The Awful Secret

Chapter Three In which Crowner John meets an old acquaintance

Another long day’s ride meant that it was almost dusk when, on the following evening, they reached Exeter’s North Gate. An early start from Umberleigh, a few miles south of Barnstaple, had enabled them to ride steadily, allowing John’s leg and his clerk’s backside to survive the many hours in the saddle.

When the coroner reached his house in Martin’s Lane, he saw Odin settled in his stable opposite, then went wearily through his front door and took off his riding clothes in the vestibule. In the hall, his wife was sitting in her usual place before the hearth, partly hidden by the hood of her monk’s chair. At the sound of the creaking door, she peered around its edge. When she saw him, she gave a throaty grunt and turned back to the fire. ‘You’ve deigned to come home, I see.’ It was her usual frosty greeting.

De Wolfe sighed. He was in no mood for a fight: he was tired and hungry. ‘It’s a long ride from Ilfracombe, in under a day and a half,’ he muttered.

‘You’re a fool to attempt it, with that leg,’ she retorted illogically. After complaining about the length of his absence, she was now implying that he should have stayed longer on the way back.

John ignored this and, sinking on to a bench at the empty table, gave a great yell for Mary. She had already heard him returning and soon bustled in with a wooden bowl of broth and a small loaf, which she put in front of him with a broad wink.

‘Get that down you, master. I’ll bring some salt fish and turnips afterwards.’

Brutus had ambled in after her and now sat between the coroner’s knees under the table, with his big brown head on John’s lap, waiting for some titbits of bread soaked in ham broth.

Matilda’s brief conversation had dried up and now she studiedly ignored her husband. It suited him to have some peace, at least until he had finished the food that Mary brought in relays, including a jug of hot spiced wine.

Afterwards, he limped to the fireside and dropped into the other cowled chair, but his leg had stiffened up and was crying out for exercise. He decided that he would best get that by walking down to the Bush to see Nesta. However, he felt that he should try to smooth over relations with Matilda before he left her again.

His first efforts, telling her of the events in Ilfracombe, were met with curt derision. ‘All that way to see a dead shipman and a half-drowned Breton! What business is that of a coroner? You should leave such petty matters to the bailiffs.’ Matilda’s ideas of the duties of a county coroner were modelled on those of her brother, who sat comfortably in his chamber and gave orders to minions whilst enjoying the social status of a senior law officer and administrator. Richard de Revelle was not a ‘hands-on’ person like de Wolfe; he was an aspiring politician – or had been until he had burnt his fingers over his support for Prince John’s rebellion.

Tonight de Wolfe could not bring himself to argue the matter – he was tired of the old controversy, which seemed to be building up again after the respite that his accident and her grudging nursing care had provided. For the past two months, Matilda had been single-minded in her determination to bring him back to health and activity. She had held her tongue about his many faults and, though uncommunicative on anything other than his welfare, she had avoided any censure of his affairs with other women. Now, though, there were signs that the truce was over and that Matilda was slipping back to her old self.

He doggedly changed the subject in an effort to coax her out of her sulk, telling her of the curious persistence of the man who peered at him around corners. Thankfully he found that, for some reason, this tale seemed to catch her attention. ‘Surely you can recollect the face?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not so many friends that his is lost in the crowd!’

Ignoring the gibe, he said, ‘It’s been niggling at my mind for a couple of days – and nights, when I can’t sleep. There’s something familiar about his features but for the life of me I can’t put a name to him.’

‘No doubt it’s some old drinking crony – or a bloodthirsty acquaintance from your years of slaughter on the battlefield. But why should he not approach you?’

De Wolfe scowled into the glowing fire, his mind’s eye seeing the mysterious fellow’s face once again. ‘I can’t imagine what he can be up to – but if he appears once more, Gwyn will get him. He’s to keep a special watch for the man. He only appears within the city, so he can’t vanish over the horizon.’

The subject was soon exhausted and, as John had hoped, Matilda shortly left the growing darkness of the hall to go up to her solar, where Lucille would brush her hair and get her dressed for bed. As soon as she had gone, he left the house and, with Brutus sniffing contentedly at his heels, made his way slowly down to his favourite tavern to see his favourite woman.

Early next morning, the coroner decided to call upon the sheriff to tell him of the situation in the north of the county. Soon after a dawn breakfast, he walked up to Rougemont, giving his aching leg every chance to strengthen itself with more exercise. He called first at the cubbyhole in the undercroft, where Gwyn and Thomas were squeezed into a space a quarter the size of their usual chamber in the gatehouse. The Cornishman grumbled at the cold dampness of the room, caused by the wet sheen on the inner wall, whose stones were covered with green mould. Thomas was crushed against a side wall, trying to write on his rolls at their trestle table, which now half filled the tiny space.

