The Elixir of Death

CHAPTER SEVEN

The coroner arrived back in Exeter with Gwyn and the two men-at-arms on Sunday afternoon. The long ride was without incident, though the weather had worsened and a light powdering of snow had settled on the tracks by the time they reached their night stop at Totnes Castle. On the second day, it had turned to rain and they were wet, cold and miserable by the time they entered the West Gate and walked their tired horses up the slope of Fore Street and into the centre of the city. At the castle, the soldiers vanished to their huts in the outer ward, seeking warmth, food and a welcome from their families, while John and his officer went into the keep to seek the first two commodities, though there was not much of a welcome. The sheriff was away visiting his manor outside the city, and there were only a few servants and clerks in the large, bare chamber.

They settled around a table near the fire-pit and were served with leftovers from dinner — boiled salt fish, a bowl of chicken legs, rye bread and some sliced boiled beef. There was plenty of the latter, as though most cattle were kept as draught oxen, some of the few dairy cows and young steers were butchered at this time of year, as there was insufficient fodder to feed them all through the winter. In fact, in the Welsh language that John learned from his mother, the word for November meant 'slaughter'. The two men ate in silence, but when they had had their fill, they pulled their stools nearer the burning logs to sit companionably with a quart of ale in their hands.

'So are we any the wiser after four days in the saddle?' grunted Gwyn. He looked across at de Wolfe, watching him in profile as he hunched over his pot, staring into the fire. The coroner's beak of a nose projected like a hook in front of cheeks darkened by almost a week's growth of stubble.

'None the wiser — but better informed!' growled John. 'There seems no reason at all to connect old de Revelle with the death of Peter le Calve.'

'What about this Second Crusade business?'

'What about it? God's teeth, how can that be connected with a death in Devonshire almost half a century later?' He spat into the fire and watched the spittle sizzle away on an ember.

The Cornishman drained his ale, leaving a wet rim on his luxuriant moustache. 'So what do we do now? There'll be rumblings in Winchester when they hear that one of our manor-lords has been crucified and beheaded. The next lot of Royal Justices to arrive in Exeter will give the sheriff a hard time if by then no one is chained in the gaol below.'

'As the King's Coroner, I'll not be too popular either,' agreed John morosely. 'But what can we do? Nothing, unless some new atrocity is committed.'

There seemed no answer to this, and their talk drifted on to other matters.

'What about the Mary and Child Jesus?' asked Gwyn. 'Are you sending a shipwright down there to size up the damage?'

'I'll talk to Hugh de Relaga tomorrow,' replied John. 'Though there's plenty of time now that winter's almost here, we still need to get an idea of the expense of refitting the vessel.'

He drained the last of his ale and stood up. 'And maybe they will want to get her around to a proper port. That creek on the Avon is not the best place to carry out repairs.'

Gwyn went off to settle his big mare in the castle stables, as there was nowhere near his modest home in St Sidwell to keep the beast. John slowly walked Odin in the gathering dusk down to High Street and a well-earned rest with Andrew the farrier. Then he gratefully entered his own house and sat with Mary for a while in her kitchen shed, telling her of the journey to Revelstoke, which was farther away than the cook-maid had ever been in her life. Though he had already eaten in Rougemont, Mary pressed him to one of her mutton pastries and a cup of cider while she listened to his tale.

'So when is the mistress likely to come back? And that nosy bitch Lucille?' she asked. Like John, she was savouring the house without the mistress. It was as if a dark cloud had been lifted from Martin's Lane while she was away.

'I don't know, but I doubt it will be more than a few days,' he said glumly. 'Since he lost the shrievalty, her hero-worship for her brother has vanished. Sooner rather than later, she will say something to offend him — and Matilda can't stand his wife, the icy Lady Eleanor, who thinks that she's only slightly less exalted than the Queen herself.'

The mention of King Richard's wife diverted their talk to Berengaria, a topic of endless speculation among both the aristocracy and peasantry of England. A Spanish princess, she had never set foot in the country of which she was queen and could not speak a word of its language. Mary was all the more intrigued by the matter, as John had actually been present at the marriage in Cyprus, on his way to the Crusade, and many a time she had made him describe the day, the story getting better with every telling.

