The Elixir of Death

CHAPTER THREE

Over the weekend, Matilda was in a glowering sulk, but her husband was so used to this that he took little notice. They rarely met, except at mealtimes and on opposite sides of their wide mattress on the solar floor. On Saturday, John spent the afternoon at Bull Mead, the large field outside the south wall of the city, which was used for tournaments and other public spectacles. Today, there was a local jousting and archery contest, where young bloods and older men came to show off their amateur talents. The jousting was not in the knightly class, with des triers and lances, but a succession of youths and aspiring squires knocked each other about either on foot or from the backs of borrowed ponies and palfreys.

John, as a well-known and respected soldier, was sometimes persuaded to act as judge on these occasions. With Gwyn at his side clutching his inevitable meat pasty and jug of cider, he sat at a trestle table at the side of the field and adjudicated on the enthusiastic if often inept efforts of the lads from around Exeter to emulate the stars of the tourney fields elsewhere. Old King Henry had forbidden the major tournaments, fearing the death of too many expert knights — and the risk of training forces for barons who could rise up against him in rebellion. But his son Richard Coeur-de-Lion, ever with an eye to making money, had licensed four tournament grounds in various parts of England, charging a fee to all participants. None of these was in Exeter but the authorities — including de Wolfe — turned a blind eye to smaller events, which were useful in keeping potential foot soldiers trained to fight the French, as invasion had several times been threatened.

The two old campaigners sat on their stools and watched critically as the young men thrashed about on the field, belabouring each other with staves or laying about them with swords made of whalebone, which, though they could deliver a nasty whack, were never lethal.

'God's truth, Crowner, were we ever as clumsy as some of these when we were young?' demanded Gwyn, as one lad managed to trip over his own staff.

'Probably, when we first began,' grunted John. 'But we had to learn fast, in real battle. Those down there are doing better with their bows.'

He pointed farther down the field, where butts had been set up with straw targets for the budding archers. This activity was being overseen by Sergeant Gabriel from the castle, a crack shot with the cross-bow in his younger days. There was a royal ordinance which said that every man over fourteen had to practise with the bow each week, to keep in training for possible conscription. This rule was widely ignored, especially in the towns, though in the villages outside, regular practice with both longbow and cross-bow was looked on as a useful recreation and was often enforced by manor-lords and barons, who might need proficient troops for purposes of their own.

John thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon and afterwards, as the shadows lengthened, he made his way back to the South Gate, Gwyn going off eastwards towards his home in St Sidwells. As he strode through the cathedral Close, he saw a familiar figure coming towards him, one that stood out from the crowd by virtue of the colourful raiment that he wore. John's friend and partner, the portreeve Hugh de Relaga, was addicted to garish clothing and today was arrayed in a vermilion tunic down to his knees under an open surcoat of lime-green cloth. On his head was wound a capuchin of blue velvet, the free end hanging over one shoulder.

Hugh greeted him cheerfully, the round face above his short, corpulent body beaming with genuine pleasure. 'Where have you been these past few days, John?' he enthused. 'I have been wanting to pour money into your purse, as we have done so well with that last shipment of cloth to Flanders.'

John took him by the arm and steered him around towards Martin's Lane, 'Come in and have a cup of wine, friend. There is something I must discuss with you.'

A few moments later they were sitting at John's hearth, drinking his best Anjou red from heavy glass goblets that he brought out only on special occasions. Matilda was again on her knees in St Olave's church, but even if she returned unexpectedly, John knew that she would be quite civil to de Relaga, as he was always amiable and attentive to her and was one of the few of John's acquaintances whom she tolerated.

'I regret to tell you that we have lost our good friend Thorgils the Boatman. We urgently need to discuss how our merchandise is to be shipped abroad in future.'

He explained the whole story of the wreck and the death of the ship-master and his crew. Hugh was shocked at the news, as he had known Thorgils for many years. Then he listened to John's proposition about taking over the ships themselves.

'It would not only solve the problem of transporting our own goods,' declared de Wolfe, 'but it would be a profitable business in its own right. With the increase in commerce between Devon and the ports across the Channel, we could increase our income by shipping wool, cloth and tin for other merchants.'

