CHAPTER FIVE

In which Crowner John rides to Honiton

Next morning it was almost a replay of the previous Tuesday, as Hugh Bogge, the Keeper's clerk, again turned up at Rougemont soon after the eighth hour, having left Honiton as dawn lightened the eastern sky. His message was also similar, in that he came to summon the coroner to the scene of a violent death.

'Not a strangled young shipman this time,' he announced with morbid relish. 'A packman with his head stove in! But Sir Luke thinks there might be a connection between them.'

In spite of his three-hour ride, Bogge was quite willing to travel back with them after a bite to eat and a change of horse. By noon they had retraced the fourteen miles of relatively good road back to Honiton, even Thomas keeping up a decent pace on his new rounsey. De Wolfe and Gwyn had become so frustrated by his tardiness on the old broken-winded pony that John had dipped into the sheriff's expense fund and bought a dappled palfrey for the clerk.

They rode into the large village along its straight main street that was part of the Fosse Way, until Hugh Bogge led them down a side track that joined the road to Wilmington and Axminster, where the Keeper of the Peace lived. The cottages and shacks of Honiton petered out after a few hundred paces and, beyond a few strip-fields on either side, trees began again, patches of woodland at first, then denser forest beyond. Just where the last length of ploughed land gave way to a copse of beech and ash, John saw a cluster of people about twenty yards off the road.

'That's the place, Crowner,' said Hugh, his fat face almost glowing with excitement. He obviously relished being a Keeper's clerk, savouring the minor dramas that went with the job.

As they rode up and dismounted, they could see that Luke de Casewold was holding court amongst a handful of villagers. Some held a rake or hoe in their hands and seemed to have been working in the adjacent fields, where early oats and barley were showing green, as well as young bean and pea plants. After tying their horses' reins to convenient saplings, the four newcomers went along the edge of the trees to the group, and de Wolfe pushed his way past the yokels to confront the Keeper.

'A dead packman, your clerk said?' he growled by way of a greeting.

Luke de Casewold pointed down to a shallow depression in the ground, an old pit half-filled with moss and new nettles.

'Hardly merits being called a packman, though I'm told he was more respectable once upon a time.'

In the hole, partly obscured by the new spring weeds, was a body lying face up, his glassy eyes staring at the midday sun. A few bluebottles buzzed around the bloody fluid around the battered lips, and John could see that there were already yellow fly eggs on the eyelids. The face was badly bruised and one ear was half torn from the side of the head.

'You say you know who he is, then?' demanded the coroner.

'A well-known pedlar in these parts by the name of Setricus Segar,' replied Luke. 'Tramps the roads of Dorset and Devon trying to earn the price of his ale, on which he seems to live instead of solid food. '

De Wolfe looked down at the pathetic figure crumpled in what was almost a ready-made grave. Hard as he was from years of fighting and killing, as well as the morbid tasks of a coroner, he could not but feel a twinge of pity for this wreck of a man having come to such a dismal end.

'Then it's unlikely that he was robbed for his purse, if he was as poor as you suggest,' he said. 'What about his pack or whatever he carried to sell his wares?'

Another man spoke up this time, introducing himself as Edgar, bailiff of Honiton. He was a tall, fair man of obvious Saxon blood, dressed in a short serge tunic and cross-gartered breeches. 'That's the odd thing, sir! His pack wasn't worth two bent pennies, just a few pins and needles and some creased cloths. But it was found untouched a mile from here, hidden under the hedge at the side of the road.'

'Is this how he was found?' John waved a hand at the cadaver.

'Indeed it was, Crowner,' said the bailiff. 'We know better in Honiton than to move a body before you are summoned,' he added virtuously. 'One of these men found him last evening when he was dumping weeds from the field.'

'Do we know when he was last seen alive?'

'A carter from Seaton said he saw Setricus in Wilmington the day before yesterday, trying to sell his wares.'

