The Awful Secret

Chapter Ten In which Crowner John is furious

It was now late afternoon, and on leaving the Priory of St Nicholas, de Wolfe thought it politic to tell the sheriff of the murder of a Norman knight in his territory – and to discover his attitude to these arrogant Templars. At the gatehouse of Rougemont, he sent Gwyn up to their chamber to tell Thomas de Peyne to get himself down to St James’s Priory on the river to see if he could discover anything new about the movements of Abbot Cosimo and his sinister henchmen, especially their whereabouts during the past two days.

Then he went on to the keep and marched in on his brother-in-law, who was deep in discussion with two of his tax-collectors. The sheriff had soon to make his twice-yearly journey to Winchester for his accounting of the taxes raised in Devon during the past six months. This ‘farm’, as it was called, was a sum fixed in advance by the king’s exchequer and if a sheriff could screw more out of the population he could keep the balance for himself. This explained why the office of sheriff was greatly coveted and competed for. In Richard’s reign, a ‘shrievalty’ – the post of sheriff – was sold by the king for a huge sum, most of the purchasers being barons and even bishops. Some even managed to become sheriffs of three counties simultaneously.

De Wolfe waited impatiently while de Revelle harangued the taxmen from Tavistock and Totnes for being late with their collections, threatening them with dire penalties if they did not come up with the loot by the end of the month. Eventually, the chastened men escaped and John left his seat in the window embrasure to hover over his brother-in-law as he sat at his parchment-cluttered table.

‘We have a murdered Norman knight to deal with, Sheriff,’ he began, and was gratified to see that those words ensured the other man’s immediate attention.

As de Revelle presumably knew nothing of Gilbert de Ridefort’s presence in his county, he had to explain the whole story from start to finish, and by the end, the sheriff had become quite agitated. Rising from his chair, he paced up and down before his fireplace. ‘A Templar heretic! What next, by God’s bones? And what was this secret he claimed to possess?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘I don’t know – and I don’t care. It died with him, presumably, so it’s quite safe. But, as the chief law officers in this county, we are keepers of the king’s peace, so our task is to discover the culprit. It was a foul killing, an ambush, a blow on the head and then a ritual stabbing.’

The sheriff was not concerned with the details or the need to make an arrest. He was more worried about his standing with certain parties of great influence. ‘You say there is a papal nuncio in the city, and three senior Templars?’

De Wolfe looked at him with contempt. ‘Come on, Richard, don’t act the innocent with me. You know damned well they are here – you went to a meeting with the bishop a few days ago to meet this Cosimo of Modena. And I don’t believe that the spies you have planted all over the city and county would not have told you of the arrival of three Knights of Christ, even if they had failed to tell you themselves, which now seems unlikely.’

The sheriff stopped his pacing and looked out of the window slit. ‘I had heard something about them, yes,’ he admitted shiftily.

‘So what are they doing here? For I know why Cosimo is here! He has a writ from the Vatican to seek out heretics.’

De Revelle ignored this last, but seized upon the matter of the Templars to upbraid John. ‘Those three important knights are in the county to purchase properties for their Order,’ he snapped. ‘They have the Chancellor’s blessing to treat with any baron – or the bishop – for the purchase of profitable lands from any honour that wishes to sell.’ He marched back to his folding chair and dropped into it. ‘They already have estates at Templeton, near my own manor at Tiverton, but desire something further west, perhaps near Torbay or Plympton. Again, my other manor at Revelstoke lies in that direction and I might be able to help them find land nearby.’

‘That’s what they told you, was it? Strange that they should arrive just as one of their renegade members, pursued by an emissary of the Pope, is found slain in the county!’

De Revelle glared at his sister’s husband, regretting for the thousandth time that she had ever married this persistent meddler who was wrecking his comfortable life. ‘They are here to reconnoitre for new Templar lands, I tell you! You are well aware of the great wealth they possess, and they need to invest it in the land, to the benefit of all of us.’

De Wolfe lowered his head towards de Revelle, as he stooped across the table. ‘Why would their leader, this Roland de Ver – until recently a senior member of the main Templar house in Paris – concern himself with buying a few hides of Devon soil?’

The sheriff waved a hand with assumed airy nonchalance. ‘You had better ask him yourself, John.’

‘I have just asked him – and was told to mind my own business. Why should they be so sensitive and secretive if all they are doing is negotiating for the purchase of some land?’

De Revelle’s face flushed above his trim beard and moustache. ‘You mean you’ve been pestering them already? You have no right, John. The Templars have immense power and influence!’

‘Especially with you, no doubt,’ said de Wolfe tartly. ‘Will you receive commission if you help them buy land in your county?’

