'What shall we do with her, sir?' asked Ulf. 'Kill her, perhaps? Alfred and me could have some fun with her first. Pity to waste such a fair woman.'
The chivalrous knight was outraged at the suggestion and ordered the two outlaws to lock her in one of the small storerooms in the crypt.
'Put a mattress and a bucket in there, and find some food and drink for her. If either of you so much as lays a finger on her, you'll answer to me with your lives.' He slid his sword halfway out of its scabbard and slammed it back again, the hiss of metal on leather emphasising his determination to preserve the woman's life and honour.
Grumbling under their breath, they reluctantly led Hilda away. Seeing no hope of escape at that moment, she thought it best to stay passive and let herself be pushed down the steps and through the gloomy undercroft, where the strange sight of three Saracens and two other even odder fellows gave her plenty to think about after she was locked into a small, almost dark room. It was lit only by a narrow shaft in the side wall which was almost totally obscured at its upper end by profuse vegetation.
When her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she saw some crates and jars stacked in the chamber, the rest being a floor of damp earth. After a straw-filled palliasse and a bucket were provided, Hilda sat on a crate and considered her position. A brave woman, she accepted that she might not survive this abduction, but felt sure that this sinister camp in the forest was in some way connected with her husband's death. She had not the faintest idea what was going on in this place, but the presence of Moors and the general air of concealment and mystery told her that it must surely be connected with the scraps of information that John de Wolfe had told her about. There was no chance of getting out of this secure prison, as the light shaft was almost vertical and wide enough only for a dog. All she could hope to achieve was to learn more about this mysterious place and trust that she could somehow survive long enough to tell it to the law officers.
Hilda pulled a box across to the door and squatted on it, so that her ear was near the crack on the side where the rusty hinges were attached. Though the door was thick and strong, it was a poor fit in the frame, and not only could she hear through the gap, but one eye placed against it gave her a very narrow view down the long crypt. As figures passed to and from the hearth, they were fleetingly visible in the dim light from the fire and the rush-lights. Most of them were the white-robed Saracens she had glimpsed when she was dragged in, but now and then she saw a large man in a dark tunic and a smaller one wearing what appeared to be a thin jerkin over a skirted robe.
The snatches of speech were disjointed and hard to make out, as the crypt was long and the acoustics poor. The Turks were farther away, and she could distinguish almost nothing of what they said to each other, but she did a little better with the little man in the tunic. He was asking questions in French, with a strange accent that she could not identify. It seemed that the Turks also had a problem understanding him, as he spoke slowly, loudly and with pedantic correctness. Only one voice ever answered him, in slurred French, and she decided that the large fellow and the other two Turks spoke none of that language at all.
The gist of the questioning was at first about her and her presence there. When the small man demanded to know what was going on, the Arab informed him shortly and with apparent ill temper that this was some local woman who had been caught spying on them.
'She should be killed, for safety's sake!' he snarled, which sparked a gust of protest from the questioner. Hilda failed to hear much of the rest of the argument, as the men seemed to have turned away from her. After this, all she heard were sporadic questions and even more grudging answers about some processes in which they were engaged.
In spite of her good intentions to eavesdrop indefinitely, within a couple of hours Hilda felt overcome by fatigue and worry and crept to the bag of straw, where she soon fell asleep.
De Wolfe had been living in the Bush for more than a week when one afternoon two worried men called at his chamber in Rougemont. They were Roger Watts and Angerus de Wile, the two ship-masters from Dawlish.
'We left it until now in the hope that Mistress Hilda would come back,' said Watts. 'But we waited at Salcombe until yesterday, then decided we had better catch a fine sou'wester and sail back home.'
John listened with mounting consternation as the two men related how their new employer had sailed with them to Salcombe, ostensibly to visit the Mary and Child Jesus and see the scene of her husband's death.
