The three men settled back into their routine and for a number of days John almost forgot his domestic troubles. He called at his house every evening to see Mary and to take Brutus for a walk. Each night that the cook-maid reported that there was no sign of Matilda, extended his contentment for another day. His hound was the only one who seemed to sense that all was not well, as he sometimes caught Brutus eyeing him reproachfully, as he cocked his leg against a grave mound in the Close or waited for his master to catch him up in Southgate Street. They no longer walked down to the Bush, as John would have had to bring the dog all the way back again each evening, so Brutus missed out on his titbits under the table in the taproom.
John restrained himself from going down to Dawlish again, though the temptation was always lurking at the back of his mind. Even when Hugh de Relaga urged him to visit their new partner, he made excuses and managed to delay the trip. The portreeve wanted him to let Hilda know the outcome of the shipwright's visit to the Mary and Child Jesus, as the man from Topsham had reported that the task would be easier and cheaper than expected.
'Together with the two ship-masters and a couple of crew, we can easily rig a jury mast,' he pronounced confidently. 'Pick a calm day and we can sail her round Bolt Head to Salcombe, before the winter gales set in. In that protected haven, the proper repairs can be carried out, ready for the spring sailing season.'
Hugh wanted John to reassure Hilda that all was going well, but John pointed out that she would have to come up to Exeter before long, to put her mark on the deed of partnership, which Robert Courteman, the only lawyer in Exeter, was drawing up in his office in Goldsmith Street.
De Wolfe did not want to risk making his love life any more precarious by stirring up the wrath of Nesta with any unnecessary dealings with the widow of Dawlish. One sword of Damocles hanging over his head in the shape of Matilda was more than sufficient.
Nothing further was heard that week from either Shillingford or Ringmore, but the mystery was never far from the coroner's thoughts. Only one aspect of the killings was followed up - that of the two cross-bow bolts brought from Shillingford. John closely scrutinised the worn marks hammered into the leather flights of the short arrows, but could make nothing of them. Even Thomas, usually a fount of arcane knowledge, had to confess that they meant nothing to him, but suggested someone who might have a better knowledge of Levantine calligraphy. The jovial and portly chaplain of Rougemont, Brother Rufus, had come to the castle earlier that year from a similar post at Bristol, but previously had been with the King's forces in France, and before that, at the Crusade.
Thomas wondered whether Rufus, a literate man with a great breadth of learning derived from his insatiable curiousity, could throw any light on the markings. The coroner's trio took the quarrels down to the little garrison chapel of St Mary, but found no sign of the amiable priest.
'He'll be supping ale and swapping yarns in the hall, I'll wager,' grunted Gwyn, who tolerated this particular monk because of his down-to-earth manner and his fondness for drink and gossip. Sure enough, they found the Benedictine in the keep and showed him the bolts that had caused so much damage. Enthusiastically, Rufus peered closely at the inscriptions on the flights, his large red nose almost touching them.
'It's Arabic, no doubt of that. Very blurred, as the tool that stamped them must have been blunt - and there's been no gold leaf impressed into them, to make them more prominent.'
'So what does it say?' barked de Wolfe, impatiently. Rufus fingered the leather, then broke off a splinter of wood from the edge of the rough table and used the tip to trace the shallow grooves.
'The same on both arrows. I'm no great scholar of Moorish writing, but one set of signs is for Allah. And I think another is 'just' or 'justice'.' He looked up at the coroner. 'Probably a quotation from the Al Qu'ran, meaning their god is just. That's about all I can get from it.'
De Wolfe nodded his thanks. 'But there's no doubt it's Arabic?'
The corpulent priest shook his head. 'No doubt about that - just the word 'Allah' proves that. The Saracens are very proficient with these cross-bows, though they use the short hand-bow as well, especially on horseback.'
John smiled sardonically. 'I'm living proof of that!' he said, feeling the still-tender spot on his chest, a reminder of the prowess of Saladin's troops with the bow. This was another piece of evidence that strengthened his conviction that there was a Moorish connection with these crimes, but it got them no farther in finding the perpetrators.