Gwyn, who had stepped into the hole and was testing the dead man's limbs, looked up. 'Stiff as a plank! With these fly eggs, but no maggots yet, I reckon he died the night before last, if he was seen the day before that.'

De Wolfe nodded at his officer. 'Have a good look at him, Gwyn. See how much of a battering he's suffered.'

Then he turned around beckoned Luke away from the ring of locals who were gawping down at Gwyn's examination.

'Why do you think there might be some connection with the death in Axmouth?' he muttered, out of hearing of the others.

De Casewold's chubby face was pink with excitement as he expounded his theory. Like his clerk, he obviously thrived on mysteries and violent intrigue.

'It was where the pack was found, John! It was hidden in the hedge just outside a ruined toft down the road. No one lives there, but there were signs that someone had been using it very recently. And there were cartwheel tracks in the track alongside the hovel, as well as fresh ox-droppings in the pasture.'

The coroner disliked this man using his Christian name so familiarly, but he concentrated on trying to extract some sense out of what he was telling him. 'What has that got to do with our corpse down on the Axe?' he growled.

The Keeper leant forward, as if imparting some great secret. The sour breath from his bad teeth made John move back sharply, but he listened intently to his deductions.

'I'm sure there are illicit goods coming into the harbour there — but they have to be shifted inland. The only way to move heavier stuff is by cart, probably at night so as not to make it too obvious.'

'So what has this to do with a dead pedlar?'

'Maybe he was too nosy — or tried to steal something from them. Why else would anyone want to beat a penniless drunk to death?'

John thought the notion unlikely but not impossible — and he had no better theory to offer. 'I'd better have a look at this place — a mile away, you say?'

De Casewold nodded, but just then Gwyn gave a shout.

'His head's been cracked like an egg, Crowner. Hit with something hard and heavy, I reckon.'

Even Thomas, who usually hung back when his big colleague was ministering to the dead, moved to the edge of the hole with Hugh Bogge to see what Gwyn had found. He saw a long gash in the greying hair of the scalp, as long as a man's hand.

'Surely that must be from a sword or big knife?' he quavered, a hand to his mouth.

Gwyn guffawed and poked his finger into the gash to feel the broken plates of bone grinding against each other. 'No, you don't need a sharp weapon for this! A good smack with a club or a bit of tree-branch will split the scalp as clean as a whistle!'

As Thomas cringed and moved back from the pit, the coroner joined his officer and between them they looked at the corpse in more detail. Pulling up the threadbare clothing, they found bruises all over the belly and chest, many fractured ribs being felt under the thin skin of the emaciated pedlar. When they had finished, John told the bailiff to have the corpse carried the short distance back into Honiton, where he would hold an inquest in the churchyard in a couple of hours. Leaving Gwyn and Hugh Bogge to organise a jury, he motioned to Thomas and they joined the Keeper in a short expedition to the ruined cottage. Their horses covered the distance in a few minutes and they alighted at a semi-ruined hovel set on its own in a half-acre of overgrown land.

'Probably was lived in by some free tradesman from the village,' observed de Casewold. 'Long abandoned, by the looks of it. Perhaps he died without sons.' The mouldy thatch had caved in in places, causing one end wall to partly collapse, where the rain had dissolved the cob, a mixture of clay, straw and manure. The Keeper pointed to fresh-looking ruts that led in from the road to the side of the cottage, and de

Wolfe saw for himself the ox-droppings on the rough grass nearby.

'Where's this pack of his?' he grunted.

'I left it inside. We can have a look around — perhaps they left something.'

What they had left were the ashes of a recent fire and a stink of urine. The three investigators got in by pushing down a decrepit door whose leather hinges had rotted through. Thomas pointed to a crust of bread on the floor.

'That can't have been there long, otherwise rats and mice would have devoured it.'

The pack belonging to Setricus Segar did not detain them long. It was a poor haversack of canvas, containing several leather rolls with pins and needles, a bundle of faded ribbons and some folded lengths of woollen and serge cloth.