'But then she left her maid in the tavern and took off somewhere, dressed as a pilgrim,' declared Angerus. 'It took us a day to ask around and finally discover from the parish priest that she had left with a party for St Anne's Chapel.'
At this, de Wolfe guessed straight away that Hilda must have gone on to Ringmore to see where Thorgils had been washed ashore and laid in the church. Roger Watts soon confirmed this.
'We were worried out of our minds, Crowner,' he said bleakly. 'We felt responsible for taking her there and letting her go off on this wild-goose chase all alone.'
'Not that we knew what she was going to do,' added de Wile, defensively.
They described how they had followed her route to the chapel and discovered that she had walked from there to Ringmore. They sought out the bailiff and were told that she had left there to return to Salcombe, allegedly with a pilgrim band, but the old custodian of the chapel had already told them that she had come back and gone down to Bigbury village.
'We hastened there and were told that she had arranged to stay the night with the ale-wife in a tavern,' said Watts dolefully. 'But she went out that afternoon and vanished. No one knew what had become of her, but she seemed to have this marked interest in the forest.'
The trail had petered out at that point, and though the two sailors had made half-hearted attempts to search along the edge of the nearby woods, they decided it best to hurry back to Exeter and report to de Wolfe, whose interest in Mistress Hilda was well known to everyone in Dawlish.
'Did you learn anything more from any of the people in that miserable village?' snarled John, now angry and worried at the news.
'Only that she questioned everyone she could about what might be in the forest there,' said Angerus. 'There were unlikely tales about ghosts and demons trotted out by the local folk, but they are a pretty backward and superstitious lot in Bigbury. We reckon there are outlaws and chicken thieves aplenty there, and the worry is that our lady might have been attacked by some of those bastards.'
This seemed all the two shipmen could tell John, but as they were leaving, Watts fumbled in the scrip on his belt and pulled out a crumpled scrap of parchment.
'When we were searching for Mistress Hilda just inside the forest boundary, I came upon this on the faint track that led deeper into the trees. I doubt it has any bearing on the matter, but I thought I had best bring it.'
He held out the parchment, which was stained with dried muddy water and had some shreds of grass stuck to the surface. John looked at it and saw some unintelligible writing, interspersed with strange symbols, which meant absolutely nothing to him. He thrust it at his clerk, who, like Gwyn, had been listening with avid concern to the ship-masters' tale.
'Does this mean anything to you, Thomas?'
The clerk smoothed out the small page of sheepskin on his table and picked off a few shreds of vegetation as he studied it.
'These are alchemical symbols,' he pronounced. 'I am no expert, but I recognise the signs for mercury, sulphur, lead, tin, copper and gold.'
'What about the other writing there?' demanded the coroner, now very worried about Hilda's disappearance. 'Even I can tell that it's not Latin.'
Thomas peered more closely at the soiled and smudged parchment.
'Some of it is Greek, but some is an oriental script that I have no knowledge of. It could be the language of Araby.'
'You are a great scholar. Can you make anything of the Greek?' demanded de Wolfe.
'I know only a few words of Homer a
nd Aristotle,' said the little priest, defensively. 'I can make out 'life' several times and 'water' or 'fluid' ... and yes, there is 'gold' again.'
Gwyn had a suggestion. 'Maybe the fat monk Rufus up at Rougemont could read it - he seems to be familiar with the Saracen world.'
Thomas bridled at this reflection on his linguistic abilities.
'I doubt he'll make much of these few words! It seems to me that the congruence of 'mercury, lead, tin and gold' points to the main preoccupation of alchemists, the transmutation of base metals into gold.'
'What about the rest of it?' snapped de Wolfe.
'The words 'life' and 'fluid' may refer to the parallel search for the liquid form of the Philosopher's Stone - the Elixir of Life, which is supposed to confer health and everlasting life on those who partake of it.' Thomas crossed himself as he spoke. 'It is a form of blasphemy, seeking an alternative path to everlasting life other than through the love of God and the Holy Trinity.'