On Saturday afternoon, de Wolfe sought out Henry de Furnellis in his chamber, as since the arrival of a friendly sheriff in place of the haughty and sardonic Richard de Revelle he had fallen into the habit of talking over each week's events with the older man.
'Has there been any reaction from the Justiciar or the Curia to Peter le Calve's murder?' he asked Henry. 'Surely the news must have reached London and Winchester by now?'
De Furnellis shrugged and set his pint pot of cider down on the table.
'Nothing yet, but I'm sure that Hubert WaIter must know of it. I wonder if we should send him news of this Saracen involvement that you say is now all but definite?'
John nursed his own cider jar to his chest as he leaned over the small fire set against one wall. Kicking a log farther into the centre, he replied, 'It might be advisable, Henry. He was the one who sent us this idea about a Saracen connection, so maybe we should give him some confirmation from our end.'
'There's a messenger going up tomorrow. I'll get Elphin to write a note telling them of the attack on le Calve's son and the rest of the troubles.'
The sheriff, his drooping features looking more hound-like than ever, raised his eyes to the coroner. 'If this is all connected with Prince John, are we sure that my unlamented predecessor isn't mixed up in it? We all know that de Revelle has a strong inclination in that direction. God knows why the man hasn't been hanged for it twice over.'
De Wolfe gave another log a vicious kick that raised a shower of sparks. '
'I don't trust him anywhere out of my sight, Henry,' he rasped. 'But I can't see any evidence of him being involved.'
'This Burgh Island where the ship was wrecked, isn't that within sight of Revelstoke?' persisted de Furnellis.
'Yes, in the distance, far across the bay. But there's no way in which Richard or his men could be connected with the slaying of the crew. The vessel would not have touched land since it left France.'
The sheriff looked unconvinced, but had to bend to the facts.
'Is there nothing you can do about all these deaths, John?'
The coroner noticed that Henry said 'you', not 'I' - or even 'we' - in spite of the fact that he had been appointed the custodian of the King's peace in the county of Devon. It was again patently obvious that the sheriff was content to let de Wolfe take the lead in any investigation - though to be fair, John knew that he would not then claim any glory for success or avoid any responsibility for failure.
'Where can I start, Sheriff?' he growled. 'I'm sure now that there must be at least a couple of hostile Turks lurking somewhere in the county. They probably came from France on poor old Thorgils' vessel, but God knows where they're hiding now.'
Henry, whose somewhat bucolic appearance concealed a shrewd mind, pulled at the jowls under his chin. 'But why are they in Devon, John? What good can a couple of damned Saracens be to John Lackland?' This was the sarcastic nickname that the ambitious prince used to carry before his indulgent brother Richard bestowed lands upon him, a gesture that John threw back in his face when he tried to usurp his throne.
De Wolfe had no answer to this. 'I'll ask them when I catch up with them, in the few seconds before I ram my sword through the bastards' hearts!' he grunted ominously. 'But first we've got to find the swine.'
'I'd gladly give you a posse of Ralph Morin's troops, if it would do any good,' replied Henry morosely. 'But until we get some clue as to where they might be, what's the use?'
John picked up his wolf skin cloak and s
lung it around his shoulders as he moved towards the door. 'My gut tells me they're somewhere down in the west of the county. But that's a hell of a large area, and unless some of the locals get wind of them, we've no chance of finding them.'
'Unless they make another attack and get careless,' suggested de Furnellis, unaware of his prophetic powers.
That same day, the former sheriff had a visitor at his manor of Revelstoke, to which Richard had just returned. He seemed to favour this manor now, much to Lady Eleanor's displeasure. The envoy from the French king, Raymond de Blois, came alone from Bigbury, covering the miles at a quick trot and occasional canter, so that he was at Noss Mayo well before noon. He made an impressive figure on the bay gelding that had been supplied by de Revelle. Tall and erect, he was an excellent horseman and in fact was a successful competitor in many of the tournaments held around Paris and farther afield. Much of his appreciable wealth came from his winnings on the tourney grounds, both in forfeited arms and horses and in ransom money for those he defeated with lance and sword.
