John agreed, but suspected that the sheriff wanted to make the best impression both on the citizens and burgesses of Exeter and on his Templar guests. Like Gwyn, the coroner had not worn chain-mail but also sported a leather cuirass with metal shoulder plates and had a round helmet hanging behind his saddle.
Playing the part of the great leader, the sheriff took his frisky horse to the head of the column, with the castle constable close behind. They began moving towards the gatehouse, when suddenly de Revelle held up his arm and came to a stop. Under the raised portcullis came three more riders and the coroner cursed when he saw the leader. ‘What in the name of Holy Mary is he doing here, Gwyn?’
The Cornishman glowered as Abbot Cosimo and his pair of familiars clattered across the cobbles of the entrance on to the softer ground of the bailey. De Wolfe tapped Odin with his heels and moved over to hear what was being said between the newcomers and the sheriff.
‘I decided that it might be interesting to visit the north of your lands,’ explained Cosimo, in his thin, high voice. ‘I have never been to England before and would see as much of it as I can whilst I am here. Also, not speaking English, it is more pleasant for me to remain with the Norman-French tongue for as long as possible.’
At this somewhat unconvincing excuse, Ralph Morin spoke up from behind the sheriff. ‘There may well be some fighting, if we meet up with pirates – or if the lord of Lundy opposes our will.’
The abbot’s thin lips rose slightly in a smile. ‘Never fear, sir, I shall keep well clear of any such adventures.’ As the papal envoy had previously made clear that he had the unlimited authority of the Vatican behind him for whatever purpose he chose, the sheriff bowed to the inevitable and courteously invited him to join their cavalcade. John knew full well that his brother-in-law was so thick with Bishop Marshal – another of the Prince’s men – that he would never say nay to any senior churchman. He also strongly suspected that, like the Templars, the Italian was more concerned with even the slightest possibility of his missing heretic turning up in the north than with any interest in the Devonshire scenery. He realised, too, from the suspicious glances that all these parties flashed at him, that they felt he himself still had some connection with de Blanchefort – especially since Gwyn’s antics outside the cathedral the previous day. He guessed that they still suspected he knew of the man’s whereabouts and might even have him hidden somewhere – which, of course, he did.
The column began moving again and the papal trio fitted themselves between the tail of the soldiers and the six Templars, who formed the rearguard until the coroner and his officer tagged themselves on the end. They all trotted out of the castle and down the high street, scattering children, dogs and the occasional beggar as they made their way out of the city. Most townsfolk stopped their work or marketing to look with curiosity at this band of armed men, as in those days of relative peace, it was uncommon to see so many soldiers and knights on the move within Exeter. In the early-morning light, they clattered under the arch of the North Gate and settled down to the forty-mile ride to Bideford.
Though a herald or king’s messenger could cover fifty or even sixty miles in an average day, using changes of horse, the usual distance for unburdened riders was about thirty, so it was about noon the next day when the posse reached Bideford, the little town on the banks of the river Torridge. They had spent the previous night at a manor near Great Torrington, the soldiers sleeping in two barns of a small manor belonging to the local lord, Walter FitzGamelin. As seasoned old campaigners, the Templars, with de Wolfe, Gwyn and Ralph Morin, were content to lie out in the hay with them, as did the abbot’s sinister attendants, but the Italian and Richard de Revelle enjoyed the rather reluctant hospitality of FitzGamelin in the hall of the manor-house. Sudden inflictions of visiting officials were never welcomed by manors and villages, especially when food for two score men and beasts had to be provided without recompense, but it was not nearly so bad as when a cavalcade of royalty or a major baron passed through, which might bankrupt a small community. Nevertheless the local manorial tenant had to provide hospitality without protest, even if with ill grace.
The same applied to Richard de Grenville at Bideford, but at least he knew in advance of their coming and of his furtherobligation to provide some of his own knights and men-at-arms. As with all honour holders, he held his lands from the king, either directly or through a baron, bishop or abbey, and as a condition of his grant, he was obliged to provide services and men in time of conflict or when otherwise needed.
As it happened, de Grenville was not particularly put out by the visitation. His little empire was quite affluent, with the dues from the port, the town markets and his several manors, so he could easily afford to assist the sheriff for a few days. Also he had little love for William de Marisco, who was one of his nearest neighbours, though separated by twenty miles of sea. His maritime customers had lost many ships in past years, and this was never good for trade. Although some had been taken undoubtedly by a whole range of pirates, from Turks to Welsh, he was convinced that Lundy had been responsible for a few and the hope that de Marisco might be brought to heel caused him to contribute willingly to the expedition.
When the party from Exeter arrived at the simple motte and bailey castle of Bideford, the troops were settled in some of the outhouses and sheds built against the inside of the stockade walls, whilst the knights and the abbot enjoyed the better accommodation in the hall. This was not the small keep on the mound at one end of the bailey, but a larger wooden building at its foot, where de Grenville and his family resided.
He was a pleasant, rather jovial man, middle-aged and running to fat. His red nose and pink cheeks suggested a partiality to wine and ale, which was confirmed by his generosity when the jugs and flasks circulated to his guests. His wife, a buxom, motherly woman, appeared briefly to greet them with her husband, then retired to her solar, leaving the men to their meal and ample drink, even though it was early afternoon.