‘When I return, Gwyn, I want you to follow me into the town at a few paces distance,’ de Wolfe commanded. ‘If this accursed fellow appears, catch him and discover what he wants. Put your dagger to his throat, if needs be!’ With this harsh admonition, the coroner stumped up the few stone steps to the churned turf of the inner ward and walked around the corner to the wooden stairway that gave entrance to the keep.

A few moments later, he pushed open the door to de Revelle’s chamber and marched in without warning. This time, the sheriff was not at his table signing documents, but was standing, with his back to de Wolfe, in a small alcove at the further end of the room. A curtain hung on a pole across the entrance to offer some rudimentary privacy but it was pulled back to reveal his brother-in-law relieving himself down a stone shaft built into the thickness of the wall. This came out at the foot of the keep, adding further ordure to the mess in the inner ward.

Hearing footsteps, the sheriff dropped the front of his tunic and spat down the hole in front of him. ‘Can’t I even use the garde-robe without someone bursting in without a by-your-leave?’ he snarled, without turning round.

‘Don’t worry, Richard, I’ve seen men having a piss before now,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘When you’ve emptied your bladder, I’ll give you some news that might interest you.’

De Revelle spun round, shaking the folds of his green robe back into place. ‘It’s you, John. I might have guessed that only you would barge in here unheralded. What news is this?’

He went to the table and settled himself behind it in his chair, his small, pointed beard jutting forward as if to defy de Wolfe to deliver anything that might be of the slightest import to him.

The coroner leaned on the other side of the table, his knuckles on the oak boards, hunched forward so that his big hooked nose was aimed at the sheriff like a lance. ‘Piracy, that’s the news! Murder and theft against the king’s peace up on the coast around Ilfracombe.’ He deliberately emphasised ‘the king’s peace’: ever since he had been appointed last September, there had been a running battle between the coroner and sheriff about the prosecution of serious crimes. Now, after he had described the events of his visit to Ilfracombe, he bluntly demanded of de Revelle some action against the pirates. ‘It’s your county, as far as law and order are concerned,’ he boomed. ‘I’m charged with dealing with wrecks and dead bodies, but you are the king’s representative here and it’s up to you to keep his peace.’ Again he emphasised the king, as a reminder that it was the Lionheart who was the sheriff’s raison d’être and that he had better be single-minded about that fact.

But, typically, de Revelle tried to wriggle out of his responsibilities. ‘I’m sheriff of the county of Devon, not of all the bloody sea around its coasts!’ he blustered. ‘Let the king’s navy deal with any pirates.’

The lean, black form of the coroner bent even closer to the dandyish figure, who backed away slightly. ‘When they murder subjects of the king and loot ships from one of his major cities, that’s business for the enforcers of law in this or any other county!’ he barked. ‘Unless you have decided not to uphold the peace of your sovereign, King Richard?’ This was a thinly veiled reminder that the sheriff’s tenure of office depended on his behaviour, as far as loyalists were concerned – men like Lord Guy Ferrars and Reginald de Courcy, as well as de Wolfe himself.

De Revelle recognised the warning and grudgingly came to heel. ‘Very well. What’s the best way to go about this? From what I’ve heard in the past, we need look no further than Lundy. It was ever a nest of pirates, right back to the days of the Vikings.’ It occurred to neither of them that their own Norman blood was only a few generations removed from those same Norse pirates who had settled in northern France.

When he saw that his brother-in-law was disposed to be more reasonable, de Wolfe relaxed and moved back from the edge of the table. ‘I agree. It’s quite possible that William de Marisco and his island stronghold might be the source of this trouble. But there was a hint that this particular outrage may have come from Appledore.’

The sheriff’s fair eyebrows rose a little. ‘Appledore? Seems unlikely that they would turn to piracy without de Grenville knowing about it – unless you’re suggesting that he’s party to it.’

De Wolfe gave one of his grunts: the de Grenville family held the lordship of Bideford, which included Appledore, but he wouldn’t put a little piracy past them if the pickings were good enough. ‘Early days yet. We need to find out more facts before we start accusing anyone.’

This was another dig at Richard, whose methods of detecting crime usually began in the torture chamber below the keep, rather than through seeking the truth in the town or countryside. De Wolfe carried on with his advice. ‘Send a few men-at-arms up there for a start. I’ll go with them and look around the ports there – Bideford, Appledore, Barnstaple, maybe even Bude. Shake the tree hard enough and maybe some fruit will fall out.’

With obvious reluctance, the sheriff agreed to let Sergeant Gabriel and four of his men go up to the north of the county with the coroner for a couple of days. As John was leaving, he called after him, ‘It’ll be Lundy, you mark my words! Those de Mariscos are evil bastards – they have no respect for human life. Or the king’s peace.’

