovering in the doorway.

‘Matilda has been nursing me this past ten days, John!’ said Nesta from the bed, her voice a little husky from both soreness and emotion.

‘And a more caring and gentle nurse could not be found in the kingdom!’ boomed the gaunt nun. ‘She is a saint and we shall be sorry to lose her.’

She approached the bed to put a hand on Nesta’s brow and smooth the red hair that streamed across the pillow, while John managed to find his voice again.

‘Lose her? What do you mean?’ he managed to croak.

‘She will tell you herself after you’ve finished here, Crowner. I’ll leave you two alone, but be brief. Nesta has a phlegmatous throat.’

She loped off and John, bewildered by the vagaries of womankind, knelt alongside Nesta and took her hand.

‘I don’t understand, dear girl! When I came in, I thought she was trying to strangle you!’

Nesta gave a husky laugh, which ended in a cough, though a hint of her old roguishness returned in spite of her continuing weakness.

‘She has shown no signs of wanting to throttle me, though I would understand it if she did.’

‘What’s this that Dame Madge said about losing Matilda? Why wouldn’t she tell me?’

‘I honestly don’t know, John. I’d miss her ministrations if she did, You must ask her yourself, as the nun commanded.’

John climbed to his feet, puzzled, anxious and impatient. ‘I’ll do that right now, then come back to see you.’

He squeezed her hand and went to seek his wife. As soon as Thomas saw his master striding out of the infirmary door and making for the parlour of the prioress, he limped across to visit Nesta himself. Gwyn had already ambled over to the kitchen to wheedle a pastry or two from the lay sisters who did the cooking, before taking his turn at seeing the invalid.

Thomas was glad to see a genuine smile on the face of the patient, as he automatically crossed himself and held up his fingers in benediction.

‘You look better today, dear lady,’ he said, his thin face creased with pleasure. The pretty innkeeper beckoned him closer.

‘I feel more at ease with life, Thomas — though I’ve got this soreness of my throat,’ she said quietly, with a slight rasp in her voice.

‘Have all your desperate thoughts of self-destruction fled?’ he asked solicitously.

She nodded and crooked a pale hand to bring him even nearer.

‘Let me tell you quickly, before John returns. The secret that I told you about the father of my child has leaked out a little, but your master must still never know, it might destroy the bond between us.’

‘It never leaked from my lips!’ protested Thomas, his eyes widening.

‘No, no, of course not! But Dame Madge knew straight away the age of the unborn babe — and she must have inadvertently let it slip to Matilda de Wolfe. The dame would have no reason to know it was so significant.’

Realisation began to dawn on the little clerk. ‘Then Matilda worked out for herself that her husband could not be the father?’

Nesta looked furtively across at the door to make sure that John was not barging in again. ‘Yes. She came to me ten days ago and told me that she was now aware that John was not responsible. She was very gruff at first, and I think she wanted to insult me. But when she saw how poorly I was, she began to attend to me — and since, has been kindness itself.’

Thomas gaped at this unusual vision of Matilda, as the woman had never made any secret of the fact that she despised him as a misshapen rapist and renegade priest.

‘But surely she will tell him that she knows the babe was not his?’

Nesta gave a little shrug. ‘I just don’t know, dear Thomas. She has it in her power to wound him badly, as he was so proud of the prospect of becoming a father, even to a bastard.’

The clerk clutched her hand in reassurance. ‘The truth will never come from me, whatever happens elsewhere.’

John stalked about, looking for his wife, but failed to find her. When he reached the door into the West Range, he found Dame Madge waiting for him. She imperiously beckoned him inside and tapped on the door of the parlour, where they found the prioress sitting at her table. Dame Margaret was not one to beat about the bush.

‘Sir John, you have several times asked to speak to your wife about her intentions. Well, now we can put your mind at rest. Matilda wishes to leave our care and return home to her wifely duties.’

De Wolfe’s senses had received a battering during the past ten minutes and this final piece of news needed some assimilation.

‘Coming home?’ he croaked. ‘You mean, this very minute?’

The prioress shook her head, an amused smile on her plump face. ‘Not quite, Crowner. But within a day or so, no doubt.’

John rubbed his chin in agitation. ‘But why has she decided to leave? I thought she was firmly set upon taking the veil.’

Dame Margaret looked across at her colleague with a wry smile.

‘We both thought from the outset that your wife’s taking refuge here was more an act of protest and indignation than true devotion. There’s no doubt that she is a deeply religious woman, but the simplicity of life here could never be to her taste. She has made her point now and has said that, grateful as she is to us, she cannot see her future within these confining walls.’

John needed time to know whether he was glad or sorry. The prospect of divorce or annulment had already been quashed and his daydreams about running off to Wales with Nesta to start a new life were not really a practical option. He had come to hate his empty house and his lonely table and secretly missed Matilda’s pugnacious presence, much as it often infuriated him. He was confused and uncertain whether he was devastated or relieved.

‘May I talk to her now?’ was all he could think of saying.

The Prioress raised her hands, palms up. ‘It depends on whether she yet wishes to speak to you. That is her choice, but Dame Madge will seek her out and ask her. Is there anything else, Sir John?’

‘Just one matter, Dame Margaret,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The child — my only child. What happened to it?’

The nun’s eyes flicked across to Dame Madge and for a moment she looked uneasy.

‘It was buried in our cemetery, Crowner. Though it was tiny, it was still one of God’s flock and was laid to rest with due ceremony.’

‘May I just see the place, please?’

‘Dame Madge will show you the spot.’

Again an uneasy glance passed between them before the raw-boned nun showed him out and took him around the back of the new church dedicated to Becket, another penitent gesture by one of Thomas’s killers. Here there was a small cemetery plot, with a dozen plain crosses marking the resting places of the sisters who had passed away during the past thirty-eight years since the priory had been founded.

Dame Madge led him across to the far corner, almost against the boundary wall. Here a tiny mound of fresh earth, no larger than a mole-hill, was surmounted by a little wooden cross small enough to lie on the palm of his hand. At its foot lay a posy of daisies and buttercups, plucked from the surrounding pasture.

‘There it is, Sir John,’ said the dame gently. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’

She walked away, and John stood staring down at the dimple of reddish earth, his thoughts rolling forward to what might have been.

He heard a footstep behind him and, turning, saw his wife. She still wore a white apron, soiled with salve from his mistress’s throat. Coming near, she stood alongside him, but avoided any contact. He turned back to the tiny grave and stared down at it. Suddenly his throat seemed to tighten and his sight blurred with moisture.

‘There’s part of me under that soil, Matilda,’ he said, with a break in his voice.

‘Yes, John. But come away now. I’ll be home before long.’

She took his arm and steered him back across the grass.