‘Two ships are prepared for us, but the tide will only be suitable early tomorrow morning as we cannot embark tonight in the dark,’ de Grenville announced, as they all sat around the long table waiting to be served.
‘Will there be enough room aboard for the whole company?’ asked Ralph Morin. ‘We have forty men and you have your own troop.’
De Grenville stood at the head of the table and waved a pewter tankard reassuringly. ‘We will be six knights including myself, and half a score men from the castle guard. The vessels will easily carry us – we have no horses or equipment other than what we carry ourselves. The crews are local men, who know these treacherous waters and also Lundy – as well as anyone can, for Marisco never allows any but his own men to land there.’
They settled down to eat, but discussion concerning the expedition punctuated their meal. ‘What do you know about piracy in these waters, de Grenville?’ asked de Revelle. ‘We have a death and a lost crew to investigate from Ilfracombe, as you must know.’
‘There are so many possible culprits,’ replied the lord of Bideford, taking a capon’s leg from his lips to reply. ‘As much as I would like to think Lundy was responsible, so many other possibilities exist. There is a nest of pirates in the Scillies, and though the Bretons from St Malo operate mainly south of Cornwall, they sometimes find rich pickings from the Bristol trade up here. Then the Welsh come across from Swansea, Flat Holm and Porthclais near Menevia, and the Irish from Wexford and Waterford.’
‘I have heard that some marauders come from as far away as Spain,’ growled Morin, his grey forked beard wagging as he spoke.
‘And further yet! Moorish galleys from the Barbary coast have been seen off Hartland, and it is said that some even come from Turkey.’
De Wolfe fixed his host with a suspicious eye. ‘Yet I am told that we need not look that far away for many of our pirates. Our own coast may harbour them, from Cornwall to Somerset.’
De Grenville shrugged. ‘I’m sure that may be right. Who is to tell wha
t any vessel and its crew does once it leaves its own port? Weapons can be concealed in the hold and a few extra crew to outnumber the victim. The home village is not going to advertise the fact, if their men bring home a free cargo in these hard times. As long as they leave no shipmen alive to tell the tale, how can they ever be accused?’
‘You know of nothing like that in this river?’ persisted the coroner, though he knew that de Grenville would hardly admit to it.
Even this direct question failed to blunt de Grenville’s good humour. ‘I know you heard some tale about Appledore, when you came recently. But of all the places who are likely to be involved, that poor vill is the least likely. They have no safe anchorage and no vessel bigger than a miserable fishing boat. I cannot speak for Barnstaple, but no pirates sail from Bideford or I would know of it – and they have no need as commerce here is good enough. You should look to smaller havens, more remote and with a need to prey on others.’
The talk drifted on to other matters, and as soon as he could decently quit the table, de Wolfe quietly made his way outside. He checked quickly that Odin was well watered and fed and that Gwyn was happily eating and drinking his fill outside the kitchen with the other men. Then he left the castle gate, with an awkward salute from the somewhat overawed guard, and walked along the track by the riverbank into the small town.
The market was almost immediately outside the castle, and though it was late in the day for trade, many stalls and booths were still open. As he passed by to reach the bridge, a miracle play was being performed on a curtained stage, and a small crowd had gathered in front of the platform to watch. Most were women and children, but there was a sprinkling of men. De Wolfe recognised Thomas amongst them, his small hunched body next to a larger, muffled figure, who must have been de Blanchefort, though no part of his features was visible beneath his cloak collar and big hat. De Wolfe moved around until he was plainly in view of his clerk and waited until Thomas noticed him.
When he did, de Wolfe beckonedand, sensibly leaving the former Templar to continue watching the drama, Thomas came casually across to his master.
‘I thought we were to meet at the bridge?’ growled the coroner.
‘I was there at noon, but there was no sign of you, so eventually we came nearer.’
‘The journey was slower than I expected. We had that damned priest to hold us up. Have you had any problems?’
‘Only that de Blanchefort keeps wanting to declare his awful secret to the world at large. I dissuaded him by pointing out that Bideford is such a remote town that it must be the least effective place on earth to reveal some great truth,’ he added drily, crossing himself as a precaution against contamination from the man’s heresy. ‘Otherwise nothing. We have found a lodging out of the town, with an ale-wife in a village a mile or so away. No risk of being recognised there.’
‘Have you tried to find a passage out for Bernardus?’
Thomas looked abashed. ‘I spent the morning doing that, Crowner, but there is no vessel leaving, except to go to other harbours along this coast. The only two bigger vessels have been commandeered by Lord Richard for your expedition tomorrow.’
De Wolfe considered this, but no other plan came to mind. ‘Keep trying, then. Our Templar says he has plenty of silver to buy a passage, so that should be no problem. All we need is a ship going to Wales or Ireland.’ He arranged with his clerk that he should be at the bridge at two hours after dawn on Thursday, and if there was no sign of the expedition returning by then, at a similar time each day until they met. With a covert wave at Bernardus, he returned to the castle and brought Gwyn up to date with events.
