The Elixir of Death

CHAPTER TEN

Thorgils had built his house in a side lane off the main street, but the window of the upstairs solar faced back towards the sea, and the woman standing before the open shutter could see over the irrregular roof-line of the older buildings below. Though they blocked her view of the strand, she could see the sea in the distance, dotted to the hazy horizon with white caps from the stiff westerly breeze.

Beyond that horizon was the Continent, and Hilda stared as if she could see over the curve of the earth to the places where her husband had voyaged since he was twelve years old. He had brought wine from Bordeaux and taken Devon wool to Cologne, sailing to every port between them in the course of his long life. This fine house that was now hers had been built with the profits — and when she had opened his treasure chest and counted through the many leather bags it contained, she had been amazed at how much silver and even gold it contained. His three ships were now hers, and if John's and Hugh de Relaga's plan came to pass, she would want for nothing for the rest of her life — except, perhaps, for John himself.

Hilda turned from the window and closed the shutter, as the grey sky began to spit cold rain down on Dawlish. She sat on a padded chair near the small fire that burned in the hearth, the narrow cone of the modern chimney taking the smoke up through the tiled roof. Her embroidery stood neglected on its frame near by, as for the past few days she had felt too restless to bother with it. Elegant in her blue kirtle of fine wool, wide sleeved and girdled with low-slung gilded cords, she stared into the glowing embers and felt both sad and angry. She was sad over the loss of her husband, and also for the uncertainty of what life held for her — or what it might fail to hold. Her anger was for the way he had died.

Though she had never loved Thorgils in the way that she had loved John de Wolfe, she had felt considerable affection for him and respected him for his unfailing generosity and concern for her welfare. Though many years older, he had had a healthy passion, and she readily acknowledged that she had enjoyed their coupling in bed, though for the last year or two his advancing age had cooled his desire. She herself was very fond of lovemaking, and now she wondered whether she would ever feel those delicious moments of rapture again, with any man. Thorgils was gone, John was wrapped up in his marital problems and his infatuation with the ale-wife, so where did that leave her? At the moment, she could not even visualise going with another man, and though she knew without any conceit that she was still very attractive, her widow's wealth might prove to be a burden. Suitors would be easy to find, but would they want her for herself or for the contents of her treasure box?

These past few days, she had spent a lot time sitting alone and staring into the fire. Thorgils had been buried for several weeks and every few days she went to place flowers on the low mound of earth in the churchyard. She spoke to him under her breath as she bent over the grave, telling him that she wished she had been able to love him more, and pouring out her sorrow at his passing and her loneliness. Gradually, her self-pity was replaced by a slow but growing anger. He had been a good man and he had been stolen from her. As she had told John de Wolfe, she had long been resigned to the cruel sea taking him one day — but not the cowardly blade of some evil killer.

Hilda felt guilty as she stared into the reddened logs, guilty not because of her failure to truly love her husband, or even because she had occasionally been unfaithful to him with her childhood sweetheart.

She felt guilty that she could not avenge him, discover who killed him and for what reason. He deserved a better end than to be stabbed by some uncaring murderer, she thought bitterly. When would they be brought to justice, if ever? De Wolfe himself seemed powerless to discover the culprits — she would have heard by now if there had been any progress in his hunt for them.

Hilda was a determined, practical woman of peasant stock, daughter of a village bondsman. She was relatively young, both fit and strong — was there nothing she could do to avenge Thorgils? Getting up, she paced the chamber to recall what little she knew, as told by John. The key must surely lie down in the west, where her husband had met his death. She was under no illusions about the difficulties, not least the problem of a woman travelling about the countryside — but that might be the one advantage she had over the coroner and the sheriff and their heavy-handed investigations. Maybe a woman, especially a local Saxon, could better infiltrate the common folk of the villages and learn something useful.

At least she could try — and it would be something to fill an empty life. She avoided admitting even to herself that most of that emptiness was caused by the knowledge that John de Wolfe could never be hers.