Hugh rapidly became enthusiastic about the idea. 'There are three vessels, as I recall. Could we manage them all?'

'Two are smaller than the Mary, but are quite seaworthy and already have masters and crew, now idle and unemployed. We would need to repair the Mary, which seems not to be a great undertaking, then find a shipman and crew for her. Thankfully, it's now November, so we have ample time until sailing begins again in the spring.'

They went on to discuss how Hilda, who had inherited the ships, could be brought in as a sleeping partner and share in the profits. They decided to delicately broach the matter with her on Monday, when they would both attend Thorgils' burial in Dawlish.

Two days later they rode down to the coastal village for the sad ceremony. Gwyn came with them, as there were always outlaws lurking in the woods along the high roads and whenever he was out of Exeter the brawny Cornishman rarely allowed his master out of his sight. Hugh also brought one of his retainers and the four of them trotted down to the port of Topsham to take the little ferry across a hundred yards of tidal water. Then they carried on across the marshy land that occupied the lower end of the valley of the Exe to reach the hills that ran down to meet the sea at Dawlish.

The corpses of the seamen had arrived on a cart the previous night and after a sad ceremony were laid to rest in the churchyard. Hilda was her usual dignified self, doing all she could to console the wives and children of the other dead sailors, assuring them that they would not go hungry now that their menfolk had gone. John looked at her with a mixture of pride, compassion and longing. Only the sensation of Nesta looking over his shoulder prevented him from rekindling his passion for the willowy blonde.

When the burial service had ended and after the plain coffins were lowered into the sandy soil, Gwyn and Hugh's servant sought the nearest alehouse, while Hilda led John and Hugh de Relaga back to Thorgils' house, which was now hers. Hugh had not seen it before, and his eyebrows rose as he saw the elegant stone pillars holding up three arches which formed the front of the lower storey. Compared to the usual wooden dwellings and the cottages of plastered cob that surrounded it, it was almost a palace, and he was keener than ever to get this lady into partnership.

In the large room upstairs, the maid served ale and wine, and platters of fine wheaten bread, cheese and savoury pastries were handed around. Though sad, Hilda seemed to be bearing her new widowhood with equanimity and was quite willing to talk business with the two men from Exeter. The portreeve did most of the talking, and they soon agreed on a mutually advantageous scheme, which could later be put in writing and sealed by one of the few lawyers in the city.

'Will I need to take any active part in this?' she asked. 'I have no knowledge of business and cannot even write my own name!'

Hugh's cherubic face creased in a smile. 'All you need do, dear lady, is buy a larger treasure chest, as I have no doubt that John will be coming down quite often to add more silver to it!'

Even this jocular reference to frequent future visits to Dawlish caused a worm of unease to wriggle in the back of de Wolfe's brain. The other night, when he had gone up to Nesta's bed, their lazy conversation after making love had drifted to his proposition to include Hilda in the partnership. He immediately sensed a stiffening in her voice, and she enquired several times how often this would require him to travel to Dawlish. The mild tenseness passed off quickly, but left him with a wariness and a resolve to tread very softly with Nesta where any mention of Hilda was concerned.

Here in the blonde woman's solar, he sighed at the thought that now two women were looking on Hilda as a threat — his wife and his mistress.

That week, there were fewer cases to deal with than usual and at home Matilda was no better and no worse, spending most of her time either praying or staying with her cousin in Fore Street. She ignored him at mealtimes and at night he contrived to stay out of her bed until she was asleep.

With Nesta, he was careful to avoid any mention of Hilda and the concern he harboured over her nascent jealousy thankfully subsided. When she asked him whether there had been any news of who might have killed the ship's crew, he kept the discussion strictly to the Ringmore end of the story — not that anything had been reported from there to give him the slightest clue as to what might have happened.

'I must go down there again soon and see if any local news has surfaced,' he said. 'To be honest, I have no idea where to start looking, unless someone in that locality comes up with some information.'

Towards the end of the week, another matter began to absorb their attention, though it was mainly Thomas de Peyne who was involved.

