'He must have left them here on guard, by the looks of it,' agreed the coroner. 'Pretty poor guards they turned out to be - their idleness cost them their lives.'
Gwyn was not so harsh in his judgement. 'Not a lot you can do, taken unawares with a cross-bow fired from cover! Those bloody Saracens were highly skilled with their weapons in Palestine.'
There was nothing the trio could do about the bodies, so they remounted and rode on.
De Wolfe commented, 'De Revelle must have seen them, as he passed here when he left. It's up to him to collect them - he can do it when he sends a party to bring back this de Blois fellow.'
This reminded him that the posse he had sent the bailiff to fetch from Revelstoke had never shown up. 'Maybe de Revelle will encounter it on his way home and get them to return with him ... and to hell with us, now that the fighting's over!' said Gwyn cynically.
They rode down to Bigbury to collect their own mounts, discovering at the alehouse that Alexander of Leith had already collected his injured servant. The strange pair had vanished down towards the river to take the tidal path up to Aveton, keen to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the law officers. The villagers were relieved to hear that their ghostly neighbours in the forest had been eliminated, and even more grateful when the coroner left them the horses from the camp as a gift.
'If they were provided at de Revelle's expense, he's lost them for good now!' said John spitefully. He touched Odin's flanks with his heels and they set off westwards. 'Let's catch up with the lying bastard. But I feel that once again he'll scrape out of this affair with his skin intact.'
'But at least he's had a bloody good fright, coming within an ace of being burnt alive!' declared Gwyn.
'And he came nearer having his throat cut than any man I've known!' added de Wolfe cheerfully.
Gwyn joined him in a belly laugh, and even Thomas managed a weak grin.
Five evenings later, a group of people were huddled around John's favourite table in the Bush Inn at Exeter. The remains of a lavish meal provided by Nesta lay in the centre, surrounded by pots of ale and cider and a cup of the best wine for Thomas. The taproom, lit by flickering rush-lights hung around the walls, was warmed by a large fire and the fug generated by a score of patrons. Outside it was frosty and Idle Lane wore a patchy white mantle. It had snowed that day, but the light fall had almost melted away.
'They'll be able to travel in this,' said Gwyn confidently. 'By tomorrow, Hilda will be safely back in Dawlish and your wife will be home to make your life a misery once again!'
John de Wolfe caught Nesta's eye and looked away uncomfortably. She smiled and put a reassuring hand on his thigh under the table. That day, a servant from Revelstoke, on his way to the other manor at Tiverton, had called at Martin's Lane and left a message with Mary that Matilda and Hilda were on their way home, attended by a strong escort.
As well as Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn, the garrison chaplain, Brother Rufus, sat at the table. After several years as a military priest, the burly monk had no qualms about visiting alehouses and accepted with alacrity Gwyn's invitation to join them that evening. He was examining the substances in the small leather pouches that had been taken from the bodies of the slain Arabs. After sniffing at them and cautiously tasting a fingertip rubbed on the brown lumps and dipped in the dirty white powder, he delivered his verdict.
'The dark stuff is what they call hashish, made from a feathery kind of plant. I tried it once, though I admit a few cups of brandy-wine had more effect on me!' The jovial Benedictine gave a loud belly laugh and nudged the disapproving Thomas in the ribs.
'What about the powder?' asked John.
Rufus hunched his big shoulders. 'I don't know. It's not opium, as far as I can tell. But those fellows out there have all sorts of strange concoctions made from herbs and plants.'
'So why do they eat them?' demanded Gwyn. 'What's the effect?'
'It varies a lot - some just send the devils to sleep, to dream of Nirvana or wherever they fancy spending eternity. Other drugs are said to give them lurid dreams or else make them fighting mad. I'm not an expert, but I've seen some strange goings-on out in Palestine, as I expect Sir John and yourself have experienced.'
Thomas was proud of his own scholarship and unwilling to surrender all the explanations to the monk, especially after his recent hurried researches in the library over the Chapter House.