'We are little the wiser, Keeper,' observed de Wolfe as they came back out into the sunlight. 'Does no one in Honiton know of this mysterious cart that travels by night?'

Luke shrugged. 'Those who know, won't tell! And when the cart appears by daylight, who is to mark it from a score of others that ply up and down the roads every day? This is the direct track from Axminster to Honiton and Exeter.'

As they jogged back towards the village, the coroner persisted in questioning Luke about his conviction that Axmouth was involved. 'Why do you think that they are shifting illegal merchandise from there?' he asked. 'No doubt most ports try to evade some of the duty due to the Exchequer, but is Axmouth any different from the rest?'

The Keeper looked slyly across at John. 'I'm sure that it's more than just dodging the tally-man now and then — though I know he's as bent as a shepherd's crook. I feel it in my bones that there are people with blood on their hands involved in some of this trade — and both this hawker and the lad from that cog were silenced to keep their mouths shut.'

Further questioning produced nothing in the way of proof, but de Casewold seemed adamant that some nefarious business was being run from the port on the estuary of the Axe. John wondered if some of the man's obsession was due to his personal dislike of Edward Northcote and the portreeve.

They stopped at one of Honiton's several taverns for a bowl of potage and some bread and meat, then John held his inquest, another futile exercise in which he cajoled a dozen bewildered locals to bring in a verdict of felonious killing by persons unknown. Disgruntled by the inevitable imposition of the murdrum fine at the next Eyre, as it was obvious that no presentment of Englishry could be made over the body of Setricus, the jury dispersed, grumbling at the iniquity of the village having to find five marks just because some bloody pedlar got himself killed on their territory.

As Thomas packed up his writing materials after inscribing the lacklustre proceedings on his rolls, de Wolfe had a last word with the Keeper of the Peace before they parted in opposite directions, Luke to his home in Axminster and John back to Exeter.

'What are you going to do about this notion you have concerning Axmouth?' he grunted.

De Casewold lowered his voice and looked around, though there was no one within twenty paces. 'I intend to find this damned cart — or one like it, travelling at night. If I can arrest the driver, I'll soon make the bastard talk!'

For a short fat man, well past his prime as a sword-wielding knight, Luke seemed very confident of his prowess as a thief-catcher, and de Wolfe, though he disliked the man, hoped that he was not going to do something foolhardy and put himself in danger. Unlike his own bodyguard Gwyn, the Keeper's clerk, Hugh Bogge, would be about as much use in a fight as a bladder of lard. Still, there was nothing that he could do about it, and with a perfunctory wave he wheeled his horse about and set off back to the city and the prospect of another dismal evening with his wife.


The following day was not only a Sunday but Palm Sunday, when Matilda began her orgy of devotions for the coming Holy Week with three attendances at the cathedral and one at the 'parish' church of St Olave's.

To be exact, there were no formal parishes in Exeter, but the twenty-seven churches served numerous small areas within the city walls, some catering for only a handful of households within their shadow. The cathedral was not meant to provide for the general public, apart from the great festivals, being a place where continuous worship of the Almighty was maintained by the priesthood at their nine services each day. Palm Sunday was one of the occasions when the great church of St Mary and St Peter put on a show, with a procession not only within the precincts but around the city itself.

John was not an enthusiastic churchgoer, but every few weeks and on the major religious festivals he stirred himself to accompany his wife, mainly out of a sense of duty and propriety. This day, he donned his best grey tunic and a short black cloak, both of them displaying the only colours he ever wore, to Matilda's eternal disgust. She would have preferred him to be more colourful, like the majority of upper-class citizens, but he was obdurate in his choice of clothes.

Matilda had already been to a service at Prime, before the eighth hour, but now urged him out of the house an hour later to watch the procession before Lauds and High Mass. A great winding serpent of figures came out of the West Front of the cathedral, bearing crosses and banners as incense was wafted about. The canons and vicars, the secondaries, choristers and the parish priests preceded the portreeves, burgesses and guild wardens as the cortege chanted and sang its way around the Close to the Palace Gate and out into the streets to perambulate the city.