The same Atlantic wind that whipped up white horses on the sea off Dawlish whistled even more menacingly over the bare island of St Michael de la Burgh. On the windward side of the craggy isle, which was less than a quarter of a mile across, the waves lashed up in angry, snarling breakers, gouts of creamy spume flying upwards like feathers. The tide was ebbing, and already a line of sand was appearing between the island and the low headland that guarded the entrance to the River Avon.

In the anchorite's cell at the summit of the island, Joel peered out through the low doorway, a crude wooden frame closed by some rough planks of driftwood. It faced inland, away from the prevailing gales, and he could see the mouth of the river directly in front of him. A few days ago, in calmer weather, he had seen the rescued cog, the Mary and Child Jesus, sailing cautiously out to sea, with a half-size sail slung across a stumpy pole that did service as a temporary mast. Another smaller vessel, which had brought men and materials from Dartmouth, followed it like a sheepdog with a stray lamb, shepherding it down the coast and around Bolt Head to the safety of Salcombe.

It was late afternoon when the hermit crept out of his hut, his height making him almost bend double under the slab of slate that acted as a lintel. When he stood up, he could almost see over the roof, as the hovel was hunkered down so low in the rocky turf. Made of irregular stones set in a circle, it was topped with heavy flat slabs laid on stout branches dragged from the mainland. A turf roof could not survive the winds on that exposed crag as he had discovered the hard way, when he first came to the island more than twenty years earlier. When it rained, as it seemed to do for half the year, water poured in between the slabs and soaked everything in his hut — but as there was so little inside, this was no great problem. He had a pile of damp bracken to sleep upon, a crude fire-pit in the centre and a single milking stool on which to take his ease. A roughly carved crucifix jammed into one of the cracks between the stones completed the furnishings, apart from a handbell standing on the floor. A strict ascetic, Joel welcomed every personal discomfort, as for a score of years he had been trying to exculpate his previous sinful life by seeking hardship in whatever form he could devise. He drank nothing but rainwater and lived almost entirely on fish, feeling guilty when he occasionally ate a little bread given to him by one of the boatmen for whom he carried out simple tasks. Perched up on his rock jutting out into the bay, Joel could see when a shoal of herring or pilchard arrived from the activity of the gulls and the disturbance in the water. Then he would stand on his roof and clang his brass handbell to alert the fishermen. When they hurried to launch their flimsy curraghs, he would wag his arms about to direct them to the shoal, where they would scoop up the fish by the thousand.

This was almost his sole contact with the secular world, except for a monthly visit to the tiny church at Ringmore, where he would take the Sacrament and make confession to Walter, the parish priest. Joel never found this satisfactory, as Walter was dour and uninterested, always impatient to get away to his wineskin — but the hermit had little choice of confessor in this lonely district.

Now he stretched himself after being confined in the cramped hut and, from sheer habit, turned to scan the surface of the sea. It was too choppy to seek out any shoals and the fleeting rays of a low sun beaming through the gaps in the scudding clouds struck silvery patches across the angry swell. He turned back towards the mainland and picked his way like an old goat down the steep track he had worn over the years to reach the smooth sandbar which was now widening between the island and the low headland opposite. The winter was setting in rapidly, as a sudden swirl of snowflakes reminded him. Though he relished cold and discomfort, he knew that without a fire he would soon die of exposure on that bleak islet. That held no terrors for him, but he repudiated an early death, for it would cut short his self-inflicted misery, the atonement for his great sins of long ago, when he had killed and maimed — and, even worse, had revelled in the blood-lust of battle.

A fire required wood and he needed to replenish the stock of fallen branches that he had stacked at the back of his cell, protected from the leaks by a torn fragment of old sail canvas. The nearest source of fuel was the woods around the corner of the headland, along the west bank of the river, where stun ted trees and scraggy bushes had a little shelter from the prevailing gales.