‘That’s rich, coming from you!’ de Wolfe muttered cynically, and slammed the door behind him.

The coroner had no duties until noon, when he had to attend two hangings at the Magdalen Tree outside the city walls so he decided to pay a visit to his mistress. On the way, he put his head into his miserable office and warned Gwyn that he was going to walk through the streets and to keep a sharp eye out for his annoying mystery man. The shaggy-haired Cornishman gave him a few moments’ start, then followed him at a discreet distance, keeping back to match the slow pace of his master, who still had a slight limp. They went out through the gatehouse of Rougemont and down Castle Hill, then turned into the main street.

Gwyn kept him in sight, pushing through the folk that thronged the narrow streets – shoppers, porters, loungers, pedlars and the rest. The coroner was an easy man to shadow, standing a head taller than most, his black hair bobbing over the collar of his mottled grey cloak.

Towards the end of the street, approaching Milk Lane that turned down to Butcher’s Row, the officer saw him suddenly stop dead in his tracks and stare to his left. Then he waved an arm at something out of sight and Gwyn tried to close the distance between them. A porter with two great bales of wool hanging from a pole over his shoulder got in his way, just as a donkey with wide side-panniers tried to pass him. Cursing and pushing, the Cornishman lost a valuable minute in getting to de Wolfe’s side, by which time the coroner had moved to the edge of the street, behind a stall selling trinkets and herbs. ‘He was there, blast him!’ fumed de Wolfe, pointing at a narrow gap between the side wall of a tall house and an adjacent storehouse. ‘I can’t move fast enough with this bloody leg of mine.’

Gwyn dashed into the gap, his huge shoulders almost filling the space between the two walls. ‘I’ll find him this time, never fear!’ he yelled over his shoulder.

‘If you do, I’ll be at the Bush,’ called his master and, with a snarl of disgust at his own infirmity, carried on down the street on his way to Idle Lane.

Not long afterwards, as the cathedral bell tolled for the morning high mass at about the tenth hour, Gwyn was bending his head beneath the low lintel of the tavern doorway, staring about in the smoky gloom for de Wolfe. There were only a few customers at that hour and Nesta was sitting with him at his customary table near the hearth, a jar of ale in front of him. The landlady beckoned to Gwyn, then yelled at the ancient potman to bring drink, bread and cheese for the coroner’s ever-hungry henchman.

‘I got him!’ rumbled Gwyn triumphantly, as he dropped heavily on to a bench opposite the pair.

‘So where is he?’ demanded de Wolfe, looking expectantly at the doorway. ‘Did you have to fight him? Or did you kill him, by chance?’

His officer shook his head, as Edwin banged a pot before him and placed a small loaf and a hunk of rock-hard cheese on the scrubbed boards of the table. ‘No fight, no struggle. The man wants to meet you secretly, so I told him to come to your house at the second hour this afternoon. You’ll be back from the gibbeting and had your meal by then.’

‘But who is he, this mystery man?’ demanded Nesta, her pert face quivering with curiosity as Gwyn stuffed his mouth with bread.

De Wolfe was accustomed to his bodyguard’s relaxed attitude to communicating news, but even so he jabbed a forefinger across the table towards him. ‘Swallow that quickly and tell us, or I’ll pull that moustache clean off your face, damn you!’

Gwyn gulped down his mouthful and wiped the back of a huge hand across his mouth. ‘He said his name was Gilbert de Ridefort and that he was sure you’d remember him.’

De Wolfe sat back in astonishment. ‘Good God, of course I do! Are you sure that was the name he gave?’

‘No doubt at all – he made me repeat it a couple of times. Said he daren’t show himself too openly and he wasn’t sure he could depend on you, now that you’re a king’s law officer.’

Nesta was looking from one to the other for enlightenment. ‘So who is he? And why didn’t you recognise him before, if you knew him, John?’

De Wolfe’s face was drawn into a scowl of concentration. ‘It was the beard and moustache – or rather the lack of them – that confused me. When I knew him, he had a faceful of dark brown hair. I’d never seen him shaven, as he is now. But, yes, the eyes and nose are Gilbert’s.’

‘So who is he? And why all this subterfuge?’ asked the auburn-haired tavern keeper.

‘He is a Knight of the Temple – or was.’

‘Why “was”?’

‘With no beard or moustache, something is amiss. They demand strictly that no Templar is shaven.’

Although everyone knew of the famous warrior monks, whose full title was the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, most people knew little about them, except that they were now rich, powerful and ruthless.

Nesta’s insatiable curiosity was now well and truly aroused. ‘How do you know this man, John? And why should he seek you out?’

‘I remember him now – at the siege of Acre in ’ninety-one,’ broke in Gwyn, through a mouthful of cheese.