He spent a couple of hours with Ralph Morin and Gabriel, checking the readiness of the soldiers for the morning. Everyone had taken off their mailed hauberks, which were hanging up on wooden poles thrust through the sleeves from side to side. The men were rubbing the steel links with handfuls of hay daubed with beef fat, to preserve them against rust, especially as they would be exposed to salt spray on the morrow. De Grenville was also out in the bailey, marshalling his armed men and knights. They had a motley collection of armour and weapons, but looked tough enough for the task ahead.
That evening, the hospitable lord of Bideford put on a good meal, which though hardly a banquet was a liberal entertainment, especially in the quantity of drink provided. A pair of minstrels at the bottom of the hall and two jugglers diverted the guests between courses. De Grenville’s lady and their two eldest daughters attended for the meal, then tactfully retired before the serious drinking began. As well as the sheriff, coroner, constable, Templars and abbot from Exeter, there were the Bideford knights, chaplain, steward, treasurer and several others from the borough seated along the long table, with de Grenville at its head.
John de Wolfe found himself placed next to Cosimo, sharing with him a trencher, which was kept liberally loaded with food by attentive servants. Though the coroner had grave suspicions of the Italian, he had little option but to be civil to him out of deference to their host, though he would have preferred his room to the Italian’s company. However, he was unable to be anything but blunt with the priest when conversation was inevitable. ‘In spite of the confidential nature of your business in England, which you so firmly put to us, I feel little doubt that those two errant Templars were your prime concern,’ he said.
The sly eyes in the olive face rolled up to meet his. ‘You may think what you will, Crowner. I’ll not deny that they formed at least part of my reason for venturing across the Channel from France. And I would dearly like to know the truth about Bernardus de Blanchefort.’
De Wolfe struck the point of his dagger into a slice of salted pork on the slab of bread between them and carried it towards his mouth. Before it vanished between his lips, he replied, ‘I told you the truth, that he waylaid me and told me he wished to make some kind of public declaration before the cathedral. Obviously he thought better of it and is now on his way to a safer haven somewhere.’ All of which was true, he thought, as he chewed on the pig meat – though not the whole truth.
Cosimo picked more delicately at the food with a thin silver poniard. ‘So where is he now, I wonder? He is a dangerous madman, who should not be loose in Christian kingdoms.’
John, though not over-concerned with religion or the future of his immortal soul, had, like most people, an ingrained wariness of priests, instilled in childhood by family and chaplains. He avoided outright lying to them but was willing to prevaricate a little. ‘I have no knowledge of where he might be, Abbot,’ he said, salving his conscience with the thought that Thomas had not actually told him in what village they were lodged.
The priest sucked at his food for a moment then spoke to the trencher, rather than to de Wolfe. ‘The whole edifice of civilisation in Europe depends on the stabilising influence of the Holy Roman Church. Without that framework of uniformity and constancy, the warring nations and tribes would tear themselves asunder inside a year or two.’
He nibbled at his meat, and, almost against his will, de Wolfe waited for the conclusion to this profound but obscure statement. ‘Anything that could damage that stability threatens the very structure of life as we know it in these western lands and could plunge us into the barbarism of Africa and Asia. And that stability rests on the basic beliefs of Christianity, of which the Roman Church has been the guardian for more than a thousand years.’
The sly eyes looked up, to lock with those of the coroner. ‘I will do anything to preserve that stability by preventing the serpent seed of disbelief from being planted in the minds of common folk. You may well bear a heavy responsibility on your shoulders, Crowner, for which you may have to answer in the next world, if not in this.’
With that barely veiled threat, the abbot turned back to his dinner and said not another word to de Wolfe for the rest of the meal.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In which Crowner John goes to sea
With an almost full moon the previous night, the tide was high along the
banks of the river and the knights and men-at-arms filed aboard the two knarrs on gangplanks that were almost level. The long wooden bridge across the river was immediately upstream to the stone quay that had been built to serve Bideford, and all vessels with fixed masts were obliged to moor on its seaward side.
The grey light of dawn was filtering through broken cloud and the wind was slight and south-easterly, ideal for getting out of the Torridge into its confluence with the Taw, which flowed from Barnstaple to the open sea beyond Appledore. The waterways were tortuous and ever-changing, the banks of sand and mud altering with every flood and storm, but with this spring tide the flat-bottomed boats had no fear of running aground within the next couple of hours.
The lord of Bideford was aboard the first knarr with his own men and half the Exeter soldiers, as well as the abbot. The remainder were with the sheriff, Templars and coroner on the second vessel. As soon as the men were aboard, the ship-masters cast off and the sails filled to press them seawards for three miles up the river.
De Wolfe stood with the other knights on the left side of the stern, leaving the opposite deck clear for the seaman grasping the steerboard, a large oar lashed to a post on the bulwark. In the centre was the ship-master, a scruffy individual in half-length breeches and a tattered short tunic. Bare-footed, like the other four of his crew, he kept looking up at the sky and muttering foul language under his breath. Every now and then, he would bark some almost unintelligible instruction to the steersman or the crew holding the sheets secured to each lower corner of the single square sail.
The Awful Secret Page 23