When he cantered up to the gatehouse of Revelstoke, the porter peered through his peephole and saw a commanding figure waiting for admittance. Raymond wore a yellow surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk, all covered with a dark green riding cloak. Though his head was bare, a round iron helmet hung from his saddle, alongside a wicked-looking ball-mace. A large sword was slung from his baldric, as, travelling alone, he took no chances on the lonely lanes of this remote part of England. Like his mount, these arms had been supplied at Bigbury by Prince John through de Revelle, as Raymond had been unable to bring much with him on the hazardous journey by ship and curragh. He carried no emblazoned shield, nor did his surcoat display any heraldic device. He was an enemy agent loose in the country, and though no one was likely to challenge him outside the towns, de Blois prudently avoided advertising his origins.
The porter knew him from several previous visits and hurried to swing open the gate, yelling for an ostler to come and take the horse. Minutes later, Raymond was ushered into de Revelle's chamber off the hall and made welcome with wine and the promise of food as soon as it could be brought from the kitchens. Richard hurried in, resplendent in a blue linen tunic almost to his ankles, loosely covered with a green silk surcoat trimmed with squirrel fur.
'I returned here only last night, de Blois,' he said. 'My wife has decided to stay at my manor near Tiverton - she says she finds the winds from the sea too chill here, now that winter is threatening to descend upon us.'
The French knight had arranged this visit when he was last at Revelstoke with Alexander of Leith, and had been hoping now to report that the alchemists had made good progress. Instead, he had to deliver his misgivings about the whole enterprise.
'These Moors are uncontrollable, I fear,' he said, warming his chilled body with mulled wine. 'Our little Scotchman does his best, but he can get no sense out of this Nizam creature. Last night, Alexander came to me complaining that he fears that the man has no real expertise in his craft. He is also beginning to suspect that the nodule of gold that the Arab claims to have made has been planted there to sustain the deceit!'
The lord of Revelstoke looked aghast at his visitor. 'Surely that cannot be true? This Saracen was sent at the express wish of your king! He must have had credentials to prove his prowess?'
Raymond gave a Gallic shrug. 'I knew of the man in Paris. Philip Augustus brought him back when he returned from the Crusade more than two years ago. He claimed then to have discovered the Elixir of Life and was confident that he could soon convert this substance into its other form, with the ability to transmute base metals into gold.'
De Revelle began pacing up and down in front of his table.
'Yes, yes, I know all that! But the Prince in Gloucester is impatiently awaiting results. He sends a herald here every week or two, demanding news. Why is this Godblasted Nizam proving so difficult, eh?'
'He keeps vanishing for days on end, together with these mute ruffians he has as bodyguards,' explained Raymond wearily.
'What are they up to? They are supposed to lie low all the time, to avoid being seen. What can bloody foreigners like them want with skulking around the countryside?' He ignored the fact that de Blois himself was a foreigner to Devon.
'I wish to heaven I knew - but then again, perhaps I prefer not to know!' answered Raymond fervently. 'They are dangerous men. I fear no one in fair combat, I welcome any adversary before me with sword or lance. But these strange beings are so untrustworthy, I am reluctant to turn my back on them, in case they slide a knife between my ribs.'
Richard de Revelle stared anxiously at his guest. He respected him as a brave and honourable knight, even though he was spying for another king. For him to admit to fears about these men was serious indeed.
'What were they like when you brought them across the sea?' he asked.
'They were quiet enough until we came in sight of this coast. I brought them from Paris to the Vexin, which is in King Philip's hands now, then we slipped into Normandy dressed as black monks, for those white nightshirts and headgear they wear are hard to disguise.'
'Which port did you use, then?' asked Richard, curious to hear about the ways of espionage.
'We embarked at Harfleur, where I paid this shipmaster well to drop us at Salcombe on his way home to some place near Exeter. He was a little suspicious of these hawk-faced 'Benedictines', but I spun him a story about them being hermits from Sinai wishing to go on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury, via Buckfast Abbey.'