'This 'hasish' gives rise to the hashishin, the common name for this murderous branch of the Nizari sect of the Shi'ites,' he said importantly. 'They have been slaying both their Sunni rivals and Christians - especially Crusaders - for years. They even had three attempts at Saladin himself!'
This was something de Wolfe knew about. 'Count Conrad de Montferrat, who was to be King of Jerusalem, was murdered by them when we were out there, Gwyn. Remember all that scandal?'
The Cornishman nodded. 'Two Saracens, dressed as Christian monks, stabbed him in the street. Didn't that bastard Philip of France try to put the blame on our King Richard, because he favoured someone else for the throne of Jerusalem? ,
John nodded. 'He also claimed that the Lionheart had sent hashishin after him, even all the way to France. He had a permanent bodyguard to protect himself.'
'But there was a letter sent by the Old Man of the Mountains, the chief of these hashishin, exonerating King Richard,' declared the all-knowing Thomas.
'Yes, and it was declared a forgery by the French!' added Rufus, determined not to be outdone.
De Wolfe scraped at his stubble before he spoke. 'Hilda said that this mad leader, Nizam, claimed that he was also there at Conrad's murder, as a back-up in case they failed.'
Nesta shuddered, and not just at the mention of Hilda's name. 'These people sound completely crazy!' she said. 'Are they always under the influence of this horrible stuff?' She pointed at the leather pouches on the table.
This time, Thomas got in before Rufus.
'I have read that members of this sect are persuaded into complete obedience to their master by being drugged, then taken to his hideout in the Syrian mountains, where they are given the best of food and the company of seductive women. Then they are sent out to kill certain targets, whereupon they are always slain themselves, but die gladly because they have been promised entry into a paradise where these promiscuous delights will last for eternity!'
'Sounds good to me!' jibed Gwyn, receiving an outraged punch on the arm from Nesta.
'But this terrible man and his accomplices surely had no such political ends when they came to England?' she asked, with wide-eyed concern.
'According to Richard de Revelle, who seems to have the best recollection of those awful hours at Bigbury, this Nizam was on a personal crusade of his own,' growled de Wolfe. 'Just before he was going to kill them all, he claimed that all his family had been butchered by Frankish and English knights during their retreat from the siege of Damascus, back in 'forty-eight.'
'That was a total disaster, like all of the Second Crusade,' cut in the monk quickly, with a sideways look at Thomas. 'I remember my father talking about it - his cousin was a bowman there. The whole enterprise was ill founded, a political and military triumph of ineptitude!'
'But why would this Turk come all the way to Devon on account of that?' persisted Nesta, whose curiosity was as insatiable as the monk's.
'According to Richard, he had sworn an oath to carry out his father's dying demand for revenge,' explained John. 'This Nizari sect spent years seeking the names of those who were at Damascus. Eventually this madman Nizam got himself to France, where it seems he murdered a whole series of either those who were at the siege or their descendants.' He stopped and took a long draught from his ale-pot. 'Then he managed to cross to England posing as an alchemist, using some far-fetched deceit about discovering the Elixir of Life.'
There was a pause while Thomas gave them a short lecture on alchemy and the Elixir of Life, which provoked Gwyn into a gaping yawn.
'Never mind all that!' c
ut in de Wolfe, irritably. 'I have the gravest doubts about such a tall story, but as they are all dead, there is little I can do about it.'
John had debated long and hard about whether to denounce his brother-in-law once again for involvement in some highly dubious scheme. He had taxed him about it in private when he had gone back to Revelstoke on the night of the drama at the old castle, but got nowhere with the crafty and evasive de Revelle. Richard freely admitted to being in partnership with Raymond de Blois in a venture to achieve the making of the Elixir of Life. On the defensive, conscious that his liberty or even life might depend upon convincing this incorruptible law officer, the former sheriff shed his usual contempt for John and was at his most persuasive.
De Wolfe had discussed the whole affair with Henry de Furnellis as soon as he returned to Exeter, giving him a somewhat selective account of what had happened near Bigbury. The sheriff, always willing to take the easier way out, agreed with him that they should give Hubert Waiter, the Chief Justiciar, a suitably edited version of the truth.