‘The business transactions I carry out are no business of yours, Coroner.’

John gave one of his rare, lopsided grins. ‘You’ll get little commission out of a dead heretic, Richard. For that’s what I’m certain these knights are here about.’

‘They are attending to Templar interests, I tell you!’ shouted de Revelle furiously.

‘I can believe that, though their present interest is not land! If they are concerned with their investments, you had better invite them to come with us on Monday. Maybe they can at last succeed in winning their allotted land on Lundy!’ With that parting shot he left, convinced that his devious brother-in-law knew a lot more about the visitors than he was admitting.

It was dusk when he left the castle and walked home. Matilda was out, presumably still praying for the soul of Gilbert de Ridefort, so John took the opportunity to visit the Bush and spend an hour with Nesta in her room upstairs. After a satisfying dalliance with her under the sheepskins, he came down and continued his enjoyment with a boiled fowl, onions and cabbage, washed down with her best ale.

As he sat at his favourite bench near the hearth, the comely tavern-keeper kept him company, sitting opposite with her elbows on the table, looking affectionately at the lean, brooding man she loved. They talked of inconsequential things for a while, as de Wolfe had already told her everything about the strange death of the run-away Templar.

Eventually, he pushed aside the pile of chicken bones and the soaked trencher to concentrate on his quart of ale.

‘You are off to Lundy, then?’ asked Nesta, concern on her pretty face. ‘Be careful, John, both of the sea and the men who live there.’ At the hub of gossip related by travellers and mariners passing through the inn, she was on top of every piece of news in Devon and well knew the bad reputation of that lonely island set a dozen miles off the north coast.

As he was reassuring her of his safety, which would be ensured by the large party of knights and soldiers going on the sheriff’s escapade, the old potman Edwin limped across to the table and addressed him by his old military title. ‘Cap’n, someone was seeking you, when you were … well, upstairs earlier on.’ He leered at the coroner, his collapsed whitened eye slewing horribly in its socket.

Nesta scowled at his innuendo. ‘Who was it, you old fool?’ she snapped.

Edwin twitched his thin shoulders under his frayed woollen tunic. ‘Never saw him before. A gentleman, no doubt, dressed in riding clothes, booted and spurred. He asked for the crowner, but he didn’t say who he was or why he wanted him.’

‘What did you tell him? That he was upstairs with the ale-wife?’ she said, threateningly.

The old soldier grinned, showing the blackened stumps in his gums. ‘No, I said the crowner would almost certainly be in here within the hour. He said nothing and walked out.’

‘What did he look like?’ demanded John.

‘Big, tall fellow, no moustache or beard. Couldn’t see his hair, he had a leather cap tied around under his chin. Looked about thirty or more years.’

‘Not another bailiff come to report a sudden death?’

‘Didn’t look like any bailiff. More likely a soldier.’

De Wolfe looked at Nesta. ‘I wonder if this is our long-expected Bernardus de Blanchefort? If it is, he’s got a nasty shock awaiting him.’

Someone else marched up to the table, no rogue Templar but Gwyn of Polruan. ‘A couple of messages, Crowner. First, that little toad Thomas has seen this Italian priest down at the cathedral Close. He turned up before I could send him down to the priory, saying that this Cosimo has come back to the bishop’s palace with his two strong-arm men. Bishop Marshal is still away, but he has met two of the Archdeacons and the Precentor.’

‘Has Thomas any idea of where they have been these last two days?’

‘None at all – but their horses were tired and mud-spattered so they’ve covered some distance lately.’

De Wolfe gave a loud grunt, his usual means of responding when he had nothing constructive to say. ‘And your other news?’

‘Sergeant Gabriel was sent down to the gatehouse by the sheriff to tell me to command you to attend on him as soon as possible.’

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know – but Gabriel said that two of the Templar’s squires had been up there within the last hour.’

De Wolfe rose wearily to his feet. ‘I’d better be off, I suppose. Maybe the Knights of Christ have thought better of refusing to speak to me.’ And with Gwyn in tow, he began trudging back up to Rougemont.

If John de Wolfe had thought that the three Templars might have softened their attitude, he was very much mistaken. When he reached the castle keep, he found de Revelle’s room almost filled with the Templars and their sergeants. Unlike their previous appearance in Exeter, all three now carried the large red cross of their Order on the shoulder of their mantles. Brian de Falaise and Roland de Ver wore the famous white cloaks of celibacy and, as a previously married man, Godfrey Capra was in black. Though they wore no armour or helmets, nor the surcoats with the red cross on the breast, the knights had long swords buckled to their baldrics. Their sergeants, grim-looking men who were much older than most squires, stood in the background, dressed in sombre brown that also carried the broad cross.