As he was overdue for his weekly wash, shave and change of tunic, Mary heated water over her fire and he stripped to the waist in the doorway of her hut. With the water in a leather bucket, he laved himself with soap made from goose grease and wood ash, then scratched at his black stubble with a specially sharpened knife.

The handsome dark-haired Saxon woman looked longingly at his muscular body, but firmly decided against any weakening of her resolve not to share his bed again, even if her mistress and her prying maid were almost forty miles away. She had a comfortable job in the household and she was not going to jeopardise it again, even if the thought of John's enthusiastic embrace was very tempting. From the looks that he threw at her in return, she suspected that similar thoughts were going through his mind. His resistance came from a different source — a guilty conscience regarding Nesta in Idle Lane. An hour later, he was down at the Bush, resisting not more feminine advances but the offer of yet more food, as the landlady was trying to get him to eat another meal.

'Later on, cariad, later on!' he protested in Welsh. 'Every woman I meet wants to push food down my throat!'

'Did you eat in Dawlish, then?' she asked in mock innocence, forcing him to hotly deny having come back that way from Totnes. A mere novice when it came to understanding women's minds, he wondered why Nesta was taking so doggedly against Hilda these days, as a year earlier, when he had broken his leg on the jousting field, they had seemed the best of friends.

The little spat passed and, in between dealing with her maids and her drinking patrons, Nesta came to sit with him at the table behind the wattle screen next to the fire. After a couple of hours of pleasant dalliance, he was persuaded to eat again, and she went off to chivvy her two servant girls to get food for her lover. As she vanished through the back door to reach the kitchen shed in the yard, a small figure slipped in through the front door, his new cloak slick with raindrops. It was Thomas de Peyne, his lank hair plastered across his forehead by the downpour outside. His narrow face was radiant with excited pleasure as he slunk self-consciously through the drinkers to stand at John's table.

'Thomas, what brings you to venture into a den of sin — and on a Sunday, too!' jibed the coroner, knowing that taverns were not favourite haunts of his clerk.

'I've not seen you nor Gwyn for four days, master,' chattered the puny priest. 'So I've not been able to tell you my news! I thought I might find you here tonight.' John motioned to him to sit down on the bench opposite. 'Calm yourself, Thomas. What great news is this?'

'The best, Crowner! I have been given a part-time post in the cathedral, so I will have both an ecclesiastical living and be able to continue as your clerk, as I vowed I would!'

De Wolfe's stern face broke into a smile of genuine pleasure at the young clerk's obvious delight. He leaned across and grasped a thin shoulder in a rare display of affection.

'I am greatly pleased for you, Thomas. I know it was your heart's desire. What is this new job — are you to be the next Bishop of Exeter?'

De Peyne smiled weakly at his master's attempt at wit. 'Not quite, sir! But I am to have a modest prebend as a chantry priest, with some duties teaching the choristers their letters — and I am to work in the archives above the Chapter House.'

'A prebend! Does that mean you will be a canon now?' demanded John, whose knowledge of the tortuous workings of cathedral administration was patchy.

Thomas giggled like a girl. 'Unfortunately not, I'm afraid. I will merely be a preabenda dodoralis, but that will give me a modest salary and the right to daily bread and candles.'

At this point, Nesta returned, and Thomas had to give his news all over again. Nesta was suitably ecstatic and hugged the little man, giving him kisses on his cheeks, to his great embarrassment and secret delight. She made him explain his new status more fully, slipping on to his bench with her arm still around him.

'My blessed uncle, the archdeacon, arranged this for me, as it seems he has a chantry post in his gift.'

'What does that mean?' asked the landlady.

'When certain rich people die, they leave a bequest to the cathedral for Masses and prayers to be said for their soul in perpetuity. The money goes to pay for a priest, so I'll have to do this daily to earn my place.'

'What about these other tasks you spoke of?' demanded John.

'My uncle prevailed upon Canon Jordan de Brent to let me work in the scriptorium. It seems the cathedral archives have been neglected and need sorting and revising — a labour of love to me, but it is an added excuse to employ me, as is a small amount of tuition to the choristers, to improve their reading and writing.'