At last the time had come for him to go to Winchester to be received back into the bosom of his beloved Church, following his absolution from the alleged crime that had led to his ignominious ejection from the priesthood. When he was teaching in the cathedral school there, a malicious accusation of indecency had been made by one of the girl pupils and Thomas was lucky to escape with his neck intact. As an unfrocked priest, he almost starved for a year — until he walked to Exeter to throw himself on the mercy of his archdeacon uncle, who found him a clerk's job with the new coroner.

Now he was to attend the cathedral there on Thursday of the following week for the brief ceremony that would restore him to grace. Originally, John was going to send Gwyn with him as a companion and bodyguard on the long journey, but fortuitously the sheriffs trip to the exchequer to deliver the county taxes coincided with Thomas's appointment. Henry de Furnellis readily agreed to having the clerk tag along with his party, which would be escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and six men-at-arms, to make sure that the large sum of silver coinage would be safe from prowling outlaws.

In addition, after this had been arranged, Archdeacon John de Alençon, Thomas's uncle, decided to include himself in the party. He claimed to have ecclesiastical business in Winchester, but the coroner suspected that he was keen not only to see his much-maligned nephew vindicated, but to savour the chagrin of his fellow canons in Winchester, who had so readily accepted the downfall of his young relative.

They were to leave at dawn on Monday, spending two nights on the journey, which was almost a hundred miles. By Friday, Thomas was already in a fever of excitement, hardly able to credit that the nightmare of his long period in the wildnerness was now almost over. He persuaded Gwyn to shave his tonsure down to his scalp, scraping off every vestige of thin mousy hair from the top of his head. His uncle bought him a new black robe to replace the patched, threadbare garment that he had worn for more than two years. Nesta gave him a pair of strong leather boots and Gwyn's present was a new shoulder bag of doehide to carry his writing materials. John, bereft of any original ideas to celebrate this happy event, handed him a purse containing a hundred silver pennies, the equivalent of more than four weeks' wages. The little clerk was overcome by the kindness of his friends and babbled his thanks to each of them, tears of gratitude mingling with his joy.

Monday morning could not come soon enough for Thomas, but then on Sunday, at about the ninth hour of the Sabbath, just as the nearby cathedral bell was tolling for Terce, de Wolfe was in the stable across the lane from his house. He was waiting for Andrew the farrier to finish saddling Odin, as John felt that the big stallion needed some exercise down on Bull Mead and perhaps a canter down the Wonford road and back. Just as Andrew was tightening the saddle girth, a figure appeared in the doorway from the lane. So often in the past, it had been Gwyn arriving with some news of a fresh body, but this-time it was Sergeant Gabriel. John's first thought was that he had come with some news of a change of plan for the sheriff's departure for Winchester the next day, but the grizzled old soldier had news of a different kind.

'A fellow from Shillingford has just turned up at the gatehouse with some nasty news, Crowner!' he exclaimed, with an excited gleam in his eye. 'Their manor-lord has been found dead, on account of his head being lopped off and gone missing!'

John stared suspiciously at Gabriel, but he knew that the sergeant was not much given to humour or practical jokes.

'Shillingford? That's the honour of Sir Peter le Calve! Dead, you say?'

His tone carried incredulity, as in peacetime manorlords were not expected to be murdered.

'Dead as mutton, Sir John! Beheaded, he was — and no sign of his nut anywhere!'

'Is Gwyn up at Rougemont?'

'I'm sure he is, Crowner. Playing dice in the hall, last I saw of him.'

De Wolfe turned to the farrier, whose jaw had dropped at this bizarre news. 'Get Odin ready for the road, Andrew, while I go for my cloak and sword. Gabriel, get back to the castle and tell Gwyn to saddle up and meet me back here, as quick as he can.'

As the sergeant turned to hurry away, the coroner called after him.

'And send whoever brought the message down with him.'

As the farrier fussed with Odin, John went across to his house and sought out Mary to tell her that he would be missing his dinner once again. When he told her where he was going, she asked whether she should fetch Thomas.

'No, leave the poor little fellow in peace today. No doubt he's praying in the cathedral, practising for next week. He'd be in no fit state to do any work, anyway.'

He stalked to the vestibule and pulled on a pair of riding boots, buckled on his sword and slung his mottled wolfskin cloak over his shoulders, securing it over his left collar-bone with a large buckle and pin. Then he went back to the stable to wait impatiently for his officer to arrive.