He reached the sand and plodded across the isthmus, leaving a trail of bare footprints behind him. To his left the surf hissed as it surged forward, then retreated, while on the opposite lee side the water was much calmer. No one was about, the fisherfolk having gone back to their shacks at Challaborough and Bantham, after their day's work was done.

The anchorite reached the rocks on the mainland side and clambered up on to a path that ran around to the right, into the mouth of the Avon estuary. The start of the forest was half a mile farther, and he trudged along, turning over in his mind half-remembered stories from the Gospels and fragments of liturgy recalled from his youth. He had no Vulgate, so had to depend on his memory for all his religious experiences.

Murmuring to himself, he reached the first of the trees, just above the small inlet where the wrecked ship had been placed for safety. Hoping that the recent strong winds had brought down some more branches, he had started casting about for fallen wood when he saw an unusual sight for that normally deserted path. Three figures were advancing towards him, robed and hooded in black.

Though Benedictines were not uncommon anywhere in the countryside near one of their priories or abbeys, to see such a trio on the lower reaches of the Avon was rare indeed.

Joel dropped the few pieces of wood that he had gathered and waited for the monks to approach.

'God be with you, brothers,' he called when they were twenty paces away. They stopped and stared at him, only the dark shadow of their faces visible under their deep cowls. They said nothing.

'I am Joel, a solitary worshipper of Christ,' he said in his deep voice. 'I live a contemplative life on a small island near this place.'

This seemed to transform the leader of the three men, who stood a little ahead of the other two. He stepped forward another pace and threw back his hood to reveal a dark Moorish face, with a hooked nose and black moustache. With a sudden leap of intuition, the hermit knew why these men were here. A glad hymn of thanks coursed through his brain, as he realised that his long years of self denial and suffering were over.

The coroner's period of uneasy peace ended in the middle of the second week after he had left home. Early in the evening of Wednesday, he called as usual at his house in Martin's Lane to gossip with Mary and take Brutus for a walk around the Close. The moment he entered the back yard, he sensed that things had changed. His cook-maid peered rather furtively from her kitchen shed and rolled her eyes upwards towards the solar high on the back of the house. As he followed her gaze, he saw that the door to Lucille's box-like room under the stairs was open and a moment later the weedy French girl appeared, clutching an armful of folded clothing. With hardly a glance at the pair in the yard, she clattered up the steep steps and vanished into the solar, the door closing behind her with a slam.

John stepped hurriedly into the kitchen, where Brutus was trying to look inconspicuous at the back.

'She's back, then?' he asked needlessly.

'This afternoon. It seems she's been in Tiverton with her brother, after leaving her cousin.' Mary sounded resigned, as, like her master, she had been enjoying peace and quiet for over a week.

'What sort of mood is she in?'

'Grim, from what little I've seen of her. She just asked me if you were at home, then vanished upstairs.'

'Did you tell her I was living at the Bush?'

Mary looked scandalised. 'Of course not! It's none of my business. But I doubt she is ignorant of the fact. There are plenty of wagging tongues both here and in Tiverton that would gladly relay such a tasty piece of scandal.'

De Wolfe slumped on to a stool, looking the picture of dejection.

'What do I do now, Mary?' he asked meekly.

The dark-haired woman laid a hand on his shoulder in an almost motherly fashion. 'You either come home and make the best of it — or you stay away and face whatever problems that brings.'

The coroner's dark face took on a stubborn look. 'I'm damn well not going to give in to her. Why should I spend my life in angry squabbling, when I can find peace and happiness half a mile away?'

The maid shrugged. 'You are the master of this house. Most Norman gentlemen would have their way, even if they had to knock their wives senseless twice a week, which many of them do, so I am told.' She said this with an undercurrent of spite, as she was from a Saxon mother, even if her father's identity was in doubt. Mary rarely missed a chance to make a caustic remark about the race that had conquered her people, even though it was five generations earlier.