'It seems a lot of work for a stipend of a few pence and a daily loaf from the cathedral bakehouse!' said Nesta, though she did not want to dampen his excitement too much.

'And when are you going to have time to be clerk to the coroner?' added John, in mock anger.

Thomas hastened to reassure them. 'My Masses will be said at the crack of dawn, Crowner — and the teaching is but a few hours once a week. The work in the Chapter House archives can be done at any odd time.'

His master calmed him with a good-natured grin. 'I'm glad for you, Thomas, it's time things went well for you. But why did my good friend John de Alençon find such a hotch-potch of jobs for you?'

The clerk shook his head sadly. 'He said there is still antagonism towards me from certain of the canons, mainly because I am your clerk. It is the old business of Prince John again, I fear. So the archdeacon had to circumvent their opposition by using means within his own personal power — and Canon Jordan is a genial man and a friend of my uncle.'

They chatted with Thomas for a while, then his reluctance to be seen for too long in a tavern on the Sabbath got the better of him and he vanished into the night, promising to be in the coroner's chamber in the castle early the next morning.

With no one at his house in Martin's Lane to censure him, John took the opportunity to stay the night at the Bush, so later he followed the delectable Nesta up the wide ladder to her little room in the loft.

A whole week went by and there was no sign of Matilda returning to Exeter. John began to think that maybe she would never come home again, and he settled into a pleasant routine. He went home at noon every day for his dinner, partly to please Mary, who was an excellent cook and fiercely determined to see that he was properly fed. In the evening, he went to the Bush for his supper and languorous entertainment up the ladder, where he stayed until he strode back to Martin's Lane for his breakfast.

The coroner's duties continued as usual, with executions twice a week, the county court and inquests scattered through the days as the cases required. There was nothing unusual among these — a fatal fire in a cordwainer's shop, a child crushed by a runaway cart, a rape in a back lane in Bretayne and a lethal stabbing outside the Saracen Inn. There was news that the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery might reach Exeter within three weeks, but such forecasts had so often proved wrong that Henry de Furnellis was making no special preparations for the King's Commissioners until he had confirmation of their arrival. They were not so grand as the Royal Justices, who came to hold the Eyre of Assize at much more infrequent intervals. The commissioners were supposed to present themselves every few months, to clear the gaols of prisoners awaiting trial — those who had not either escaped, killed each other or died of gaol fever.

If the commissioners did arrive soon, then both the sheriff and the coroner would have a considerable amount of work to do, both in preparing the rolls which documented the cases and in attending the court to present a wide variety of legal matters. This week seemed free of any serious problems, however, and John took advantage of it, especially as Thomas was settling down to his new duties in the cathedral. Now that he had a little money promised from his prebend, he was able to move out of the canon's house in the Close where he had previously begged shelter, sleeping on a mattress in a passageway of the servants' quarters. Now he bought a share in a small chamber in a house in Priest Street, near Idle Lane. There he bedded down with a vicar and two secondaries, on low trestle beds in each corner of the room. Lack of privacy, which was an uncommon commodity for all but the most wealthy, was more than compensated for by the fact that he was once again in the company of fellow clerics — a state halfway to heaven for Thomas de Peyne.

Only one event that week needed some delicate manoeuvring on John's part. As he had told Gwyn, he needed to speak to his partner, Hugh de Relaga, about the disabled ship down on the River Avon. On Tuesday, he called at the merchant's house in High Street shortly after dinner and caught the rotund portreeve dozing over a cup of Loire wine. Hugh jerked himself fully awake and pressed hospitality upon the coroner. When his even more rotund wife had poured wine for him, she tactfully retired to her solar and left the men to their business. John explained the situation and, after some discussion, they decided to employ a shipwright from Topsham to go down to survey the Mary and give them a report and estimate the costs.

'Why not ask the ship-masters from the other vessels that belonged to Thorgils to accompany him?' suggested de Relaga. 'They need to be brought into our scheme if they are to serve us faithfully — and their experience must surely be an advantage?'

De Wolfe readily agreed, but there was a complication in the proposal. Hugh wanted him to ride down to Dawlish to explain matters to Hilda and to arrange for the two shipmen to go down to Bigbury with the man from Topsham. Considering Nesta's jealousy, going to Dawlish was a dangerous venture. Either he went surreptitiously in the hope that she would not find out — or he would have to declare his intentions and their innocence before he went.