De Wolfe waved his empty ale pot at Edwin, who hurried to get a refill from the casks at the back of the large room. ‘That’s right. He was one of the crazy Templars who fought like demons alongside us in Richard’s army. De Ridefort was one of the survivors and I met him a few times later, at the battle of Arsuf and again on the march towards Jerusalem.’ His ale arrived and he took a deep draught. ‘But I wonder what he’s doing in Devon – and without his beard?’

‘He’s obviously hiding from someone,’ opined Gwyn. ‘He was forever looking over his shoulder and keeping his face under the brim of his big hat.’

‘But who is he?’ persisted Nesta. ‘Is he an English Templar?’

‘No, he’s a French knight. I seem to remember that he was based in the Templar Commandery in Paris. The first time I met him was briefly at the castle of Gisors, in ’eighty-eight.’

‘Where’s Gisors?’

‘A town in the Vexin, where that leering bitch Lucille comes from. On the borders of Normandy, north of Paris.’

‘Ah, I remember him there, too,’ said Gwyn. ‘We were in the king’s company, though he was Prince Richard then. We were at that big meeting between his father, old King Henry, and that bastard Philip of France.’

Nesta was impatient with this diversion. ‘What’s that to do with this Templar seeking you out, John?’

De Wolfe downed the rest of his ale and stood up, his gaunt frame almost reaching to the blackened rafters. ‘I don’t know, dear woman, but I hope to find out this afternoon. Meanwhile, we’ve got to attend to two felons dangling at the the end of a rope. Gwyn, go and find our poxy clerk and fetch him down to the gallows with his pen and parchment. Their exit from this world has to be properly recorded, even if they don’t have two pennies between them for the king’s coffers.’

Witnessing the execution of two petty thieves did not blunt John’s appetite for his midday meal. Hanging and mutilation were as familiar to the population of England as bull-baiting, cock-fighting, eating and sleeping. Each Tuesday and Friday, those citizens of Exeter who had nothing better to do walked out through the South Gate and up the road to the gallows on Magdalen Street, where a pair of stout posts supported a long cross-bar which, on busy days, could dispatch three felons side by side.

The crowd came to watch the executions as a form of entertainment, a free diversion from the weary squalor of their existence. Many were old men and grandmothers, with their urchins who ran around playing tag while pedlars hawked their pies, fruit and sweetmeats to the throng.

The coroner’s task was to record the name and date of death of each victim, which Thomas de Peyne noted in his neat script on the coroner’s rolls, with details of any land or chattels that the felon may have left behind, which was then forfeit to the Crown. The two petty criminals gave up their sad lives with little protest and, his job done, de Wolfe went home, where he found Matilda already tucking into boiled fowl and cabbage. She was as uncommunicative as ever when he sat at the other end of the sombre table and waited for Mary to bring his food. However, her interest was awakened when he told her that they were to expect a visitor before long. ‘It’s a Knight of the Temple, one I knew slightly in France and Outremer,’ he explained, unsure whether she would welcome the intrusion of a stranger into the house.

‘Is this the man who has been peering at you around corners?’

‘It is indeed – Gwyn caught him at it again this morning, but it seems he was unsure of whether I would greet him with open arms or throw him into gaol.’

‘And which is it to be?’ she demanded, staring at him over a chicken thigh grasped in her fingers.

‘I can’t tell yet – but something strange is going on. The man’s shaved off his whiskers, which is forbidden by the Templars.’

‘He can’t be hanged for that,’ she observed.

‘I wouldn’t be too sure – the discipline of the Templars is as hard as flint. Yet as far as I recall, he was quite senior in the ranks of the order. When we left Palestine with the king, we sailed in a Templar warship and they mentioned that Gilbert de Ridefort was to go back to Paris to take up some important position at their Commandery there.’

Matilda put down the bone and wiped her mouth with an embroidered cloth from her sleeve. Automatically, she adjusted her hair, just visible under the white linen coverchief. ‘A senior knight, you say? That means that this Sir Gilbert is an important man, I presume?’

John suppressed a sigh, but he was glad that the interest sparked by her incorrigible snobbishness might give him an easier passage for a while. ‘He is certainly well connected, as he is the nephew of Gerard de Ridefort, a former Grand Master of the Knights Templar – though that may be a mixed blessing. Gerard is notorious as the man who lost Jerusalem to the Saracens in ’eighty-seven.’

His wife, for all her posturing as a full-blooded Norman lady, knew little of what went on in the wider world and de Wolfe tried to explain a little more about that glorious, but somewhat sinister, order of militant monks. ‘It was said to have been founded almost eighty years ago, when a French nobleman from Champagne and eight other knights offered their services to Baudouin, the king of Jerusalem, supposedly to patrol the roads of the Holy Land and protect pilgrims from the infidel.’

