The Awful Secret

by Bernard Knight

  De Wolfe knew that the other had not the slightest interest in his opinion on the document and that he was merely trying to score a petty advantage: the sheriff could read and write fluently, whilst the soldier-coroner had never been to school. But for the first time, he was able to turn the tables on his unpleasant brother-in-law. He picked up the parchment with studied nonchalance and scanned it. Though half guessing, he was soon able to throw down the sheet and turn his deep-set dark eyes to the other man’s face. ‘Nothing new in that! They’ve tried before to take possession of the island, but were repulsed. No one can get a foothold there without an army, not even the Templars.’

  The sheriff scowled again, his narrow face growing rather pink above his thin moustache. ‘Well done, John! I had heard you were having lessons from the cathedral canons,’ he said patronizingly.

  De Wolfe grinned. ‘Being housebound for nearly two months gave my clerk the chance he’d been waiting for – daily lessons in reading and writing.’

  De Revelle jabbed a ringed finger towards the parchment. ‘You must have known these Knights of the Temple better than most when you were in Outremer. Are they going to let William de Marisco thumb his nose at them for ever? They’ve been granted Lundy for years, but the bastard repels them every time they try to land.’

  The coroner sat on the edge of the sheriff’s table, to take the weight off his leg. ‘They’re a mixed bunch, the Templars. Many are obsessional fighters, like the Lionheart himself, which is why he respects them so much. A few are mad, I think. They can be reckless to the point of insanity, just like some of the Muhammadans they admire, even though we’re enemies.’

  He shifted his stick on the flags, his mind far away in the dust of the Holy Land. ‘I have seen them act as if they actually sought a glorious death, in suicidal attacks, sometimes unnecessary. Yet more and more of the Templars have become soft, especially those who remain in Europe and never venture to the Levant.’

  On safe ground, away from the sensitive topic of Prince John, the sheriff nodded sagely. ‘They’ve moved a long way from their origins as Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. Now they’re the richest Order in Christendom, with huge estates and able to lend money to kings.’

  De Wolfe shrugged, a favourite response: he was the most taciturn of men.

  His brother-in-law picked up the document and read it again gloomily. ‘I hope they don’t expect me to do anything about this. I don’t fancy sending a few men in small boats to try to winkle de Marisco from his rock.’

  ‘Let the bloody Templars do their own dirty work,’ advised the coroner gruffly. ‘If the king has granted them Lundy, it’s up to them to install themselves.’ He cleared his throat, another mannerism, which heralded a change of subject. ‘I need another chamber, Richard, for my official business. I can’t get up to the top of that cursed gatehouse until my leg improves even more. You must have space somewhere lower down.’

  It took five minutes of arguing and demanding before the reluctant sheriff, pleading shortage of accommodation in the crowded garrison, conceded him a small storeroom in the undercroft, on condition it was strictly a temporary lease. The coroner’s original room in the gatehouse had been as inconvenient as de Revelle could make it, a token of his disapproval of the introduction of de Wolfe’s appointment six months before. Previously, he had had absolute authority over every aspect of the law in Devon, which had given him ample opportunity for dishonesty and corruption. Like most of his fellow sheriffs, he strongly resented having another senior law officer poking his nose into his business and taking away both part of his power and the financial pickings that went with it. But the coroners had been appointed on behalf of the Lionheart by his wily Chief Justiciar, Hubert Walter, for the very purpose of collecting every penny for the royal treasury, impoverished by Richard’s costly wars. Much of this money-gathering was to be achieved by combating the rapacity of the sheriffs and de Revelle had had no choice but to accept the royal command. He had supported the appointment of his sister’s husband, partly because of her nagging but also because he thought that he would be able to keep his relative-by-marriage under his thumb – a hope that proved very much in error.

  De Wolfe hauled himself from the table and tapped his way to the door. ‘I’ll go down to inspect this closet you’ve so graciously offered me,’ he grunted sarcastically. ‘Gwyn and Gabriel can move my table and stool down there. It’s all the furniture the King’s coroner possesses for his duties!’