Later that day, as he loped down towards the Bush, he became angry with himself over the matter. He was a grown man, a Norman knight, a Crusader and a king's law officer — and here he was, worrying himself over possibly offending a mere alehouse keeper! He worked up a righteous indignation, which lasted all the way to Idle Lane, but as he approached the door of the tavern, his bravado evaporated.

'You could come with me, Nesta,' he heard himself saying a few minutes later. 'We could ride there and back between dinner and dusk.'

The Welsh woman pulled off her coif and shook her russet locks down over her shoulders. 'No, John, I can't leave this place unattended for half a day,' she said curtly. 'If you must go, you must go! But I don't see why the portreeve couldn't stir himself, instead of getting you to run his errands.'

John patiently explained that he knew both of the shipmasters and where they lived, so it was easier for him to speak to them.

'No doubt you do know them,' she said tartly. 'You must know Dawlish well and all those who live there, for you've visited often enough.'

De Wolfe kept his quick temper under control with an effort.

'Gwyn will be with me, Nesta. Shall I take Thomas as well to act as another chaperone?' he added sarcastically.

'Do what you like, John. Who am I to tell the county coroner how to conduct himself?' She got up from their table and began to flounce away towards the back of the taproom. With a groan of frustration, he went after her and grabbed her around her slim waist and propelled her towards the wide steps to the upper floor. She wriggled like an eel for a moment and began to squeal until she saw the amused faces of some of her patrons drinking near by. Her protestations diminished as he pushed her up the lower steps and as the pair vanished into the loft there was some good-natured cheering and banging of ale-pots by the approving customers. The only dissidents were two strumpets, who screamed abuse at their prospective clients sitting next to them, as token support for their sister who was suffering the usual domination by these pigs of men. However, upstairs in her little chamber, Nesta soon felt anything but dominated as she straddled her lover, her fit of pique forgotten as they both cheerfully kissed and wrestled on the feather palliasse.

By the end of that same week, Alexander of Leith was becoming a worried man. The apparatus that he and Jan had brought so carefully from Bristol on the back of a packhorse had been set up in the crypt and he had started work, continuing the experiments that had occupied him for the past thirty years. He had studied in various parts of Europe, including Paris, Montpellier, Granada and Padua, and had become expert in the arts of distillation, extraction and alloying. Though like most alchemists, his main interest was the creation of the Elixir of Life, the great prize was the transmutation of baser metals into gold. Though there were many who claimed to have succeeded, no claim had survived rigorous testing to exclude fraud. He himself had laboured at the quest in Scotland and more recently in Paris and Bristol and felt that he was nearer success than at any time in his long life. The offer by Prince John's chancellor to join this Moorish sage was readily accepted by Alexander, as he felt that maybe the legacy of Arabic learning might be the last link in the chain he had been trying to forge for decades. For was it not Geber, an Islamic, who had first proposed the Philosopher's Stone, seven centuries after Christ? Even the name 'al-chemy' came from the Arabic language, as indeed did 'el-ixir'.

So it was with disappointment that he viewed his first discussions with Nizam, in spite of the initial excitement of seeing a nodule of what seemed to be gold in the Muslim's palm. In a halting mixture of French and Latin, the Scot tried to elicit a coherent account of Nizarn's theory and methods, but either because of the man's deliberate obfuscation or from genuine ignorance, he could make little sense of the Turk's vague ramblings.

When he asked to see the man manipulate his flasks, retorts and crucibles, he was given a fumbling display accompanied by an unintelligible monologue in the Turk's native tongue, and Alexander was little the wiser after five days than he was at the start.

Raymond de Blois had gone away again, ostensibly to secure more supplies of tin and silver and to meet an emissary from Gloucester at Revelstoke, but Alexander was determined to tackle him as soon as he returned, to get him to lay down the law to Nizam about his lack of useful cooperation. On Friday, with de Blois still absent, the little alchemist felt so frustrated that he decided to make a final effort and demand some decent information from the Mussulman — but after returning from a solitary noon dinner in the hut, he discovered that Nizam had disappeared, along with his two silent retainers and their horses.