It was a short ride to Shillingford, as the village lay little more than two miles to the west of the Exe, on the high road that led to Ashburton, Buckfast Abbey and distant Plymouth. Going at a brisk trot, the three horsemen covered the distance in half an hour, long enough for de Wolfe to get the story from Alfred Clegland, the manorial servant who had brought the news. A short, red-faced man with bristly fair hair, he was the falconer, an unusual person to act as messenger, as he explained as he rode alongside the coroner.

'The bailiff has got a terrible flux of his bowels, or he would be the one to come, sir. Our steward is in such a fevered state over his master's death that he could hardly sit a horse, so I was sent to fetch you.'

His story was that Peter le Calve, the lord of Shillingford, had gone hunting in his park the day before, accompanied only by his houndmaster and one of his adult sons.

'They had little sport, so the houndmaster said, until near to dusk, when the dogs raised a fallow deer in the woods. My lord and his son William split up, going off in different directions. And that's the last they saw of Sir Peter.'

The falconer related this with morbid fervour, and John had the impression that their lord was not all that popular with his subjects.

'So who found the corpse?' demanded Gwyn, riding on the other side of Alfred.

'Nobody, not last night! When he didn't come back nor answer to the horn, William broke off the chase and with the houndmaster began searching the woods. But it soon got dark and they had to give up and go back to the village for more men.'

'Couldn't the hounds have found him by scent?' asked John, who unusually among men of his class had little interest in hunting.

Alfred was scornful. 'Them bloody dogs is useless! Comes of having a drunk for houndmaster. They couldn't find a turd in a privy. The only smell they know is that of a deer or a fox.'

'So who discovered him — and when?' demanded de Wolfe, his patience wearing thin,

'When the master failed to come back after a couple of hours, we tried going into the woods with pitch brands, but it was useless, especially as it started to piss with rain, which put out our torches. By dawn, when he was still missing, the whole village was turned out to search.'

By now, the road was entering the dense woods that surrounded the village of Shillingford, and they had time only to learn from the falconer that it was the manor wheelwright who had made the ghastly discovery. On the bed of a stream that ran through the forest, Sir Peter le Calve was found lying on his back, in a state that was more graphically described by the wheelwright when they arrived at the village.

Shillingford was a relatively small manor, a series of strip fields, pasture and waste surrounding a cluster of houses, the church and an alehouse. It was encircled by dense woods, which were slowly being cut back by assarting to provide more land for cultivation and beasts. The hall was in the centre of the hamlet, an old wooden structure like that at Ringmore, set inside a wide circular bailey fenced off with a ditch and stockade. John de Wolfe knew the lord slightly, though le Calve was an older man. They had been campaigning in the Holy Land at the same period, but the coroner had not fought alongside him, and since John had returned home from Palestine their paths had not crossed. Indeed, John had heard that Peter was now something of a recluse and rarely left his manor, except to travel to his other possessions in Dorset. He knew that le Calve was a widower for the second time and had two grown-up sons, but that was the extent of his knowledge of the man, apart from the fact that Peter's father had also taken the Cross, back at the time of the so-called Second Crusade, well over forty years earlier.

As they rode into the village, dust and fallen leaves were blown up from the track by a cold easterly wind, as November had turned dry since they returned from Ringmore. The place looked miserable under a leaden sky and John shivered in spite of the weight of his riding cloak. The depressing atmosphere was not helped by the sight of sullen bondsmen standing by the gates of their crofts as the coroner rode past.

The village seemed to have come to a standstill with the loss of its lord, and there was an air of apprehension hanging over the place, as if the inhabitants were waiting to be blamed for this latest tragedy. The harvest had been bad and it needed a strong hand at the top if hunger was to be avoided during the winter that lay ahead, so the sudden death of their lord was an added uncertainty.

The falconer led them through the open gate of the manor-house bailey, where they found a score of people milling about uncertainly. Most were the servants belonging to the house and to the barton down the road, the farm that belonged directly to the lord to supply his needs. On the steps of the manor-house, a two-storeyed building with a shingled roof, a stooped old man waited for them, wringing his hands in nervous concern.