When the procession finished its circuit, it came back into the cathedral to celebrate Lauds, Matilda and John joining the throng to enter the huge building. As they stood with hundreds of others on the bare flagstones of the great nave, watching and listening to the arcane performance of the quire and canons beyond the carved screen, Matilda nudged her husband with an elbow.

'That's the one you were asking about, over there with the wife wearing the red-velvet mantle'

John looked across a few heads and saw a tall dark-haired man dressed in an expensive green tunic under a long surcoat of cream wool. 'Who is he?' he muttered, not understanding what she was talking about.

'That's Robert de Helion, the manor-lord of Bridport and a very rich merchant,' she murmured impatiently. 'You said he was the owner of that ship you were concerned about.'

De Wolfe stared again, as this was the man he wanted to speak to about the cog The Tiger, which had not yet returned to Axmouth, as far as he was aware. He resolved to go and visit the man in the very near future, though Easter Week was a difficult time to conduct official business.

Soon, the service came to its climax with the High Mass, and before long John found himself outside again, on the steps at the West Front. He hung about awkwardly while his wife gossiped with her cronies, which seemed mainly an opportunity for them to show off their new clothes and their old husbands, if they were men of note or successful at commerce. Matilda had long ago given up trying to inveigle John into these huddles to display him as the king's coroner, and he stood silently on the margins, hunched like some large black crow in his sombre raiment. Eventually, the groups and cliques dispersed and they made their way home to Mary's dinner, before Matilda made off again to St Olave's for another round of kneeling and praying.

De Wolfe declined to suffer any more religion that day and, after taking Brutus down to Exe Island for a run around on the grassy mudflats, he came home and slept in front of his beloved hearth until Matilda returned in time for supper. To him, the inertia of the Sabbath was a boring interruption of the week's work, and as he nodded off into slumber he resolved to do all he could in the coming days to get to the bottom of the murderous problems in the east of the county.


When the new week began, the coroner's plans to pursue the Axmouth mystery were frustrated by new cases. First of all, he had to spend a full day in Crediton, investigating a house fire in which a man was killed by a falling beam when he tried to rescue his treasure chest. On Tuesday morning, after attending three hangings out at the gallows in Heavitree, he had a summons to ride to Totnes, where a felon awaiting execution had escaped with the connivance of the gaolers and had sought sanctuary in the nearest church. The fugitive had already spent twenty of his allotted forty days' grace sitting near the altar, to the annoyance of the priest, but now wished to abjure the realm. John had to ride down there with his officer and clerk and go through the ritual of confession, then send the man, arrayed in sackcloth and carrying a crude wooden cross, down to Dartmouth to catch the first ship that could take him out of England.

With insufficient daylight to ride back home that night, he claimed lodging in Totnes Castle, an impressive circular fortification perched above the town, before setting off next day. It was late on Wednesday afternoon when they arrived back in Exeter at the end of the twenty-five-mile journey, and after enduring a stony-faced Matilda, who always complained when he spent a night away, he felt too tired to stir himself after supper to tramp down to the Bush. Though his boil had subsided, the long ride had made it ache, so he was glad to crawl into his bed as soon as it grew dark, ignoring the snores of his wife on the other side of the wide mattress. He knew that this new series of absences from the tavern in Idle Lane would not endear him to Nesta and promised himself that he would get down there on the following day, come what may.

Maundy Thursday began wet and windy, and de Wolfe was glad that after checking with the guardroom at Rougemont no new deaths had been reported overnight. Neither were there any hangings due at the gallows-tree outside the walls on Magdalene Street, so after a pint of cider and some bread and cheese with his assistants in their dreary chamber in the gatehouse, John announced that he was off to track down Robert de Helion. Matilda had said that he had a town house near the East Gate. If he was that rich, no doubt it would be one of the city's bigger dwellings on the south side of High Street, possibly in Raden Lane. He took his cloak from a wooden peg driven between the rough stones of the bare wall and left Thomas to his scribing of duplicate rolls for the next Eyre. Gwyn no doubt would find himself a game of dice with his soldier friends in the garrison while the coroner went in search of information.