  With that parting sally, he limped out of the chamber, leaving the sheriff smarting with annoyance, but impotent to protest, in his present fragile state of probation.

  After telling the hairy Cornishman to get their chattels and documents moved to the miserable cell under the keep, John remounted Odin and walked him down through the town again. It was not yet mid-morning and the meal that Mary was preparing would not be ready for a couple of hours.

  He decided to amble down to the Bush tavern and have a quart of ale with Nesta, his mistress and landlady of the inn. He knew that Matilda would be busy with her devotions for the rest of the morning at the little church of St Olave’s in Fore Street. He suspected – almost hoped – that she was enamoured of the parish priest there, a fat pompous cleric. She visited there several times a week for various obscure Masses and this gave de Wolfe the opportunity for daytime visits to his Welsh lover.

  The Bush was not far from St Olave’s and, though it was unlikely that his wife would come out of the church during the service, he was cautious enough to work his way through the cathedral Close and then take the back lanes of the lower town to reach the tavern. As he came out of the Close through the Bear Gate and skirted the Shambles, where sheep, pigs and cattle were being slaughtered amid blood and screams, he again had the feeling of being watched. Perhaps sensitive to the proximity of his wife, he looked down from his stallion’s back at the crowded street and, from the corner of his eye, momentarily saw a man staring at him from the end of a booth that sold hot pies. A second later he had disappeared amongst the crowd, but de Wolfe knew that it had been the face he had seen twice before, once yesterday and again an hour ago, when he went up to Rougemont.

  Exasperated both at the antics of the man and also his own inability to remember the name, de Wolfe urged Odin down the slope of Priest Street,1 where many of the vicars and secondaries from the cathedral lodged. At the bottom was the lane that ran around the inside of the city wall, with the quayside and the river Exe beyond, but the coroner turned right half-way down the street of irregular wooden houses, into Idle Lane. This took its name from the bare wasteground in which sat the Bush Inn, its steep thatched roof perched on a low stone building pierced by a doorway and four shuttered window openings.

  John hitched Odin’s reins to a bar at the side of the inn where several other horses were secured, and went round to the front door, into the large, low room, hazy with smoke from the fire in the wide stone hearth. He went across to his favourite table near the fire and, such was his prestige in the Bush, before he had even lowered himself to a rough bench, a stone quart jar of ale was banged down in front of him by old Edwin, the one-eyed pot man. Seconds later, the smooth form of the landlady slid alongside him and pressed affectionately against his sound leg.

  Nesta was a redhead of twenty-eight years, with a high forehead, a snub nose and a body like an hourglass. The widow of a Welsh archer de Wolfe had known in the Waterford campaign years before, she was now his favourite mistress – although, as both she and Matilda well knew, she was not the only object of his considerable passionate appetite. Dressed in a green gown beneath a linen apron, her russet curls peeping from under her white headcloth, Nesta slid her arm through his and prodded his opposite thigh with her finger. ‘And how is your lower member today, John?’ she asked, with mischievous ambiguity.

  He gave her one of his rare lopsided grins as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. ‘A little stiff in the mornings, thank you – probably from lack of exercise during th
e night.’

  They spoke in Welsh, as he had learned this at his mother’s knee and had kept fluent over the years by talking to Gwyn in his native Cornish, which was virtually identical. After some affectionate banter, which only a woman like Nesta could have drawn from the normally grim coroner, the talk turned to more general matters. After telling her about his new cubbyhole of an office in the castle, and the rapid improvement in his ‘lower member’ which had allowed him to mount his horse, de Wolfe mentioned the annoyance of the face that kept peering at him from around corners. ‘You hear of every single thing that happens in Exeter, madam! Do you know of any stranger recently arrived who might wish to stalk me?’