'I am Adam le Bel, Lord Peter's steward,' he quavered in a high-pitched voice. 'His sons are in the hall and wish to speak with you, sir.'

He led the way into a gloomy hall, made of ancient timbers that must have been felled when the first King Henry was on the throne. A large fire-pit lay in the centre, with a ring of logs like the spokes of a wheel smouldering on a heap of white ash. There were tables and benches set around it and at one of them a group of men sat with pots of ale. Two of them immediately got to their feet and advanced on the coroner. They were well dressed compared to the others in the hall, and John rightly took them to be the sons of the dead man.

'I am Godfrey le Calve and this is William,' said one, a tall, spare man of about thirty-five, touching his brother on the shoulder. William was a slightly younger version of Godfrey, otherwise they could have been taken for twins. Both had long chins and Roman noses, with brown hair shaved up the back and sides to leave a thick mop on top.

'This is a dreadful day, Sir John,' muttered William. 'Who could have done such a terrible thing?'

To John, his words echoed those uttered about the murdered ship's crew.

'My condolences, sirs. I knew your father only slightly, but there is always a bond between us old Crusaders. Where is his body now?'

'Left where it was found, Coroner,' said Godfrey, somewhat to de Wolfe's surprise. Though the victims of all sudden deaths were supposed to be undisturbed until the law officers examined them, in practice many were hurriedly moved, especially those in the upper ranks of society.

'In view of the grim circumstances, we thought it best to wait for your presence, Crowner,' added William. 'Being so close to Exeter avoids much delay.'

They marched out of the hall ahead of John and his officer. A ragged procession of steward, reeve, falconer and a man who turned out to be the wheelwright trailed after them. In the bailey, Godfrey turned and explained to de Wolfe that it was not worth mounting horses, as the distance was short and the terrain easier to navigate on foot.

More servants joined them as they took a path that passed the fields and then crossed the pasture and waste land to the edge of the trees. The ground was undulating, and a quarter of a mile into the wood there was a small valley with a sizeable stream running at the bottom. They scrambled down through a heavy fall of autumn leaves to a place where the brook ran over flat stones, some of the rocks projecting above the water.

'This is how I found the master, sir,' exclaimed the wheelwright, who had run ahead of them and was pointing upstream, where the rivulet made a sharp bend through the cut-away banks of red soil on either side. When John and his officer got down to the water's edge, they could see around the corner, and even their eyes, hardened by years of fatal injury and maiming in battle, were shocked by the sight.

Across some flat rocks, his feet in the running water, was the body of a man, lying on his back. His arms were outstretched, as they were lashed at the wrists to a fallen branch laid crossways underneath him. His neck ended at a bloody stump and through a tear down the front of his long tunic his entrails protruded on to his ripped belly.

'He's been castrated as well, sir!' volunteered the wheelwright, with a melancholy relish. Either the two sons had very strong characters or they had no great affection for their father, for they splashed up the stream ahead of John and stood over the mutilated corpse while John and Gwyn caught them up.

'Our sire was not the most popular of manor-lords,' admitted Godfrey with surprising frankness. 'But surely no one would wish a death like this upon him!'

The coroner clambered out of the water and stood on the table-like rock, his officer standing ankle deep in the stream on the other side of the body. They looked down at the bloody remains, taking in all that was to be seen. Peter le Calve — for they assumed it was he, in spite of the lack of his head — wore a long woollen tunic of a green colour, though much of the front and sides were now almost black with blood, except where splashes of water had diluted the gore to a pink hue. The garment was ripped from the neck-line down to well below his waist. A coil of his bowels lay amid clotted blood on his belly, and below this a ragged wound indicated where his genitals had been crudely removed.

Gwyn reached down and took hold of his leg below the knee, attempting to lift it. 'Stiff as a board and as cold as ice,' he muttered. 'He's been dead a goodly time.'

John slipped a hand into the dead man's armpit, but could feel no vestige of remaining warmth. He looked up at the elder son. 'Your father went missing at dusk last night and was found soon after dawn?'

Godfrey nodded, his rather equine face now pale as he stood over the ravaged corpse. 'We were all out at first light and he was found within the hour.'