'This past week was the quiet before the tempest,' he observed glumly. 'I knew it was too good to last. I suppose I'll have to face her sooner or later.'

Mary, as well as having political leanings, appeared to be a latent feminist. 'At least you should tell her that you have left her,' she complained. 'You just walked off the other day without a word.' She could have added that she thought this was a coward's way out, but even their former relationship was insufficient for her to push her luck with her employer that far. De Wolfe knew that Mary was right and his conscience pricked him on the issue. But before he could say anything in his defence, there was a familar bellow from outside.

'John! Are you there?'

Matilda was on the platform at the top of the solar stairway, gripping the rail and glaring down into the back yard. Realising that the sneaky Lucille must have told her mistress of hIs return, John reluctantly hauled himself to his feet.

'Wish me luck — or possibly farewell!' he muttered to Mary, as he left the cook shed and plodded heavy footed towards the solar, Lucille hurried down and, like a frightened rabbit, disappeared into her hutch under the stairs. As he slowly climbed up, his wife went back into the room and, when he entered, she was standing at the foot of their bed, fists planted on her wide hips.

'You've not been at home while I've been away,' she snarled. 'Where were you?'

Though he knew that she was perfectly well aware that he had been staying in the Bush, she wanted him to admit it to her face. As so often happened, his anxiety rapidly turned to anger when she confronted him.

'You know damn well that I've left you, wife!' he snapped. 'I told you so clearly enough when we parted.' This was not exactly the truth, but he was working himself up to a rage so that niceties of speech counted for little.

'You've been with that Welsh whore — or was it that yellow-haired strumpet down at the seashore?' she snarled, her square face flushed with righteous indignation.

'What should it matter to you, Matilda? I no longer live with you, that's all you need to know.'

'The shame of it!' she screeched. 'A knight of the realm, the King's Coroner and a Crusader, living in sin with God knows how many women!'

Her exaggeration went unchallenged when he responded. 'Are you claiming that I am unique, woman?' he snapped. 'I would find it difficult to name more than a handful of men who are faithful to their wives. Mostly those like me, who were pushed into loveless marriages by scheming parents!'

She opened her mouth to vilify him further, but he ploughed on.

'The sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, had a mistress that I know of, as did Ralph Morin, Guy Ferrars and half the cathedral canons!'

'I don't want to hear about your dissolute friends,' she raved. 'I have been humiliated by you before all the city. Even if you can shamelessly hold up your head, what about me? I have had to seek the shelter of my brother and his wife again this past week.'

'Ha! Your brother! There's a pillar of righteousness indeed! I rescued him from a brothel earlier this year and have more than once caught him with a whore in his bedroom!'

Suddenly, he felt tired and sick of this endless bickering. He pointed to his oaken chest which stood against the wall.

'I have taken my garments away. I will see to it that there will always be money in the purse that sits in that box. I will continue to pay Mary and your maid for their services and anything else you need will readily be forthcoming. Life will go on just the same for you, except that I shall not remain in your sight to offend you.'

He turned to the door. 'The Church bound us together in a way that cannot be broken asunder. But that does not mean that we have to endure each other's company, when you have made it clear over many years that all you feel for me is contempt.'

Such a long and eloquent speech was so out of character for her dour husband that Matilda was temporarily bereft of speech, but as he went out of the solar she found her tongue again.

'Yes, husband, contempt for the way you hounded my brother and trapped him into disrepute! He has explained to me how you tricked and manoeuvred him over that treasure. I hate you for it! Do you hear, I hate your persecution of that good man!'

Knowing the truth about Richard de Revelle, this was too much for John, and he clattered down the stairs and hurried out into the street, determined to put as much distance between himself and his wife as possible.

Mary heard some of the heated exchange up above and saw the wrathful departure of her master. As she sat in her kitchen and fondled the soft ears of the old hound, she murmured, 'What's to become of us, Brutus?'