'God's tits, where have they gone to this time?' he exploded to Jan, who was raking dung from the stable.

The hulking servant shrugged and made clear gestures, accompanied by guttural throat noises, that the three Asiatics had ridden off up the track to the road. A further pantomime told Alexander that they had been wearing dark cloaks with hoods, and his portrayal of a cross indicated that they had been dressed as monks. For a moment, the alchemist contemplated packing up and riding back to Bristol, but when his quick temper cooled, he decided to wait for Raymond's return.

He had a long wait, as the Frenchman remained away almost until dusk the next evening, eventually trotting in on a tired horse with a story that he had had to put the herald from Gloucester back on the right road to Totnes. He was in no mood to listen to Alexander's tale of woe, but after some food and wine served by the two Saxon guards, he unwound enough to sit by the fire in the crypt and consider what the Scotsman had to say.

'I'm beginning to think that this Nizam knows no more about transmutation than my dumb Fleming,' he began irascibly. 'I can get little sense out of him, and in spite of his having a speck of gold in his pouch, I doubt if he knows one end of a crucible from the other!'

De Blois tried to calm and reassure him. 'It must be the problem with language, magister. He was sent personally by my noble King Philip because of his prowess and reputation in your science. They met in Palestine and the King was so impressed by him that he brought him back to France. I was there myself, by the side of our sovereign, so can vouch for him.'

'But can you vouch for his expertise in alchemy, for there's precious little sign of it so far,' countered Alexander tartly. 'I feel I'm wasting my time here. I could be making more progress in my proper workshop in Bristol. And now the bastards have taken off again. They left yesterday. God knows where they've gone this time!'

Wearily, Raymond agreed to have a showdown with them when they returned. He angrily wondered where they had gone — this was the second time since they had arrived at Bigbury that the three Turks had vanished without explanation, even though he had lectured them on the need to lay low and keep out of sight of any of the local inhabitants. They had all brought monks' habits with them from France, as a necessary disguise to conceal their Moorish dress and features, but even these would not stand too close an inspection in daylight.

Raymond, guide and provider to this secret enterprise, did his best to pacify the indignant little Scotsman.

'We must persevere with this vital task, Alexander,' he cajoled. 'Sir Richard de Revelle has put himself at considerable risk and expense over this endeavour, and the messenger from Gloucester whom I have just left conveyed the concern of the Count of Mortain that success be speedily achieved.'

Reluctantly, the alchemist agreed to stay, but privately decided that he would carry on his researches alone, with little anticipation of help from the Mussulman, unless the latter demonstrated a radical change of attitude.

On Friday of that week, John de Wolfe took himself off to Dawlish with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he looked forward with disturbing enthusiasm to seeing Hilda, yet knowing of Nesta's disconcerting attitude he was almost afraid to mount his horse and commit himself to the visit. He took Gwyn with him, but left Thomas to his newfound delights around the cathedral. They trotted down to Topsham, led their steeds on to the flat-bottomed ferry for the short trip across the muddy estuary to the marshes beyond, then cantered across to the coast road at the foot of the low hills that led down to the sea and became cliffs farther south. Gwyn sensed his master's preoccupation and was well aware of the cause. Close companions though they were, it was not his place to offer advice, but he slipped in a few oblique hints when he had the opportunity.

'A fine woman, that Hilda! She'll have no trouble in getting herself a new husband in double-quick time!'

John scowled across at his lieutenant as they rode along side by side. 'Are you trying to tell me something, you old rogue?'

Gwyn innocently shook his head, his wild hair swaying like a corn stook in a gale. 'Just saying, Crowner, that's all! I'd make a play for her myself, if I wasn't a married man!'

'You mean just like me, don't you? Don't fret, Gwyn, I'm not going to throw a leg over her the minute I get inside her house. I've got Nesta breathing fire down my neck — and Matilda never misses a chance to remind me of my sins in that direction.'

His officer decided that he had better leave the subject alone and subsided into silence as they covered the last few miles to the little harbour. In the village, Gwyn diplomatically took himself to one of the two taverns, where John could pick him up when he had finished his business, innocent or otherwise. The coroner walked Odin down the lane that led from the creek where boats were beached and tied him to a hitching rail outside the solid stone dwelling that Thorgils had built.