Matilda had stopped tearing at her food to listen to him – a novelty as far as her husband was concerned. ‘Why d’you say “supposed”?’ she asked.

‘I doubt that nine men could do anything useful in Palestine – and no one has ever heard of them protecting anyone. They spent only nine years there, then suddenly returned to France.’

‘So why are they called Templars?’ she demanded.

‘Because, strangely, for their residence Baudouin gave them part of his palace, built over the foundations of the Temple of Solomon. They were originally called the Poor Knights of Christ, resigned to poverty, obedience and chastity, though now many live in splendour and lend money to kings and emperors.’ Matilda thought about this for a moment, but her mind slipped back to more immediate concerns than history.

‘How old would this Sir Gilbert be?’

Her husband looked at her from under his bushy black brows. There was a note in her voice that he failed to recognise. ‘About our age, I suppose – or maybe he looked younger with no beard.’

‘And he’s coming here, to this house, today?’

‘I told Gwyn to fetch him – he is lodging in some house in Curre Street[2].’

Matilda sniffed disapprovingly. ‘What does a high-ranking Templar want, staying in such mean surroundings?’

‘Maybe he wishes to be inconspicuous. We can ask him very soon.’

‘Are there other Templars in Devon?’ she asked, continuing to puzzle him with her unexpected interest in his affairs.

‘Few compared to other counties. There is one of their Preceptories near Tiverton and I think they own more land elsewhere, but it is tenanted out to others. They were granted Lundy by the old king, but William de Marisco refuses even to let them land on the island.’

‘How many Templars are there?’ she asked.

‘Many thousands, no doubt. The Grand Master controls them all from Acre, since this Gilbert’s uncle lost the Holy City a few years ago, but under him there are Masters at their Commanderies in many countries, with lesser Preceptories controlling great estates. In England, they are based at the New Temple in London, where their round church was built a few years ago.’

Mary entered to clear away the debris on the table, and her master and mistress moved with their wine to sit by the fire. As she went out, the maidservant looked back at them with a quizzical expression. It was rare to see those two conversing like a normal man and wife.

‘King Richard seems quite partial to them,’ Matilda observed. ‘You say he left Palestine in one of their ships?’

‘Yes, he owes much to them, especially for their valour in battle at the Crusades. He has shown many favours to them, both in England and Normandy.’

‘But do you share his admiration?’ Matilda had a shrewd mind, when it was not clogged with religious fervour or after social advancement. She had detected some reserve in her husband’s attitude to the Poor Knights of Christ.

‘I admire their discipline and their valour, which often bordered on the foolhardy.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Yet I always felt there was something odd, almost sinister about them. We could see only their outward face – the one they turned to the world. They kept something hidden from all others.’

‘But they are exemplary Christians, surely. Wasn’t St Bernard of Clairvaux once their spiritual inspiration?’ Matilda might have been hazy about political history, but she knew her saints.

De Wolfe gave one of his shrugs. ‘Yes, he wrote the Rule, their strict code of behaviour, as far as I recall,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘But there are strange rumours about their beliefs. When they weren’t fighting the Muhammadans, they were studying their religion with apparent approval. And some say that the Templars have a very different outlook on Christianity from the rest of us, even to the point of heresy. But I find that hard to believe – the Pope has given them a status above everyone, even the crowned heads of Europe. All very strange.’ He stared pensively into the fire, his mind far away in the Levant, seeing again the ranks of mounted warriors in their long white surcoats emblazoned with the scarlet cross.

Matilda finished her wine and rose from her chair. ‘I’ll go up and have my maid attend to me,’ she announced. ‘Call me when Sir Gilbert arrives.’

As she left, he heard her yelling for Lucille, and exhaled in wonderment that the mere mention of a mysterious knighted monk should send her off, like some silly girl, to have her hair tweaked and her gown changed.

Outside, the day had turned colder and an early spring chill seeped through the shutters and under the doors. De Wolfe prodded the fire with an old broken sword kept in the hearth and threw on a few more logs. Half-way through his next cup of Loire wine, he started as Brutus suddenly hoisted himself to his feet and faced the door. He growled, but slowly wagged his long tail, so John knew that he had heard Gwyn arriving. The man was a favourite of every dog in Devon.

A tap on the door was followed by the whiskered face appearing cautiously in the opening, seeking out de Wolfe’s wife. Then, with relief, Gwyn opened the door wide and stood to one side. ‘Sir Gilbert de Ridefort, Crowner!’ he announced.

De Wolfe got up and went to welcome the visitor, nodding to Gwyn to escape to Mary’s kitchen for some food. ‘And tell her to take word to the mistress that our guest has arrived,’ he added.