'Then no doubt he was killed last night, so the miscreants could be well away by now,' growled de Wolfe. Even though hardened by past experience, the manner of this death was one of the worst he had seen, especially as it savoured of a crucifixion.

'Can we not move him now, Sir John?' asked William, who was as pale as death himself. 'This is not a fitting way for any man to be left, especially a lord in his own manor.'

John rose to his feet and nodded. 'I agree with you! A Crusader deserves better than this. We must get him back to the village.'

Godfrey shouted over his shoulder at some of his servants who were clustered anxiously a few yards away. He ordered them to find a litter to carry the body, and some of them jogged away back towards the manor.

'We'd best get him off these stones and on to the grass, Crowner, ' suggested Gwyn. He drew out his dagger and bent to the nearer wrist of the corpse, intending to slash through the bindings that held the victim to the willow bough, but De Wolfe stopped him.

'Wait a moment! Let's look at the way he's tied, in case there's something useful to learn.' With Gwyn's hairy head close to his, he peered at the lashings and felt them with his fingers.

'Tied with two simple half-hitches,' declared his officer, a former fisherman. 'Nothing special about the knots.'

'No, but what about the cords themselves, Gwyn? How many local outlaws or robbers carry silken cords with them, eh?'

Gwyn grunted his surprise and touched the bindings, rubbing his thick finger along them. 'God's knuckles, so they are! Soaking wet, they looked black, but I think they are red.'

The coroner now told him to release the lashings and as the wet cords had pulled so tight that the knots were almost impossible to untie, the Cornishman cut them through and held them up for inspection. The two sons came nearer and agreed that their father had been tied down with cords of dark crimson plaited silk, somewhat thicker than a goose quill. They were wet and rather dirty, but were certainly not common hemp.

'The ends are frayed — looks as if they've been cut from a longer length,' said the ever practical Gwyn, stowing them carefully in the pouch on his belt. When the corpse was lifted off, the thin branch revealed nothing of interest, being a fallen bough with a broken end.

'Not specially cut down for this purpose,' said Godfrey, who seemed less affected by his father's bizarre death than his younger brother.

'No, there's plenty of such wood within fifty paces,' agreed the coroner,

The falconer and the wheelwright carried their lord's body reverently to the bank and laid it gently on the grass. John checked that there was nothing left on the rock 4 where the corpse had lain, then came across and had another look at it.

'There can be no doubt that this is your father?' he demanded, looking up at Godfrey and William. Both men shook their heads.

'Those are his garments, certainly,' replied William. 'But you're not suggesting that someone placed his clothing on someone else?'

'Stranger things have happened,' grunted de Wolfe. 'Though I admit it's highly unlikely. But is there any other way you can identify him, without his head?'

'He had a scar on the side of his chest,' offered Godfrey. 'It came from a spear wound at the battle of Arsuf, so he told us.'

John well remembered Arsuf in the Holy Land, for he was there himself. In September three years previously, Richard the Lionheart had marched down from Acre towards Jerusalem and at Arsuf, Saladin tried to stop him with a massive army. Richard, the superb tactician, won the day, though the battlefield was strewn with the corpses of both sides and many more were wounded. John himself had a small scar on his arm from a Moorish arrow, and now he bent to look at a beheaded corpse to seek more severe evidence of that fateful conflict. When he pulled the torn tunic aside, sure enough there was a white puckered scar running for a hand's breadth horizontally across the left lower ribs, which both sons confirmed was identical to the one they had seen on their father. But John's attention was now elsewhere, for pulling the clothing aside had revealed something else. Just above the scar, smeared with blood, was a wide slit, the pouting edges exposing the muscle beneath the skin.

'Mary, Mother of God, he's been stabbed as well, poor bastard!' Gwyn's irreverent voice boomed out as he bent for such a close inspection that his bulbous nose was almost touching the corpse. 'And haven't we seen wounds like that only a few days ago?'

The stricken onlookers watched as the two law officers poked and prodded at the gash in the dead man's side. 'Very wide indeed, Gwyn, as well as deep,' said de Wolfe grimly. 'But surely this must be a coincidence?'

Godfrey and William le Calve stared at each other, bemused at what was going on. 'What importance can this have, Sir John?' asked William. 'Surely in the presence of the other mutilations, this can have little significance? '

De Wolfe explained that recently they had seen similar unusual knife marks on the crew of a wrecked ship.