Alexander of Leith had more or less given up hope of gaining any knowledge or cooperation from the Mohammedan Nizam. The Moors were rarely to be seen in the old crypt and, when they were there, the Scot strongly suspected that the alleged alchemist was merely going through the motions of experimenting, to buy time for his other suspicious activities. Only once did he achieve any results, when he again produced a tiny globule of what appeared to be gold, embedded in a mass of dirty tin and silver. Alexander strongly suspected him of some sleight of hand in introducing the yellow metal into the crucible, and felt that the whole procedure was merely a sham to convince him that the Turk was a genuine alchemist. Raymond de Blois seemed more impressed and used the event to persuade Alexander to stay at Bigbury a little longer and not return to Bristol as he had threatened.

Now the Moors had vanished again for several days and the French knight was seething with impatience, as he wished them to be here for the visit of Richard de Revelle, for him to impress upon them the importance of achieving some results for the Count of Mortain.

With the others away, the little Scotsman repeated his own work, but once more failed to make the last vital transition from an alloy to gold. Disillusioned with the situation and the inferior facilities in the old priory compared with those he had at Bristol, Alexander turned to his other research, the preparation of the Elixir of Life. Claimed by other alchemists as a liquid version of the stone that would transmute other metals into gold, the magic fluid was supposed to cure every illness and prolong life almost indefinitely. In his view, this was a more worthwhile project than the Philosopher's Stone itself. If necessary, real gold could be dug from the earth, but a potion to prolong life and banish disease would be the greatest boon the world had ever seen.

In the quiet of the crypt, with no one else to distract him, he laboured to dissolve his almost-gold with strong spirits of salt, then neutralised it with soda. Two days of filtering and distillation produced a small quantity of murky liquid, similar to many he had manufactured before, though this time he used Dartmoor tin and Tavistock copper.

The problem was testing the elixir — if it prolonged life, how long would he have to wait to know that it was effective? He had tried previous batches on a few small animals, such as mice, rats and cats, but they either died straight away or after a few days — or there was no effect at all. Maybe, he thought, the latter group were signs of success, but none of them seemed to achieve longevity beyond what one normally expected for that type of beast. With a sigh, he filled a small phial with his latest creation and hid it away inside his shapeless tunic, hoping that some inspiration about a method of testing would occur to him.

The next morning, the Moors were back, as impassive as ever and equally uncommunicative. After the early morning meal in the hut at the old castle, Alexander expected them to be harried back to work in the crypt by an increasingly exasperated Raymond. Instead, they all saddled up and, dressed in their monkish robes, rode off again to some unknown destination. Nizam refused to answer Raymond's demand to know where they were going, just saying that they would be back before nightfall.

Later that day, sitting in the hut where they ate their meals, Alexander confided in Jan, a rather one-sided conversation, though the Fleming seemed attentive enough.

'We'll give them a few more days, Jan, then abandon this and set off home.' Tugging a bone from the rabbit stew that the serf Alfred had made, he brandished it at his servant to emphasise his determination. 'If this de Revelle fellow cannot instil some urgency into these damned Turks, the whole venture is a waste of my time,' he exclaimed. 'I'm not cowed by John Lackland, even if he is the King's brother. I'll tell him to his face that the French king is either mocking him or has been hoodwinked himself by these Arabic charlatans.'

The Fleming nodded and made some gargling noises in his mutilated throat which indicated agreement. He had been bored out of his mind by the enforced isolation, with only two Saxon simpletons for company. As for his Scottish master, he too was at the end of his tether, working with insufficient equipment in a dank subterranean chamber with a trio of uncaring Saracens for occasional company. In spite of his strange appearance and clothing, which in truth Alexander cultivated to enhance his reputation as an eccentric alchemist, he had a sharp and practical mind and felt that he would be far better employed back in Bristol.

And if he was honest, he was uneasy to the point of fear when alone with the three Mohammedans, as he sensed an evil aura about them all.