John tried to keep Richard de Revelle out of the story as much as possible, as when he had gone to Revelstoke, Matilda had beseeched him to protect her brother from further trouble. She had done this several times before, and in view of the narrow escape from a terrible death that both she and her brother had experienced, he agreed to do what he could for Richard.
In any event, he had no proof that de Revelle had been involved with any new scheme of Prince John's. The Scottish alchemist's story of the mysterious Raymond de Blois joining with Richard to fund a search for the Elixir of Life was far fetched, but no more unbelievable than converting Devon tin into solid gold. The only gold that had been found was the ornament around Nizam's neck and John had quietly given this to Hilda, with instructions that it be sold to a goldsmith and the money shared between the families of the Dawlish shipmen who the owner had murdered.
'He said he met this de Blois fellow in London,' John now related to the group in the Bush. 'De Revelle was very vague as to what he knew about the man or even where he came from. But I can't prove otherwise.'
'So where did these alchemists come from?' asked Nesta, pouring more ale for the men.
'Richard said that de Blois knew of an Arab who he had met in Syria, famed for his expertise in alchemy. This man claimed to be within sight of succeeding with the elixir, but needed more facilities, so de Blois paid for him to come to Normandy and then fetched him across on poor Thorgils' ship.'
'Sounds a bloody thin story to me,' grunted Gwyn. 'So how did the lord of Revelstoke come into this?' asked Rufus.
'He says he funded the supply of food, horses and apparatus for this place in the forest near Bigbury. That was his part of the deal, in exchange for splitting the proceeds of the elixir, when it was produced.'
'How did they get to be tucked away in this hideout?' asked the chaplain. 'Why all the secrecy?'
John shrugged. 'The explanation gets thinner and thinner! That land belongs to Henry de Vautortes, but he holds it as a sub-tenant from ... guess who?'
Nesta looked at him blankly. 'Tell us, then,' she commanded.
'The Count of Mortain ... Prince bloody John himself! But it's no crime to rent out a piece of useless land, so there's nothing I can do about it.'
Thomas, who had subsided after giving his sermon on alchemy, had another question. 'What about those two strange men, the Scotsman who poisoned the main villain - and that grotesque foreigner with no tongue?'
De Wolfe ran his hands through his dense black hair, smoothing it down to the back of his neck. He was getting weary and also anxious about what he had to do very soon.
'According to my dear wife's lying brother, they were recruited to help this Arab alchemist in his final search for the elixir. He says Raymond de Blois found this Alexander in Bristol, where he had a reputation as a noted philosopher. I suspect that this is about the only part of the story that could be proved to be true.'
'So what are you going to tell the Justiciar?' asked Rufus.
'Nothing but the truth,' snapped de Wolfe. 'But perhaps forgetting a few details that will help no one.'
'And letting de Revelle off the hook is one of them,' grumbled Gwyn into his ale-pot.
'I'll tell Hubert Walter that the plot he was warned of no longer exists. Three dangerous Moorish assassins burnt themselves to death rather than be captured after failing in their mission - that's readily believable, from what we know of the members of this sect, who seem to relish dying!'
'What about the deaths of the old Templar, the shipmen and the two at Shillingford?' asked the chaplain. 'To say nothing of the blasphemous desecration in the cathedral? '
'I'll be able to resume all the inquests on those now,' answered John, with genuine satisfaction. 'The blame will quite rightly be attributed to these foreign assassins, who got into the country by stealth in order to carry out their murderous schemes against old Crusaders and their families. This is the absolute truth - all this nonsense about the Elixir of Life was a smokescreen and I see no need even to mention it!'
'So what about this Raymond de Blois?' asked Brother Rufus.
John shrugged. 'I don't know who he was or what he was doing here. I have my own suspicions, but they would only open a bag of worms that's best left undisturbed. He was a brave man, trying to save the others at the cost of his own life, so I will let him lie in peace.'
'Where is he lying, by the way?' asked Nesta.
'We buried him three days ago in that little church of St Peter the Poor Fisherman, at the foot of the cliffs in de Revelle's manor. Matilda and Hilda came with us and we saw him put in the earth in a most decorous manner, thanks to the priest that conducted the Mass in such a fine manner.'