'But that was thirty miles from here and in very different circumstances, so I fail to see how it can have any connection,' objected Godfrey.

'I would like to agree with you, sir,' said John thoughtfully. 'But I must keep an open mind on the matter for now.'

Together with Gwyn, he explored the rest of le Calve's body, but found no other injuries, and by then several villeins had hurried up with a crude stretcher made of a pair of poles with ropes strung between them.

A short time later, the corpse was laid on a table in one of the side rooms of the manor-house and decently covered with a blanket. The parish priest was called and stayed to mumble Latin prayers over it, though there was no suggestion yet that the body be moved to the church, as was the usual practice.

'Thank God our mother is no longer with us, to have to witness such a devilish act,' muttered Godfrey. 'She died seven years ago, Christ rest her soul.'

John had noticed a handsome, well-dressed woman hovering in the background as they brought the lord back to his hall for the last time, but he was tactful enough not to enquire who she was.

'What happens now, Crowner?' asked the bemused elder son, still grappling with the fact that he was suddenly the new lord of Shillingford.

'I must start my enquiries,' replied de Wolfe. 'Though as it is a Sunday, I cannot open an inquest today, but I must question those people who may have any knowledge, while their memories are still fresh.'

The two sons remembered their obligations to visitors and invited the coroner and his officer to have some meat and drink before they began their investigations. More logs were placed on the fire and when they were all seated at one of the tables, servants brought wine, ale and cold meats with fresh bread and slabs of hard yellow cheese. Godfrey and his brother took some wine, but ate nothing, which was hardly surprising, considering the ghastly sights they had seen that morning. Adam the steward and some of the senior servants, such as the bottler, the falconer and the hunt-master, hovered in the background, with lesser mortals behind them, all wanting to share in any dramatic revelations that might come along.

'I'll need to speak to all those who had any part in both the hunt yesterday and the finding of the body this morning,' announced John, as he finished his impromptu meal and drained the last of his wine. Godfrey, gradually assuming his new role as the head of the household, gave orders to his old steward to round up everyone who was needed and soon a motley, shuffling group of men assembled in the hall.

John sat at the table as soon as the remains of the food had been cleared, with a brother on either side of him, as this was not a formal inquisition. However, to save taxing his memory until he returned to Exeter, de Wolfe asked Godfrey whether Adam le Bel, the only literate man among them, could write a summary of the facts, and the wrinkled old steward sat at the end of the table with quill and parchment. Gwyn stood near by and acted as a master of ceremonies, motioning the wheelwright forward as the First Finder. He had little to say except that he happened to be the first man to come across his lord's body in the stream and had hollered out in panic to bring the rest of the searchers to him.

Then the huntmaster reluctantly stepped forward, turning his pointed woollen cap restlessly in his hands as he stood before this grim-faced officer from Exeter. He was a lean, stringy fellow with a yellowish tinge to his face and a nose blushed with fine veins, suggesting too strong a liking for the ale-cask.

'Tell me what happened last night,' demanded John abruptly.

'Not a lot to tell, sir,' said the fellow hesitantly. 'We had little sport all afternoon, until the light was fading, when one of my beaters raised a deer. I think Sir Peter had been irked by the lack of excitement until then, for he dashed off to the left, waving to Sir William to circle round to the right. I went with the younger master and that was the last we saw of our lord.'

In spite of further probing by the coroner, it seemed he had nothing else to tell, and several other retainers who had been following the chase gave the same story. Peter le Calve had rushed off on his horse through the woods and had not been seen alive again.

'How far was the spot where you separated from that place on the stream?' John asked William, as Godfrey had not been at the hunt.

'Not more than half a mile, Crowner. If darkness had not overtaken us, I suspect we would have found him within the hour.'

As an aid to thought, de Wolfe rubbed his chin, which was relatively free of dark stubble, as it was only the previous day that he had had his weekly wash and shave. Even this mannerism failed to stimulate any profound ideas about advancing his investigation, but to fill the time he asked the steward a question.

'Your bailiff, I was told he was absent due to an illness. Where was he last night?'

