The Elixir of Death

by Bernard Knight

  As she snuggled up to his side, he brought her up to date on his doings since they had last met at the weekend, telling her of the journey to the south-west coast and the wreck of the Mary and Child Jesus. He tried to tread delicately around the fact that Thorgils was dead, as Nesta was well aware of Hilda's existence and of his dalliances with the blonde from Dawlish. In fact, Nesta had met Hilda several times and had got on well with the other woman, even though she knew that John still had feelings for her. Now she expressed her genuine distress that Hilda had been made a widow in such tragic circumstances and pressed him for more details of the death, which he was unable to provide.

  'It's a complete mystery, cariad,' he said in the Welsh tongue that they used together, as, thanks to his mother's ancestry, he was fluent in that Celtic language. 'The whole crew knifed, apart from the lad who must have jumped or been thrown overboard. The vessel was left to drift until it beached, but the cargo was untouched. I don't understand it at all!'

  Nesta always liked to hear about his cases and he enjoyed telling her about them, as she had a quick and lively mind that often produced useful ideas. In addition, she heard most of the gossip of the county, as the Bush was the most popular inn for travellers passing through the city, and on more than one occasion she had been able to offer him titbits of information that helped him in his investigations.

  'Who could have done this, John?' she asked. 'Where did they come from and where did they go?'

  He shrugged as he finished his quart and Nesta immediately signalled to Edwin to bring a refill. 'There were signs that someone other than the crew had been living below decks, so presumably Thorgils had brought some passengers across the Channel. It could only have been them that committed the crime.'

  Nesta looked dubious. 'Why couldn't it have been an attack from a raiding ship? There have been many reports of Barbary pirates along the coast.'

  De Wolfe shook his head. 'Unlikely, because the curragh that the vessel carried was missing and one was found intact and dragged up on the beach not far away. Almost certainly, they abandoned the ship and made their way ashore.'

  When John went on to tell her of the message that Hubert Walter had sent down to the sheriff, the landlady's fair eyebrows lifted. 'Maybe the two things are connected! Couldn't these men who went ashore be French spies? They killed the crew to prevent them telling of their illegal landing!'

  De Wolfe had half-heartedly toyed with this idea himself, but had dismissed it as being too much of a coincidence, even though there was no better explanation on offer. 'Thorgils would never have agreed to anything underhand, like bringing infiltrators to these shores.'

  Nesta shook her head impatiently. She was a woman of quick decisions and firm ideas. 'There need be no question of that, John. They could have bought their passage as genuine travellers, like hundreds of others. If Thorgils was bound for Salcombe or Dartmouth, they could have requested passage to one of those, then, when it suited them, they rose up, slew the crew and rowed themselves ashore.'

  John grudgingly admitted that she could be right. 'But why? And why go ashore on such a remote and God-forsaken bit of the coast? There's nothing there.'

  'Exactly! And so few people to see them arrive!' she said triumphantly. 'Once ashore, they could go anywhere, as long as they were careful. And your intelligence from the Justiciar specifically mentioned the West Country.'

  John suddenly realised that he was pressed against a warm and shapely woman and abruptly lost interest in hypotheses about French spies.

  'I have other intelligence that tells me that the ladder I see at the back of the room leads up to the loft!'

  He squeezed her thigh under the table and she rolled her eyes at him wickedly. 'I thought you might have forgotten that you most urgently instructed the master carpenter over there to rebuild my little chamber in the loft. I was beginning to think that it was a waste of good timber!'

  He stood up and stooped over her. 'I very much regret the loss of our fine French bed in that fire, sweet woman! I have ordered a new one from St-Malo, but until it arrives I think we can make do with a palliasse on the floor!'

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which the coroner attends another corpse

  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 Anjo
u 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 t
hen 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.'