Turning to the newcomer, he gripped his arm in greeting and waved him towards the fire. ‘So it was you who was haunting me these past few days, de Ridefort!’ he said. ‘Now that I know your name, I recognise you, but until then your lack of a beard and moustache was a perfect disguise.’

‘Pray God it remains so!’ said de Ridefort fervently. ‘Maybe if it fooled you, it will be equally effective with others.’

John sat him on a high-backed settle near the fire and dropped back into his own chair opposite. The knight declined the offer of food, but accepted some wine, which John poured from the jug into one of Matilda’s best chalices, taken from a shelf on the wall.

As they drank to old times, the coroner surveyed his guest, wondering whether his visit would mean trouble. He saw a man almost as tall as himself, with an erect bearing, broad shoulders and a slim waist. With his pilgrim’s hat removed, he had wavy brown hair down to the collar of his dark green mantle, another sign that something was amiss: Templars, though their faces were never shaven, were required to keep their hair short.

Gilbert had a rather long, aristocratic face with a straight nose set between large hazel eyes. His chin was square, below a firm mouth, now set in a rather sad smile. As John had guessed, he was on the right side of forty, a year or two younger than himself. A handsome fellow, thought the coroner, one who could easily turn a woman’s head, though celibacy was strictly enforced by the Rule of the Temple – they were not allowed to kiss a female, even a mother or sister.

De Wolfe came directly to the point. ‘What’s all this mystery about, Gilbert? Why are you not dressed like a Templar and what happened to your beard?’

De Ridefort sighed and bent forward, his hands grasping the cup resting on his knees. ‘I take you for an honest man, de Wolfe – and one who I have heard will not suffer injustice.’

John grunted: he could think of no better response.

‘But I also know you are King Richard’s man – you were often at his side in Outremer and you were with him when he was captured near Vienna.’

‘I claim no credit for that,’ snapped the coroner. He still blamed himself for failing to prevent the kidnap of his sovereign when they were trying to pass through Austria in disguise, after being shipwrecked on the way back from Palestine.

‘I mention the king because he is so partial to the Order of the Temple – and I wondered if your sympathies were equally strong.’

Puzzled, de Wolfe replied, in a noncommittal fashion, ‘I have nothing against you Templars – you were undoubtedly the best fighting men in the Holy Land.’

Gilbert took a sip of his wine and looked uneasily at John, as if undecided whether or not to confide in him. ‘I am no longer a Templar. In fact, I am a fugitive from them.’

This remarkable admission left the coroner staring at his guest. ‘But a Templar is for life – I’ve heard that they never allow abdication, except into an even stricter monastic order.’

The other man nodded sadly. ‘They do not believe that I have left them. In fact, they are searching for me, to take me back into the Order – in chains, if needs be, or even a shroud.’

The coroner leaned over with the wine jug and filled de Ridefort’s cup. ‘You’d better tell me the whole story,’ he said.

The handsome man opposite shook his head. ‘Not yet – not the whole story.’

John bristled. ‘Do you not trust me, then?’

‘It’s not that at all. I have no wish to embroil you in my troubles – certainly not until I know if you have any sympathy with my cause. And I need advice, as well as help, if you are willing to give it. Yet the devil of it is that at present I cannot explain everything to you. Some you must take on trust.’

The coroner took a deep drink and thought quickly. This man smelt of trouble – he had an aura of doom about him. Though de Wolfe had nothing against him, their depth of friendship was not great. He had met him across a table a few times at Gisors, and again in Palestine, either during troop marches or yarning around an evening camp-fire. He was not a bosom companion for whom he would lay down his life – though, de Wolfe’s nature being what it was, he would never stand by and see injustice done. ‘Why were you so reluctant to make yourself known to me?’ he asked. ‘All that furtive peeping around corners – you’re lucky my man Gwyn didn’t throw a spear at you, as I’m not short of enemies, even in Devon.’

De Ridefort smiled. For the first time his worried face had relaxed and again John saw that here was a man who could bowl over the ladies with no effort whatsoever. ‘I’m sorry for the skulking in alleyways, John, but I was anxious to see what sort of man you had become, since being elevated to your new judicial state – whatever a coroner is. I’m not at all clear on that.’

De Wolfe gave one of his throaty grunts. ‘It’s no great honour, I can tell you. You needn’t stand in awe of my great power. Now, are you going to tell me what you want with me?’

The revelations were interrupted again as the door opened and Matilda came in. She was resplendent in her best kirtle of green silk, tied around her thick waist with several turns of a silver cord whose tassels swept the floor. Her sleeves were almost as long, the bell-shaped cuffs knotted into tippets to keep them off the ground. Her hair was now gathered into two coils above each ear, held in place by silver net crespines. She had obviously goaded Lucille into extra efforts to make her look her best for the visitor.