Thomas blushed and hung his head in embarrassment at the unexpected compliment. The conversation went on for a time, until John had run out of explanations and the others had exhausted their theories about this strange business. One by one, they drifted away, Thomas to get ready for midnight Matins in the cathedral and Gwyn back to the castle for a game of dice in the guardroom. Rufus decided to join him, and at last John and Nesta were left alone at the table. He felt very uneasy and stared into his quart pot, turning it around restlessly in his fingers.
Nesta placed a hand over his. 'Come on, Sir Crowner,' she murmured, in the half-mocking, half-affectionate way she had when he was out of sorts. 'Up the ladder and rest your weary head. It's been a hard few days, especially for old fellows like you, well past their prime!'
He pinched her bottom in reprisal, but wasted no time in following her up to the loft, watched by the envious eyes of some of the patrons, who came to the Bush as much for the sight of the fair Nesta as for her excellent ale.
In the little chamber in the corner of the large space beneath the thatch, John slumped down on the large feather mattress laid on a raised plinth, just above the floor. He still regretted the loss of their French bed, consumed in the recent fire, and resolved to remind the new ship-masters in Dawlish that the new one he had ordered must be brought over from St-Malo as soon as sailing started again in the spring. The thought of Dawlish brought the beautiful Hilda into his mind and added to the turmoil there, as Nesta sank down beside him, her head on his shoulder.
Mentally gritting his teeth, he plunged straight into the problem. 'Nesta, my love, tomorrow Matilda will be back in Martin's Lane.'
He steeled himself to continue, willing himself to remember the words that he had been rehearsing since the messenger had brought the news of his wife's return. But the remarkable woman who was his mistress raised her head to kiss his cheek and laid her forefinger across his lips.
'Hush, cariad, there's no need to explain!' she whispered in Welsh. 'Of course you must return home. You can't leave the poor woman there after all she's been through.'
John looked at Nesta almost fearfully, his long-held suspicions that she must have the power of second sight confirmed.
'How did you know what I was going to say?'
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br /> She smiled sadly and patted his big, rough hands as they lay across his lap. 'I've known for a few weeks that you would not stay with me, John. You miss your freedom, your dog, your cook-maid, even fighting with your wife!'
John's long face flushed slightly. 'I would have stayed with you for ever, but for this happening. I cannot leave her now.'
Nesta nodded gently. 'I believe that you truly love me, John. If there were no Matilda and you could take your dog, your chattels and even your maid with you, we could go away and be happy somewhere else. But as long as you are married and are the King's Coroner, it cannot happen.'
'I'll not give you up, Nesta!' He sounded like a petulant youth, she thought affectionately.
'I know that, John, but home you must go! Let your wife get over this awful thing in her own time. To have been within minutes of being burned alive will have scarred her mind and will disturb her nights for months to come. I should know, for it almost happened to me not long past!'
He turned to her and seized her almost desperately, pulling her back on to the bed, kissing her passionately.
'You are my elixir of life, Nesta! Without you, it would have no meaning. My body may have to return home, but my soul will stay here!'
As they fumbled at each other's garments, she vowed that his body would also return to the Bush as often as possible!
It was late the next day before de Revelle's retainers appeared in Martin's Lane, ending the leg of the journey from Buckfast Abbey. As the sound of hoofs brought John to his street door, the sight of the blackbird devices on their jerkins gave him a momentary vision of the two guards on the track near Bigbury, with cross-bow bolts sticking from their backs. Then he was hurrying out to help a grim-faced Matilda from her palfrey, Mary following close behind to chaperone Lucille as one of the escorts hauled her from her pony. Leaving the two younger women to organise the bags and packages from the horses, John led his wife inside and took her into the gloomy hall, where a huge fire was blazing in the chimneyed hearth. Mary had placed food and wine ready on the table, and with uncharacteristic gallantry John led Matilda to her favourite cowled chair before the fire and helped her off with her heavy riding cloak.
The Elixir of Death Page 34