As John entered and stood by the door, the beefy Brian de Falaise glowered at him. ‘Here he is, de Revelle! Tell this man to mind his own business, or it will be the worse for him!’

With this unpromising start, a cacophony of recrimination and protest began, some of it contributed by de Revelle. De Wolfe began shouting back and nothing was achieved above the din for several minutes. Then Roland de Ver rapped the pommel of his dagger upon the table and, in a steely voice, called for quiet. ‘Let us all regain our tempers! I wish for no personal quarrel with you, Coroner. I realise that you have been charged with certain duties by the king and I respect your fidelity in wishing to carry out your legal functions.’

Somewhat mollified by this sensible statement, de Wolfe advanced to the table and nodded to the leader of the group. ‘When a man is killed against the king’s peace, especially a Norman knight, it cannot be ignored.’

‘God will not ignore it and that is what matters,’ said de Ver piously. ‘Pope Eugenius long ago made the Templars independent of archbishops and you well know that Rome has decreed to all states in Europe that our Order is to be exempt from all national laws. Thus, you have no jurisdiction over us and cannot interfere with our activities.’ He paused, then his tone changed to accusation. ‘Not only do we deny you the right to question us, but we wish to question you. We are concerned at your apparent intimacy with Gilbert de Ridefort, especially your insinuations that he imparted certain information to you. De Wolfe, did he or did he not expound on his crazed heretical beliefs?’

‘He did not – and I would have scant interest if he had. I am concerned with one thing only, and that is the manner of his death and who caused it.’

Roland de Ver patently disbelieved him and again repeated his firm intention of not answering any questions on any subject.

The coroner scowled at the calm features of this slim soldier-monk. ‘Are you confessing that you had something to do with the death of your fellow Templar, but are refusing to let me question you about it?’ he thundered.

‘Watch your tongue, de Wolfe,’ yelled Brian de Falaise, but de Ver held up his hand for silence.

‘The last part of your question is true. You may not question us about anything. The first part is unanswerable, as we say neither yea nor nay to anything you might ask. We do not – we cannot – forbid you to investigate this death. You are welcome and have a duty so to do, as long as you do not try to ask us anything about that or, indeed, any other subject that we choose not to discuss.’

De Wolfe shook his head in exasperation. ‘Well, do you choose to discuss Templar land-holdings in Devon? That seems an innocuous subject.’

His brother-in-law spoke up. ‘I have already told these good knights about our expedition to the north on Monday and they have agreed to accompany us. We would welcome the support of six seasoned warriors, especially as they have a specific interest in the rightful claim of their Order to the island of Lundy.’

There was a silence, which allowed frayed tempers to simmer down. De Wolfe could see that the will of the Templars remained intractable and, having respect generally for their organisation, he had to admit defeat in any frontal attack upon them, though he remained highly suspicious of their involvement with the death of de Ridefort. His eyes roved over their faces, including those of the grimly silent squires, and he felt that any one of them might have slain de Ridefort, if their fanatical devotion to their Order demanded it. But there seemed no way of pursuing it now, though he resolved to continue investigating by any other means he could devise.

They took his silence for defeat and the atmosphere relaxed a little, as Roland de Ver obtained more details from the sheriff of the departure on Monday morning, and the arrangements for accommodation, food and fodder en route for Barnstaple. The coroner remained silent throughout these exchanges and stood aside as the six Templars filed out, the knights giving him a cursory nod as they left for the priory of St Nicholas.

He was left alone with Richard de Revelle, who breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘John, why is it that you seem to antagonise every person of authority with whom you come in contact?’ he asked wearily. ‘The Templars are the most powerful force not only in England but in the whole of Christendom – and yet, within the blinking of an eye, you manage to incense them with your accusations!’

‘The dead man was also a Templar, but no one seems concerned about him,’ retorted de Wolfe.

‘He was a renegade of some sort, so Roland de Ver informs me,’ replied the sheriff. ‘Who are we to probe the mysteries of that occult Order? Keep out of it, John, it’s none of our business.’

De Wolfe had his own ideas on that, but knew that it was useless arguing with de Revelle. He cared only about deferring to the most powerful men in the vicinity, men who even if they could not advance him would at least not hinder him in his eternal search for preferment. ‘Why are they willing to join our expedition on Monday?’ he asked, trying a slightly different tack.

‘As I told you, they say that their purpose in Devon is to seek new Templar holdings – so what more natural than that three tough fighters and their hardy squires should take the chance to investigate how their long-established grant of Lundy has been frustrated for so many years?’