Gilbert de Ridefort rose to his feet as John introduced his wife. He bowed over her hand and led her courteously to his own chair before the hearth, before sitting between them on a hard stool.

‘Sir Gilbert was just about to tell me of his reason for visiting Exeter,’ grated de Wolfe, determined to manoeuvre his guest into some better explanation than he had so far offered.

‘I’m not sure your charming lady wishes to be bothered with such matters,’ said Gilbert smoothly. The coroner could not decide whether he meant this or was using it as another excuse to delay revealing his true reason for seeking him out. Then his eye strayed to Matilda and he saw that his wife was undoubtedly captivated by the errant Templar. Her eyes were fixed on his face and, though a stocky woman of forty-six can hardly simper, he saw that the expression on her face was unlike any she had ever bestowed on him. Far from being jealous, he felt annoyed that such an unattractive middle-aged woman should be so foolish as to display her instant infatuation.

It was all the more ridiculous as she knew he had taken the strictest monkish vows of chastity and, for a moment, he wondered if de Ridefort was on the run because he had committed some amorous or lecherous indiscretion. It would not be the first time that a Templar had gone astray, though the harsh regime of their Order prescribed dire punishments or ignominious expulsion for offenders who were stripped of all knightly honours.

For once, Matilda unwittingly supported her husband in his thirst for explanation. She almost cooed as she denied that de Ridefort’s story would tire her.

‘Very well. You must both know that I have been these past two years in the Commandery of our Order in Paris – the main centre of our activities outside Palestine. I was a fairly senior member of the Chapter, under our Master, who in turn was responsible only to the Grand Master in Acre.’ He stared into the fire, with an expression that suggested he saw the flames of Hell dancing between the logs. ‘I came into possession of certain information of which only a few of the highest in the Order had any knowledge. Though I was prominent in the hierarchy, even I was not supposed to be privy to the secret. It came to me by accident.’

‘What was this secret?’ asked Matilda, breathlessly.

‘I cannot divulge that, certainly not yet, but it is a matter of the greatest import in our religious faith. I have still more soul-searching before I can decide what to do about this.’

‘You make it hard for me to understand your problems, de Ridefort,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘If you cannot give any inkling of what distresses you, how can I ever help you?’

Gilbert jerked himself to his feet and stood agitatedly before the hearth, his back to the fire, so that he could face them. ‘I am torn between the ingrained loyalty to the Knights Templar, whom I have served faithfully for fifteen years, and my anguish at deciding to reveal what I know. I cannot let this knowledge loose at the moment. There is another who shares both the secret and my torment as to what should be done.’

Matilda was staring open-mouthed at this Norman Adonis, who had walked in and captivated her mature heart with his looks and his story of heartrending conflict of loyalties – even though she had not the faintest idea what he was talking about.

But her husband, with more worldly-wise cynicism, wanted far more disclosure than the Templar seemed willing to provide. ‘Much as you are welcome in my house, as any knight would be, I fail to see what you want with me,’ he said.

Restlessly, the visitor threw himself back on to his stool and hunched forward, his gaze returning to the fire as he spoke. ‘This other knight is an old and dear friend of mine, Bernardus de Blanchefort, who has been at a Preceptory of our Order in the southern part of France since we both returned from the Holy Land. He is from those parts, his family having estates in the Languedoc and on the slopes of the Pyrenees. We have met many times in the past two years and our concerns have grown as we realised that a great conspiracy has long been afoot, into which, as Templars, we have unwittingly been drawn.’

De Wolfe, though not an unintelligent man, was a practical, straightforward soldier and the man’s words meant little to him. They went right over Matilda’s head, but she was content to gaze at him and savour the dramatic, if incomprehensible, story he seemed bent on unfolding. John cleared his throat and waited for further enlightenment.

‘I cannot tell you more. I must wait for Bernardus to come so that we may decide on what should be done. But at the moment I am in great peril from the Order, who suspect that I am a dangerous renegade and will do anything to prevent me staying at liberty.’

At last de Wolfe saw a glimmer of light. ‘You want protection and a means of escape, is that it?’

‘Yes, John, but how that is to be attained I cannot tell. I must wait for de Blanchefort to arrive.’

‘But why choose such a remote place as Devon, when you fled from Paris?’ asked Matilda, looking wide-eyed at this hero.

‘I remembered your husband, both from Gisors and Palestine. I always felt you were a man who could be trusted, not always an easy person to find these days. You told me you came from Devon and it seemed a logical place to aim for, if I was trying to reach either Scotland or Ireland to get beyond the reach of my Templar brethren.’