Gwyn was the usual dissenting party. 'Whatever it means, it doesn't help us find Hilda.'
John rasped his fingers over his stubble, a habit that seemed to stimulate his thoughts. 'I'm not so sure, Gwyn. Parchments like that don't land in lonely Devon forests unless someone is there to lose them. It tells us that someone is in that area who doesn't belong there. It smacks of Mohammedans with that Levantine script, adding to the suspicions we already have.'
'What about this alchemy gibberish?' grunted the Cornishman, still unconvinced.
'If someone can make gold from Devon tin, then Prince John can buy all the armour, pikes and horses he wants,' pointed out Thomas. 'This fits in twice over with what the Chief Justiciar said in his message.'
Even the coroner was scornful at this point. 'But that claim is nonsense, surely! Fools have been trying to make gold since Noah built his ark, but no one has ever succeeded.'
'There have been certain claims of success,' countered Thomas, cautiously. 'Though admittedly none has ever stood the test of time. But eventually, someone has to be first. '
'What about Mistress Hilda?' asked Angerus de Wile, who had stood with his friend in the doorway while the others debated the parchment. 'Shall we go back to Salcombe and start searching again?'
De Wolfe thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'I considered whether it would be quicker for you to take us by ship, but it's not practicable to carry our horses with us and we need them there. You go back to Dawlish and await events. I will seek out the sheriff at once and see what's best to be done.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In which Richard de Revelle visits an alchemist
Matilda was tired of travelling, weary of being shaken about in an unsprung carriage that was little better than an ox-cart with a canopy, curtains and cushions. Admittedly, it was pulled by a pair of rounseys rather than an actual ox, but even that had its disadvantages, as the two horses went somewhat faster and so shook up the occupants even more on the rutted tracks of Devon.
Her sister-in-law, Lady Eleanor, sat alongside her, swaddled in an ermine-lined cloak, which did nothing to thaw the iciness of her tongue. They spoke rarely, and when they did it was with a cold formality that confirmed the antipathy that had existed between them for a decade and a half. Richard de Revelle's wife, the daughter of an Oxfordshire baron, considered that not only had she herself been married off beneath her station, but that her husband's sister had gone down yet another step in the social hierarchy by being wedded to John de Wolfe, the younger son of an insignificant knight from somewhere in the wilds of Devon.
Now they had to put up with each other in the close proximity of a lady's wagon, trundling between Exeter and Revelstoke, a journey of over two days halfway across a county, that, after Yorkshire, was the largest in England.
Richard had called at the house in Martin's Lane on his way to Revelstoke from his manor at Tiverton, to where he had again journeyed to fetch Eleanor. His aloof wife much preferred Tiverton, but he was insistent that he had urgent business down in the far west of the county and, with an ill grace, she was persuaded to accompany him. Her ill grace increased when she discovered that he had again invited his sister to stay with them at Revelstoke, but was slightly tempered by the news that this was because the scoundrel John had left her to live with a common ale-wife - and a foreign Welsh woman at that.
'You would be well to be competely rid of him,' said Eleanor, during one of their infrequent conversations. 'Can you not petition the Church for some sort of annulment?'
Matilda, who had no intention of either making it easy for John or losing a coroner-knight for a husband, had a ready excuse.
'He is too thick with the Archbishop of Canterbury. When he was a soldier, Hubert Walter was well acquainted with my knavish husband.'
'Then go straight to the Pope!' said her sister-in-law, airily. 'A man like that deserves excommunication, before hanging and drawing!'
Much as John de Wolfe was out of favour with her, Matilda resented Eleanor sneering at him. Insulting John was solely her privilege, and she relapsed into a stony silence that lasted for almost the rest of the journey. Eventually they reached Revelstoke, and Richard and his half-dozen men, who had been riding with the wagon, dismounted with groans of relief and came to assist the ladies from their conveyance.