Adam le Bel looked up from the parchment that he was laboriously completing. 'On his cot, no doubt, Crowner! He has been laid low these past three days with a bloody flux. I visited him yesterday morning in his toft along the road there and he seemed a little better. His wife said he had taken a little gruel, without it immediately passing through him.'

John grunted and accepted that, even if improving, the sick man was hardly likely to have been in a fit state to be involved in his lord's murder. There seemed no one else to interrogate, and John was driven to ask general questions of the throng that now half filled the hall of the manor.

'Has anyone any further light to shed on this tragic happening?' he shouted at them. 'Have there been any strangers here in the past few days?'

There was a general murmuring and shaking of heads, but no one volunteered any information. The new manorlord came to their rescue.

'Unfortunately in that respect, Sir John, we are on the high road to Plymouth, so strangers are passing through all the time. Few stop here, as we are so near Exeter, but some call at the alehouse for food and drink.'

This seemed to trigger someone's memory, as an elderly man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a staff and deferentially tugging at a sparse lock of dirty grey hair that hung over his forehead. He was dressed in little better than rags and had a strip of filthy cloth wound around his right leg, from which yellow matter leaked down on to his bare foot.

'Begging pardon, sirs, but I saw some strangers on the lane to Dunchideok yesterday afternoon, a couple of hours after dinner-time.' His quavering voice was weak, and Godfrey beckoned impatiently to him to come nearer.

'What's all this, Simon? Who did you see?' He turned aside to the coroner to explain. 'He's an old cottar, a bit mad. He cleans out the privy pits in the village, which is why he's always getting these purulent sores.'

'I was sitting on the bank, master, my leg being so foul. Three men passed me, jogging on palfreys towards Dunchideok. I couldn't see any faces, they had deep hoods over their features.'

'Can you describe anything else about them?' barked de Wolfe. Hooded men in a village could be significant, he thought.

'Yes, sir. They had black habits down to their feet, bound with cords around their waists.'

Godfrey gave an impatient snort. 'For God's sake, Simon, they were just monks! Benedictines, no doubt. There are hundreds of them about the countryside. Buckfast is one of their great houses.'

'What about this lane?' asked John, reluctant to give up even the most unpromising clue. 'Does it go anywhere near those woods?'

This time William answered. 'Not really, it's just a track to the next village. There's a hermit's cell there. I suppose monks could be visiting that for some reason.'

The crestfallen Simon stepped back among his sniggering fellows, and there now seemed little left to keep the coroner in Shillingford. With a promise to return the next day to formally hold an inquest, so that burial could be arranged, he and Gwyn went out to reclaim their horses and leave an uneasy and chastened manor behind them.

On the short ride back to the city, de Wolfe chewed over the strange affair with his officer, partly to sort out the details in his own mind.

'Who would want to kill Peter le Calve, anyway?' he mused. 'He's getting on in years, certainly older than me. And he takes no part in politics or county affairs — in fact, I'd almost forgotten he existed, as he never attends any tournaments or feasts in Exeter.'

John pondered for another score of Odin's hairy hoofbeats on the track.

'And look at the manner of his death! Lashed to a pole, beheaded, gutted and his twig and berries cut off!' he muttered.

'That was no casual robbery,' said his companion. 'And anyway, his purse was still on his belt with some coins still inside.'

'And where the hell is his head and his manhood?' persisted John. 'Have they been taken away as trophies?'

'Could this be to do with witchcraft or the black arts?' queried Gwyn, almost nervously. As a Cornishman and a Celt, he had a healthy respect for pagan superstitions, as a recent outbreak of witch-hunting in Exeter had revealed. De Wolfe, though having similar Celtic blood in his own veins courtesy of his mother, had no time for magic. 'Those wounds were made with good sharp steel. And what are we to make of that stab wound, eh?'

Gwyn took a hand from his reins to scratch his unruly red thatch.

'It was a strange one, Crowner, just like those on poor Thorgils and his crew. But one swallow doesn't make a summer.'

'True enough, but how many three-inch knife wounds have we seen since we came back from Palestine?'

There was no answer to this, and in silence they walked their steeds down into the ford alongside the unfinished Exe Bridge, to reach the city's West Gate on the other side of the river.