  Immediately Nesta became serious, worried at anything that might be a potential danger to her man. Her big grey-green eyes widened as she looked at him in concern. ‘Men are coming and going all the time, many of them through this tavern, John. Merchants, sailors, pilgrims, soldiers, thieves – must be scores every day. What does he look like?’

  De Wolfe shrugged. ‘I can’t describe his face – he keeps it part shaded by a wide-brimmed hat – but it has nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I could tell from the instant it was on view. About my age, I would suggest.’

  ‘Oh, you mean an old man – was he bent and tottery and used a stick?’ she gibed, getting a hard pinch on her plump thigh for her impudence.

  ‘I know that I have met the fellow, but I just can’t place him,’ he said testily, banging the table with a hard fist.

  Nesta thought it best to change the subject, before his temper rose with frustration.

  ‘How is your dear wife, these days? Does she still mop your fevered brow?’ Nesta, though a kind and open-hearted woman, sometimes failed to conceal her jealousy of Matilda, who as of right shared house, bed and board with the dark man Nesta loved. The Welsh woman knew that her own station in life was far too distant from that of a Norman knight ever to dream of being more than his paramour, even though she knew that John de Wolfe had a genuine deep affection for her. Though it seemed that he and his wife were always at loggerheads, the rigid conventions of feudal and religious life had forced them into an indissoluble bond. Although Matilda had temporarily left her husband two months ago, his broken leg had driven them together again: Matilda had grimly announced her intention of nursing him back to health, and had done so with the icy determination of a Benedictine nun turned gaoler.

  ‘She’s drifted back to being the same old Matilda,’ he admitted sadly. ‘At first, she never spoke to me, except to tell me to sit or lie down or crawl to the privy pot. Then her old manner slowly returned and she treated me at first like a naughty schoolboy, then like one of Gabriel’s new recruits.’ He stared thoughtfully into the leaping flames in the hearth. ‘But by God’s white beard, she was efficient! She stuffed food down me like a fattening goose to mend my leg, and even suffered Gwyn in the house when it came to him helping me to stumble about to strengthen my limbs. She even put up with poor Thomas, whom she hates like poison, when he came to divert me with his reading lessons.’

  Nesta hugged his arm, then reached over to take a drink from his earthenware pot. ‘You sound quite fond of her, Sir Crowner,’ she said, with a tinge of wistfulness.

  De Wolfe shook his black locks vigorously. ‘Fond, no! Sorry for her, no doubt. I did her a wrong when I let her be humiliated over you and Hilda – though that was no fault of mine. It was that sleek bastard de Revelle who took a delight in shaming his own sister. But I evened up the score when I interceded on her behalf for him.’

  ‘It must have cost her pride a great deal, having to plead with you for him, especially at a time like that.’ Nesta felt sorry for her rival, as she often did. Much as she loved him, she was realistic enough to know that being married to John de Wolfe would be no bed of roses.

  The coroner swallowed the rest of his ale and waved Edwin away as he threatened a second refill from his big pitcher. ‘I must get home and eat Mary’s boiled pork and cabbage. And Thomas is coming afterwards with his parchments, I must get back to my duties as soon as I can.’

  As he rode slowly home, he planned how to deal with the numerous tasks that a coroner had to carry out – tasks that had been largely neglected in the past two months, though for a few weeks now, he had managed to deal with some cases in the city and nearby villages. Further afield, deaths had had to remain uninvestigated, and assaults, a rape and numerous administrative tasks had gone by default. His brother-in-law had taken delight in pointing out that they had managed very well for centuries without a coroner until last September and that they could, no doubt, manage just as well in the future, which had made de Wolfe all the more anxious to get back to work.

  He had no assistant or deputy, though the edicts of the Curia Regis had ordered that three knights should be appointed as coroners in each county. The duties were so onerous – as well as unpaid – that only one other had been found willing to officiate in North Devon, and he had fallen from his horse a few weeks later, then died of a broken back. As no replacement could be found, de Wolfe had the whole of the huge county, one of the biggest in England, to look after alone. It was sometimes physically impossible for him to travel the long distances to cover all of his multifarious duties, but until he had broken his leg at the New Year, he had managed to get to almost every suspected homicide and serious assault, as well as to most hangings and sanctuary-seekers.