'I hope by Christ and all his angels that they have a good fire going in our chambers,' were Eleanor's first words, as she stiffly descended the steps placed at the back of the cart. It was blowing fine snow again, and though this was unlikely to settle, the cutting wind and the grey skies of the waning afternoon made the manor-house a dismal sight. Amid the bustle of servants carrying their bags and bundles indoors and the chink of harness as the horses were taken away to the stables, the two women walked to the door of the hall. Here they were met by serving women with possets of warmed wine and honey, before they went wearily to their chambers - the large house had half a dozen rooms, apart from the main hall.
That evening, the three of them dined in one of these rooms, as, unless they were feasting or entertaining guests, Eleanor disliked eating in the hall with the commoners. For once, this was a sentiment with which her fellow arch-snob Matilda fully agreed, and they sat alone in the candlelight before a large log fire, working their way through fresh poached fish, roast pigeon, venison and a blancmange of chicken and rice boiled in almond milk, flavoured with cinnamon. Afterwards there was flummery of boiled oatmeal, strained with raisins and honey.
In spite of the good food and the excellent wine, which Richard imported through Plymouth from Anjou and Bordeaux, the trio was silent and morose. Eleanor had virtually exhausted her repetoire of condemnation of Matilda's husband during the long journey, and Richard seemed worried and preoccupied about something.
'I have to ride out again tomorrow morning,' he said eventually. 'But I will be back before nightfall.'
His wife scowled at him, just as Matilda did when her own husband announced another absence from home, which she always assumed was an excuse for drinking and wenching.
'We have only just arrived,' protested Eleanor. 'Why must you vanish again so soon?'
'I have urgent business to attend to, not far away. You ladies never seem to appreciate that a manor-lord has many duties and obligations. Revelstoke won't run itself, you know, and I can't depend on bailiffs and reeves for everything. '
'So you will be within the demesne, if we need you?' Richard looked shifty at this. 'Not that close, my lady. But I will be home for supper, I assure you,' he replied, evasively.
'Can we not ride with you, if it is but a short distance?' demanded Matilda. 'It would relieve the boredom of remaining within these walls.'
Eleanor scowled at her implication that their hospitality was tedious. Richard for once was on her side and soon squashed the suggestion.
'It is likely to be foul weather tomorrow, sister. This snow looks set for another few days and there is a keen east wind. You will be better off near a good fire. Next time, you may accompany me, if the weat
her improves.'
So the next morning the lord of Revelstoke set off with only two armed retainers. His steward and bailiff offered to accompany him as added protection, but he declined. The fewer who knew of his destination and the nature of his seditious business, the better he would be pleased. He even bribed the two escorts with a few pence and the threat of dire retribution if they gossiped about the expedition. They rode the ten miles towards Bigbury and, after they had passed St Anne's Chapel, de Revelle pulled them off the main track and on to a forest path, well before reaching the village. The half-blind custodian of the shrine had heard their hoofbeats and dimly saw three riders going by, but could not distinguish any details. He wondered again at the unusual activity that had disturbed his placid life these past few weeks, but decided it was none of his business, even when a couple of hours later he heard the same horses returning and vanishing westwards.
As soon as they had gone far enough along the forest track to lose sight of the Bigbury lane, Richard de Revelle ordered his bodyguard to dismount and stay there with their horses until he returned. He added a strict command for them not to wander off, but to rest there and enjoy the food and drink in their saddlebags. He wanted no witnesses to the activity at the old priory and castle, even two thick-headed peasants like these. He rode on down the narrow path, which he had travelled once before, when Prince John's men had come to renovate the crypt for the alchemists. Just before he reached the clearing, he almost fell from his saddle in surprise, as two men reared up from the bushes on either side of him, one with a longbow ready pulled, the arrow aimed at his heart. The other held a lance high up over his shoulder and seemed quite prepared to launch it at the interloper.
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