Again the young maid was surprised to see him at the door, but with half-concealed giggles, simperingly she led him up the stairs to Hilda's solar. The widow had given up her mourning grey and looked elegant in a long kirtle of blue linen with a shift of white samite visible above the square-cut neckline. As usual indoors, her hair was uncovered and the honey-blonde tresses fell down her back, almost to her waist. John found it hard to remember her as the rosy-faced urchin with whom he had played in Holcombe many years before — and later as a lissom girl when they furtively kissed and coupled in the tithe barn. Looking at her now, serene, beautiful and self-confident, it was also difficult to accept that she was but the daughter of a manor-reeve, an unfree villein in his brother's employ — as she herself had been unfree until she had married Thorgils.

Hilda came towards him, her hands outstretched to take his, a smile of genuine pleasure on her face.

'John, it is so good to see you, no one is more welcome in this house!' She came close and, like iron chippings to a lodestone, his arms automatically came up to embrace her, though somewhere in his head warning chimes pealed as loudly as cathedral bells. Hilda's blue eyes and her full pink lips were inches away from his and he felt her breasts pressing against him as he held her. She stood immobile and he knew she was waiting for him to make the next move — or not make it. He realised that she was giving this old soldier the chance to attack or retreat, not forcing the issue but establishing where the watershed lay between prudence and abandonment. As he felt the heat growing in his loins, he groaned with longing and indecision, but then the vision of another pair of eyes, lips and breasts swam into his fevered mind. With a sudden movement, he pecked at her cheek with his lips and stood back, his hands sliding to hold her upper arms as they looked at each other gravely, the moment of decision reached — for now.

'I came to see if all was well with you, dear Hilda,' he croaked, then cleared his throat in one of the catch-all mannerisms he used to cover awkward pauses. Standing back, he saw that the maid was gaping at them, looking rather disappointed that they had not fallen to the floor in a frenzy of lust. Hilda led him to a chair and then sat opposite in another, after sending the maid scurrying to fetch wine and pastries.

'Tell me all your news, John. I have been quite out of touch since I came home from my stay in Holcombe.'

As he drank some of Thorgils' good Normandy wine and ate heartily of the pork and turnip pasties — for Hilda took little notice of the Church's edict regarding Friday fish — he brought her up to date on the plan to use the three ships to ferry goods from Exeter to other coastal ports, and especially those across the Channel. He wanted more details of the other two ship-masters, for in spite of his excuses to Nesta, he was not all that sure where they were to be found. The conversation flowed easily for an hour, though underneath was always their simmering awareness of their sexual attraction. The Saxon woman enquired after Matilda and patiently listened to John's bitter recitation of the hopelessness of their marriage, and his wish that the social gulf between them had been smaller before he had been forced into marrying de Revelle's daughter.

Then carefully, she asked about Nesta, whom she knew slightly and liked very much — though now she knew that the Welsh woman was an added barrier, in addition to Matilda. She suddenly came to appreciate that in fact if Matilda ceased to exist, she — Hilda — would be in a far better position to capture John de Wolfe than a lowly alewife, as there was no real reason why a Norman knight could not take her, a freewoman and the widow of a quite rich and respectable merchant, in marriage. Still, Matilda did exist and, being a sensible, realistic person, she felt no jealousy towards Nesta in a situation that was immutable.

John sat more easily as affection and admiration gradually replaced his lust and he settled down to enjoy the sight of her lovely face and body and the pleasant company that she afforded him. Eventually, the need to find the shipmen and to collect Gwyn from the alehouse before he became too drunk to sit on his horse drove him reluctantly to the door.

'Come to see me again very soon, John,' Hilda said without any trace of coquetry as he was about to leave. 'Let me know how our new venture is progressing and if you need a contribution to restoring poor Thorgils' vessel, you have only to ask.'

At the front door they kissed, and though this time it was fully on the lips, it was somehow chaste, as if a signal that for now they were as brother and sister. As John stalked away to untie Odin, he wondered whether Hell was a place where he was doomed to bounce for ever from one to another of an infinite number of women.