De Wolfe had to admit to himself that this seemed reasonable, given the long history of defeat that the Templar claim to the island had suffered. Cynically, he thought that maybe now that their task of eliminating Gilbert de Ridefort had been successfully completed, they felt that a few days’ diversion in the service of their Order might be appropriate.

De Wolfe pushed himself upright from the table edge and the sheriff pointedly picked up a quill and a parchment, ready to continue his work. ‘So what is to be done about this dead knight? Is he to be pushed into a hole in the cathedral grounds and forgotten?’

De Revelle brandished the feather of his pen at the coroner. ‘I would suggest doing just that. I don’t want to know about him, now that three senior Templars have warned us off. Forget it, John. Go on to your next case – it’s safer that way.’

With a snort of disgust at his brother-in-law’s apathy, John stalked out and went home, but he was fated this night to have no peace. Outside his front door, he found his clerk hopping from foot to foot in impatience, with a summons from the archdeacon to visit him immediately at his house in Canon’s Row.

Uneasy, but glad of another excuse to postpone sitting in his wife’s company, the coroner beckoned Thomas to accompany him and strode along the few yards of Martin’s Lane and into its continuation along the north side of the cathedral Close. Many of the twenty-four prebendaries of the cathedral lived here, together with their vicars, secondary priests and male servants, for theoretically no woman was allowed to reside in the Close.

John de Alençon was Archdeacon of Exeter; the other three holding that rank in the episcopal hierarchy were archdeacons of other parts of the diocese. He was John’s special friend, a staunch supporter of Richard the Lionheart, which was more than could be said for the Bishop, the Treasurer and the Precentor. A thin, ascetic Norman, he nevertheless had a dry sense of humour, but tonight it was not much in evidence when de Wolfe entered his bare study in the narrow house facing the cathedral.

‘I have had a visit from this abbot from Italy, John,’ he began, without any preamble. ‘As the bishop has left for Canterbury, I had to receive him in the Chapter House and listen to his orders from France and Rome.’ He sounded bitter at what must have been a traumatic meeting with such a powerful emissary.

‘What orders were these, John?’ asked de Wolfe mildly.

‘That this corpse you brought back from somewhere is not to lie before an altar in the cathedral – and that it is not to be buried in the graveyard outside.’

The coroner stared at his friend. ‘And what is to happen to him, then? A stake through his heart, then buried at midnight at the crossroads? Good God, man, the deceased was a monk, a follower of the Rule of Benedict. He can’t be consigned to an unmarked grave like a suicide!’

The thin priest, enveloped from neck to toe in a black robe, looked saddened but resolute. ‘Those were my orders and, after being shown a signed authority from the Vatican, I had no option but to obey.’

Thanks to Thomas’s spying, John knew that this letter existed and was genuine. ‘But why? A few hours ago you allowed him to rest in the North Tower.’

‘That was before this Cosimo came to inform me of certain matters, John.’

‘What matters would they be?’

John de Alençon shook his head sadly, the tight grey curls at the sides of his head lifting. ‘I cannot tell you that. He forbade it. Suffice it to say that, given the damage that this Gilbert might have done, I am not surprised that he came to a dreadful end. It is a wonder that he was not cloven in two by a lightning flash from heaven.’

There was a moan from behind, and looking round, the coroner saw that his clerk was crossing himself in an almost frenzied way. ‘And you can tell me nothing more, old friend?’ he asked softly.

‘Not even you, John. Like the confessional, some things are inviolate, and the command of a messenger from the Holy Father is one of them, much as we may dislike its content.’

‘So what is to happen to Gilbert’s body? Are you going to eject it from the house of the God he served all his life?’

The archdeacon’s blue eyes were stern. ‘I am not sure that latterly the man was much concerned with serving his God. But it is late and I am conveniently going to claim that nothing can now be done until morning.’

‘And what then?’

‘There is a small burial ground behind the church of St Bartholomew. I have prevailed upon the parish priest to have this body interred there in the morning, with the minimum of ceremony. The ground is consecrated and no doubt Abbot Cosimo will not be pleased, but I am willing to endure his displeasure in order to place this Templar in hallowed ground, even if the devil had entered his soul in his last days.’

De Wolfe realised that his friend had gone out on a limb, probably as much to please him as for the repose of de Ridefort’s soul.

‘I dare not officiate, but the priest of St Bartholomew’s, William Weston, will put him in the ground with some appropriate words. I failed to tell him the whole story – indeed, I could not after the direct orders of Cosimo – so he will not be aware of the extent of the problem.’

With that, de Wolfe had to be satisfied, and late in the evening, he took himself home to meet Matilda’s red-rimmed eyes.