The coroner gave a scornful snort. ‘You should forget Scotland if you want to avoid Templars! The place is full of them, you must know that. Ireland would be far safer – much of the country is still under the wild tribes, though you may as well be dead as have to live outside the Norman domains there.’

De Ridefort nodded dutifully. ‘Then we shall make for Ireland, when Bernardus de Blanchefort arrives. He should be only a few days behind me. He was going to take ship from Brittany, whereas I came through Harfleur.’

‘Does he know where to find you?’ asked Matilda solicitously, in a tone she never used with her husband.

‘I have told him to seek out the coroner, lady. Everyone knows Sir John here, I’m sure he will bring us together.’

De Wolfe was still unhappy with this strange story. ‘You must be in very deep trouble with your Order, de Ridefort. You have left their house, you have cast off the uniform so familiar throughout the known world – and you have shaved your face, which I know is forbidden to your fellow knights. You can never go back now, surely. Are you not beyond their forgiveness?’

De Ridefort shifted on his stool. ‘Bernardus and I have crossed our Rubicon. If we live, it will be as outcasts in some remote place, like this Ireland you recommend. Even there, I suspect the long arm of the Templars will reach us eventually.’

‘And you refrain from telling me what it is that is worth the price of this sacrifice?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘I cannot at this time. The secret is too awful to be revealed, unless de Blanchefort and I decide to take the plunge into the abyss and let the world know.’

The situation was beyond both John’s comprehension and his patience. ‘I always thought there was some strangeness about the Templars, if you will forgive my bluntness,’ he said. ‘What is it that seems to set your Order so much apart from others?’

For answer, the fugitive asked a question in return. ‘You remember our first meeting at the castle of Gisors, some years ago?’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘I was in the guard of Prince Richard, who accompanied his father King Henry. You were there with many other Templars.’

‘That event was momentous – and not only for the confrontation between Henry and Philip of France.’

‘That was momentous enough – we had a fight on our hands, over that damned tree that both Richard and Philip wanted to give them shade during the negotiations. The bloody French ended up chopping it down.’

‘Yes, the so-called Splitting of the Elm. But, for the Templars, the meeting at Gisors was far more significant. The Order of Sion, which had secretly been responsible for founding the Templars in Jerusalem, divorced itself from us at Gisors – and even changed its name to the Priory of Sion. Much of the trouble arose from my uncle’s misfortune in losing the Holy City to the Saracens in the previous year. His memory was vilified and, as one of his family, the shame has clung to me, like dung to a hoof.’

A little light began to penetrate John’s mind. The Grand Master of the Templars, of whom Gilbert was a nephew, had lost a disastrous battle at Hattin, and soon afterwards, was driven from Jerusalem by Saladin’s army. Perhaps a grinding resentment of the sneers against his family’s honour had turned de Ridefort to seek revenge on the rest of the Templars, who blamed their impetuous leader for the devastating loss of Jerusalem. What better revenge could there be than to disclose some dark secret that they had jealously guarded for the better part of a century?

Matilda, who had listened enraptured to these obscure matters, brought the conversation back to a more mundane level. ‘You cannot stay in that sordid Curre Street, Sir Gilbert. It is fit only for Saxon tradesmen, not the likes of you.’

‘It suffices well enough, lady. I wanted to remain inconspicuous. I have a corner of a room with several others. Dressed like a pilgrim, I wished to behave like one, to avoid attention.’

She huffed and puffed her indignation then came out with a solution that brought a scowl to her husband’s face. ‘Why not stay here, then? We can have a comfortable pallet laid before the hearth, which would be better than sharing an earth floor with half a dozen stinking pilgrims.’

De Ridefort must instantly have caught de Wolfe’s lack of support for the idea as he waved his hand in grateful but firm denial. ‘I must distance myself from a law officer as much as possible, my lady. Not only for my sake, but for John’s. It may be that powerful retribution will fall upon me and I would not wish your husband to be caught by it – especially as his sovereign lord is such a devotee of the Templars.’

De Wolfe weighed in with a counter-proposal. ‘Certainly Curre Street is not a suitable dwelling for you – but why not take a bed at an inn? I suspect that the modest cost would not be a problem for you, for the short time you hope to be in Exeter.’

Matilda glared at him, tight-lipped. She knew very well which inn he would suggest and suspected that it would form yet another excuse for him to visit his Welsh whore, as she called Nesta. Her chances of keeping such a handsome man under her roof vanished when de Ridefort took enthusiastically to the idea and, as expected, de Wolfe promised to take him down to the Bush to settle him in.

Gwyn was dispatched to Curre Street to fetch the knight’s pannier and get his pilgrim pony from a nearby livery stable, and within the hour, de Wolfe was introducing the stranger to the tavern-keeper, leaving an irate Matilda at home, fuming at the loss of her latest diversion.