  He reached Martin’s Lane and slowly dismounted, leaving Odin in the farrier’s care. His left leg pained him as he walked across to his house, reminding him that he was not yet back to normal. Pushing open the street door of blackened oak, he went into the vestibule where he hung up his grey cloak and pulled off his riding boots. His old hound Brutus ambled through the covered passage to the back yard, where in one of the servants’ huts Mary had her kitchen and her bed. The maid bustled after the dog, who nuzzled de Wolfe in greeting. Wiping her hands on her apron, she announced that dinner was ready. ‘And she’s back,’ Mary added, with a jerk of her head towards the inner door.

  A handsome woman in her twenties, Mary covertly sided with John against the grim Matilda and her acidulous French maid Lucille. In the past, he had shared her mattress on more than one occasion, but lately she had resisted him: Lucille was getting suspicious and Mary valued her job even more than the pleasure provided by the lusty coroner. ‘Go in and make your peace,’ she suggested. ‘She’ll probably have guessed where you’ve been this morning.’

  As she vanished down the passageway, de Wolfe sighed and lifted the latch on the inner door to his hall. The house in Martin’s Lane was a tall, narrow structure of wood, with a shingled roof. It consisted almost entirely of one high room, but with a solar added at the back of the upper part of the hall, reached by an outside stairway from the backyard. The solar was both their bedroom and Matilda’s retreat, where she spent her hours when not at prayer or slumber in some indifferent needlework.

  At the back of the hall, most of the wall was taken up by a huge stone fireplace, with the tapering cone of the chimney rising above it to the rafters. Two settles and a couple of cowled chairs stood in a half-circle around the hearth, and down the centre of the gloomy room a long oak refectory table took up much of the space. The heavy boards of the walls were hung with sombre tapestries that helped to keep the draughts at bay. The floor was slabbed in stone, another modern innovation of Matilda, who scorned the usual rushes or straw strewn on beaten earth.

  When he entered, his wife was sitting at the far end of the table, waiting for her meal. Though there were benches along each side of the table, at each end was a heavy upright chair, used by de Wolfe and Matilda almost consciously for the purpose of staying as far apart as possible. He closed the door behind him and limped towards her.

  Matilda lifted her head to glare at him, her square pug face devoid of any welcome. ‘You’ve been overdoing it again, I suppose! I told you that it’s too soon to be riding that great beast of a horse. God knows where you’ve been on it,
but I suppose I can guess.’

  The coroner threw his stick on to the table with a clatter and stared down at her. ‘I’ve been up to Rougemont to see your damned brother, if you must know! I need a new chamber that’s not almost on the roof of the cursed gatehouse, and all he would give me was a closet the size of our privy.’

  He stamped to the fire and threw on a couple of logs from the stack, as Brutus sidled in behind him and lay down to bask in the warmth. The mention of the sheriff imposed an ominous silence upon them: she had never mentioned her brother’s name since she had had to plead with her husband not to reveal him as a would-be rebel.

  De Wolfe stood warming himself by the rising flames and looked across at the back view of his sullen wife. Though never pretty, sixteen years ago when his father had arranged their marriage into the well-known de Revelle family, she had been slimmer and had had a good complexion. Now at forty-six – half a dozen years older than de Wolfe – she had thickened into a podgy, short-necked woman, with coarse skin and thinning fair hair. She had loose flesh under her chin and her puffy lids gave her a narrow-eyed, almost Oriental appearance. John put this down to some internal disorder of her vital humours, though it did not seem to diminish her appetite for either food or wine.

  ‘Now that you can sit a horse again, I suppose you’ll be off about the countryside at all hours,’ she complained to the opposite wall, not turning to address him.

  ‘It’s my duty, for Christ’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘You were the one who was so keen for me to become the king’s coroner here.’