He went across the drawbridge and down the hill through the outer ward to reach High Street. Ignoring the fine but steady rain, he pushed through the shoppers thronging the booths along the edge of the now muddy road and went into a quieter lane on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare. Here were houses of varying styles, many now in stone, but the majority still timber, set in long burgage plots that ran at right angles to the narrow road. Few were thatched, as this was now frowned upon in the tightly packed cities where fire was an ever-present hazard, so slate or stone tiling were the usual roofing materials.

Halfway along, he saw a young servant girl throwing used floor-rushes out into the street, where they would soon be trodden into the mud. He enquired about Robert de Helion's dwelling and the flustered child called an older manservant, who directed him to a large house on the corner of a side lane opposite. It was stone-built and, though opening directly on to the road, had an imposing front door between two pillars, which reminded him of Hilda's house in Dawlish. Shuttered windows on each side were matched by a pair on an upper floor in the modern style, suggesting that the dwelling was fairly recent.

He knocked on the door with a fist and it was opened by a middle-aged servant wearing a red tunic with an embroidered crest across the front, an extravagance usually confined to the greater lords and barons. After John had announced his rank and office, he was told that Sir Robert was at home and would undoubtedly be willing to receive him. They stepped into a vestibule, from which two leather-flap doors led into the side rooms behind the lower windows. A wooden door straight ahead of them entered the hall, a lofty chamber occupying all the centre of the building. John was pleased to see that in spite of the grandeur of the place it still had a central fire pit, unlike his own treasured hearth and chimney. The furnishings and tapestry wall-hangings were expensive, and a large dresser displayed a multitude of fine pewter and silver dishes.

Robert de Helion was sitting at a table to one side of the fire, a few smouldering logs dispelling the chill of early spring. He was surrounded by parchments, and a grey-haired clerk stood alongside his master, just as Elphin hovered over the sheriff back in Rougemont.

The merchant-knight stood up to greet de Wolfe, then motioned for him to sit on the other side of the table and waved at his emblazoned bottler to bring wine. The clerk stepped tactfully into the background and de Helion courteously enquired about the coroner's business with him. As the wineskin and goblets appeared, John took the opportunity to study Robert at close quarters, as he had seen him only at a distance in the cathedral. He was above average height, slim and erect, with a head of dark brown hair cut severely in the Norman style, the sides and back being shaved up to an abrupt ledge that ran horizontally around his head. The face was strong and brooding, with a passing resemblance to John's own, the big nose and long jaw being similar.

'I have come to make enquiries about one of your cogs, as well as the general situation in Axmouth,' he began after he had sipped the excellent wine.

De Helion looked puzzled. 'Is this not a strange task for a coroner, Sir John?' he asked. 'I thought that your duties were in the courts and investigating deaths?'

John nodded and explained more fully. 'I am looking into a murder in Axmouth, where the dead youth was a shipman on one of your cogs. I am told that you own The Tiger, is that not so?'

The manor-lord of Bridport still failed to comprehend. 'Indeed, that vessel does belong to me, along with about a dozen other ships! But I know nothing of the death of a crew member, though I suspect that fatal brawling and disputes are all too common amongst seamen.'

De Wolfe shook his head. 'This was no wharf-side brawl. The lad was strangled, then his body buried to avoid detection. I have been waiting to question the shipmaster and crew, but the damned thing has vanished over the horizon.'

Robert turned his head to speak to his clerk. 'Stephen, do we know where The Tiger is and when she might return?'

'The vessel must be due back at any time, sir, according to Henry Crik. She went across to Rouen with tin and to fetch cloth back from Caen to Axmouth.'

De Helion swung back to the coroner. 'A short voyage. You should be able to speak to her master very soon.' He spoke again over his shoulder to Stephen. 'Remind me who he is, will you?'