'But you never got to Salcombe?'
Raymond de Blois shook his head sadly. 'I intended that to be the plan, but after I explained to this Nizam that we would need to go back a few miles from Salcombe to Bigbury, they went into a huddle. As soon as the ship came close inshore in this big bay, they suddenly rose up and callously slew all the crew, apart from one lad who had time to leap overboard - though he must have perished.'
'What reason did they give?' asked Richard, uneasy that he had to deal with such dangerous people.
'Oh, Nizam said that the shipmen might give us away to the authorities and it would be better if they were silenced. They wiped their bloody daggers on the clothing of the poor sailors and then calmly put the small boat into the water and we paddled ashore.'
'Perhaps you were lucky not to have had your throat cut as well!'
Raymond shook his head emphatically. 'No, they needed me to survive. I knew the way to the hideout in the forest and without me they would have had no prospect of food or shelter.'
'And how are they to return when their task is completed - if it ever is, from what you have told me today,' persisted de Revelle.
The Frenchman shook his head slowly in bewilderment. 'I can't make them out, they seem so unconcerned. My plan was to make the journey in reverse, take them in their disguises to one of the ports and seek passage across the Channel, then work our way back to Paris. But they are quite incurious about this - at least Nizam is, for it is impossible to communicate with the other two, who are clearly nothing but ruffians recruited to protect the alchemist. '
He paused to drain the last of his wine cup. 'There is something odd about them. Often they seem drugged and sleepy, at other times they seem wildly excited. They chew some scented brown gum and spit filthy curds upon the ground. It seems to be some sort of opiate that affects their minds.'
At this point, two servants arrived with food for the traveller, and Richard joined de Blois in taking more wine while the knight tucked in to a roast fowl, grilled sea-fish, sliced mutton and boiled beans. Fresh bread, cheese and some fruit filled the envoy's stomach as they resumed their anxious discussion.
'So what's to be done about this?' demanded de Revelle. 'The Count of Mortain will doubtless be sending another of his messengers down here very soon, wanting to hear of progress.'
De Blois dipped his fingers into a bowl of water scented with rose petals and wiped them fastidiously on a napkin. He approved of the civilised style that de Revelle affe
cted in his house, but his worried mind was occupied with their problem.
'I think that you should talk personally to these two alchemists, de Revelle. I can do nothing with them to bring them together and the Scotchman is becoming increasingly angry and frustrated. He is already talking of returning to Bristol.'
Richard paled slightly at the prospect of being closeted with an unbalanced trio of Turks who seemed all too ready to commit multiple murder.
'Is that really necessary?' he bleated. 'What can I say that you have not already demanded?'
'You will be a fresh voice with much authority. You are the direct agent of the Count in this enterprise and you can threaten them with dire consequences if they do not submit.'
Richard had his doubts about this, but his friendship with the Prince and the great prizes of power and advancement for him that were hinted at when John seized the throne were too important to jeopardise.
'Very well. If there is no improvement in the situation within the coming week, I will ride briefly to your hideout to talk to this Nizam. But make sure they behave themselves when I am there!'
CHAPTER TEN
In which the Widow Hilda makes a decision
Thorgils had built his house in a side lane off the main street, but the window of the upstairs solar faced back towards the sea, and the woman standing before the open shutter could see over the irrregular roof-line of the older buildings below. Though they blocked her view of the strand, she could see the sea in the distance, dotted to the hazy horizon with white caps from the stiff westerly breeze.
Beyond that horizon was the Continent, and Hilda stared as if she could see over the curve of the earth to the places where her husband had voyaged since he was twelve years old. He had brought wine from Bordeaux and taken Devon wool to Cologne, sailing to every port between them in the course of his long life. This fine house that was now hers had been built with the profits - and when she had opened his treasure chest and counted through the many leather bags it contained, she had been amazed at how much silver and even gold it contained. His three ships were now hers, and if John's and Hugh de Relaga's plan came to pass, she would want for nothing for the rest of her life - except, perhaps, for John himself.
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