'Martin Rof, sir. He used to sail mostly out of Dartmouth until last year.'

The ship owner nodded. 'That's why I don't recall him that well. I have cogs that use the Dart as well as the Axe and Exe. But I have little to do with the crews or their ships; that is the task of my agent Crik and others, like Elias Palmer in the case of Axmouth, ' he added dismissively.

De Wolfe rubbed his bristly chin. 'Ah yes! Elias Palmer — and the bailiff Edward Northcote. I have heard rumours of irregular dealings down at Axmouth, which may not be unconnected with this killing.'

He stretched the truth for the sake of his investigation. 'Have you any reason to suspect that anyone in your employ down there might be involved in illegal or even criminal pursuits?'

De Helion stared at this gaunt, dark figure who had descended upon him without warning. 'I've no notion as to what you might mean, coroner,' he protested. 'What kind of crimes?'

'To put it bluntly, evasion of royal taxes on certain goods — and possibly the passing of pirated goods.'

Instead of looking shocked, Robert de Helion gave a wry smile. 'Evasion of royal taxes? That's a polite way of saying 'smuggling', I think. Sir John, many people consider these Customs dues an added imposition on an already overburdened population and if they can 'evade' them, then good luck to them. I don't involve myself in any such schemes, but I fully understand those who will accidentally forget to show the tally-man every bale or keg.'

The coroner grunted: this was a sentiment that seemed to fall from everyone's lips. 'And piracy? Have you heard rumours of that? Our new Keeper of the Peace in that area seems convinced that the cargoes of some vanished ships end up deep inland — and that some get there through Axmouth.'

The expression on the ship owner's face hardened. 'That I cannot believe, but again I have no personal knowledge of these matters. Being a merchant and financier with fingers in many bowls, I do not involve myself in the daily running of my various enterprises. I pay agents and clerks to handle that, so how would I know what some of my shipmasters get up to when they are a dozen leagues from land?'

This was a neat disclaimer, but de Wolfe could find no reason to disbelieve what the other knight said.

'You mentioned the portreeve, Elias Palmer,' he persisted. 'Along with the bailiff, Edward Northcote, they seem to have the port of Axmouth very much under their thumbs. Have you any reason to think that they might be involved in some underhand business?'

Again Robert de Helion gave a sardonic smile. 'Axmouth is very much under a thumb — but it is the holy thumb of the Prior of Loders! We all know that the Church is as concerned with its worldly possessions as with its heavenly duties — did I not hear recently that now about one third of England belongs to them, rather than to the barons or even the king?'

He stopped to swallow some wine. 'And of the priests and monks who are keen on their estates and their incomes, the Prior of Loders is amongst the keenest. He keeps his bailiff on a very short rein, and I warrant that he would know straight away if as little as one clipped penny went astray in the accounts kept by old Elias.'

For a man who claimed to be aloof from the daily running of his business, Robert seemed very well informed about the finances of Axmouth. Further questions produced nothing useful, and John sensed that the merchant was becoming impatient to return to his clerk's ministrations. Soon, he rose to leave and de Helion promised to send him word as soon as he knew that his ship The Tiger had returned to Axmouth.

As he strode back to Rougemont, John pondered over what he had learnt, which in truth was very little. He was not sure what to make of Robert — the man was rich and probably powerful in certain circles, though he seemed to have no political ambitions. No doubt the guilds had considerable respect for him, as he offered employment to many of their members, but he seemed to keep a very low profile amongst the county aristocracy. He had told John that he and his wife and family spent most of their time at his manor near Cullompton. His Exeter house seemed to be used mainly for conducting his business, though he had said that he also travelled regularly to Southampton, Plymouth and Dartmouth. The coroner had no grounds for thinking that any of de Helion's obvious wealth came from illegal sources, as a dozen ships, a fulling mill and God knows what other business enterprises would surely bring him in more than enough to maintain his lifestyle.

Disgruntled, he returned to his chamber, conscious that at every turn his efforts to discover who killed Simon Makerel seemed to run into the sand. Whether or not the irritating Luke de Casewold was right in trying to link it to the death of the pedlar was another matter. He decided that another visit to Axmouth was called for soon, whether the missing cog had returned or not.


The solemn days of Easter brought virtually all activity to a stop, as Good Friday was devoted to churchgoing. Matilda had attended an all-night vigil at St Olave's, and next morning John had no option but to accompany her to the cathedral for a special High Mass. After dinner at noon, the exhausted Matilda collapsed into her bed and proclaimed her intention of staying there until late evening, when she would again make her way to her favourite little church in Fore Street. The taverns were closed, but once his wife was sound asleep he whistled to his hound and made his way down to Idle Lane. For once in the year, the inn was strangely silent, the servants having gone home for the day. The front entrance was closed, but he went around to the yard and put his head around the back door, calling out for Nesta. An answering voice came from the loft and, leaving Brutus to nose in the rushes for mice, John climbed the wide ladder and found his mistress waiting for him at the door to her small cubicle, her fists planted on each side of her slim waist.

'I do believe it's the coroner, if my memory serves me right!' she said, though the sarcasm was tempered by the smile on her face.

For answer, he seized her and kissed her almost wildly, and in a trice they were back in her room, collapsing on to the feather mattress that lay on a low plinth on the floor. This time there was no sign of any small devil perching on John's shoulder as they fumbled at each other's clothing and soon — but not too soon — they lay panting and satiated under the sheepskins that served as blankets.

'Now I see why they call it 'good' Friday,' he murmured irreverently as their pulses gradually slowed down.

Nesta pinched his thigh as she cuddled closely against him. 'don’t be blasphemous, John,' she said in semi-serious concern. 'You'll go to hell for saying things like that.'

'I want to be with all my old friends, for I'm damned sure they'll not be in heaven,' he growled into her ear. 'And at least I'll get away from my wife, for with all the praying and bobbing up and down that she does, she must have assured herself a place alongside St Peter.'

He said this partly to tease Nesta, for he knew she was a devout woman with a strong belief in the faith, even if she was not a fanatical churchgoer. In the villages, attendance at Mass was virtually obligatory, with a parish priest ready to chase up and castigate those who fell by the wayside — but in a city like Exeter, full of churches with no strict parish system, it was virtually impossible to keep track of backsliders.

'But surely you must be a believer and not a heretic, John?' she demanded, rising up on one elbow, deliciously exposing her bosom.

De Wolfe, becoming somewhat philosophical in the afterglow of lovemaking, considered this for a moment. Everyone was brought up from infancy to revere the faith, attend church and never to question the dictats of the priests, who were powerful figures with all the weapons of eternal damnation at their disposal. Apart from a few madmen, no one disputed the teachings of the Church, which pervaded everyone's lives. John accepted that he was no exception; he had never once even thought of denying the creed or wondering what proof there was of God, the devil and all the saints and angels. Yet he was supremely uninterested in the whole business, being at the opposite pole from Matilda, who lived and breathed her religious faith. If there was one area that he occasionally wondered about, it was the ritual of the Church, rather than the underlying concept of God and all His works. If Christ was a lowly carpenter, preaching poverty and humility, why did bishops and archbishops and the Pope need to further His mission by wearing outrageously ornate garments and parade around swinging incense? Even when these faintly sacrilegious thoughts came to him, he afforded them no importance. He was in general an unimaginative man, preferring the concrete evidence of his own eyes and ears. To him, life consisted of eating, sleeping, fighting, doing his duty to his king — and bedding a woman when the opportunity presented.

Nesta's question was still unanswered, but she stayed propped up waiting for it, her hazel eyes fixed worriedly upon his.

'No, I'm no heretic, my love,' he said slowly. 'I just don't care much about it all, to tell the truth. What is to be, will be!'

With this fatalistic rejoinder, he slid his arms around her and drew her down under the covers again.

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