The Awful Secret

by Bernard Knight

  Gwyn stared at them then agreed. ‘That Breton lad said the boat that attacked them was rowed by six oars a side. So it would have to have that many sets of thole pins along the gunwales. It would be far bigger than those cockleshells.’

  Gabriel had a suspicious nature and was not yet convinced. ‘Those are only the boats here at the moment, fellow,’ he growled. ‘You must get larger vessels at other times?’

  The villein shook his shiny pate. ‘I tell you, we don’t have a bigger boat! The traders all go up-river to Bideford. It’s more sheltered and there’s a quay and a proper town there. Sometimes a vessel from Wales or Cornwall will bring us a load of lime for the fields and take away some grain, but that’s only a couple of times each year.’

  ‘What’s in that bigger hut?’ demanded the coroner, pointing to a wattle-and-daub shed with a tattered thatch roof that came down almost to ground level.

  ‘Part is a barn, with the winter hay, and a stock of lime and clamps of turnips for the winter. All gone now, we’re living on fish.’

  To be sure that the building was not stacked to the rafters with looted merchandise, the visitors went across to look, but the villager was right: the mouldering interior held only the remnants of the hamlet’s winter stores.

  De Wolfe dismissed the man and led the party away, trotting back along the west bank of the Torridge towards Bideford. ‘If there is any piracy in this area, it can surely be carried out only with the knowledge of Richard de Grenville,’ he said. ‘The men of his various villages could never vanish to sea for days on end without him knowing.’

  ‘Maybe his steward or reeves are in on the conspiracy without his knowledge?’ suggested Gabriel. He and Gwyn rode at either side of the coroner.

  The Cornishman, used to the ways of seaside villages, dismissed the possibility. ‘Where would they get a vessel big enough to go out to sea without their lord knowing? They couldn’t afford to build one or keep it without his knowledge. Either he is the architect of the piracy or we’re barking up the wrong tree in thinking it may be Appledore.’

  ‘What about outlaws?’ asked Gabriel. ‘God knows, there are thousands roaming England’s forests and moors. Any at the coast could set up as pirates instead of as highway robbers and thieves.’

  Gwyn pulled his fingers through his luxuriant moustache. ‘Possible – but where would outlaws get a decent vessel? Only by raiding a village or port and stealing one, and there’s no reports of such a crime in the West Country.’

  As they rode, they discussed other possibilities. Perhaps the pirates had come across from Wales, Ireland or even Brittany, but Alain had been adamant that his attackers had spoken English, which ruled out any incursions from the Celtic countries.

  A score of men and boys passed them in the opposite direction, going back to Appledore after attending the fortnightly manor court as witnesses, jurors and appellants. They gave curious and somewhat frightened looks at the party of armed strangers coming from their village, but apart from muttered acknowledgements and tugging at forelocks they trudged past as fast as they could.

  ‘That lot doesn’t look as if it could ambush a ship,’ muttered Gwyn. ‘Stealing a couple of pigs would be about their limit.’

  By now they had returned to Bideford. The small town had half a dozen vessels grounded along its quayside and the rising tide was beginning to lift some of them off the muddy sand. Gwyn’s nautical eye scanned each intently for six sets of oar pins, but they all seemed innocent of such additions.

  The town’s defences were an earthbank topped by an old wooden stockade, though the three gates had been rebuilt in stone. Richard de Grenville lived in a small castle, which was more a fortified manor house, but he was absent from his domains in Winchester, petitioning the Chancellor, Walter Longchamp, about some land dispute. His wife and family had gone with him, leaving his steward in charge, who had presided over the court that day. Now he pressed the coroner to food and drink and invited the party to stay overnight. While eating good bread and cheese and drinking some of de Grenville’s best wine in the castle hall, John broached the matter of piracy with him.

  A burly man of about de Wolfe’s own age, with a black beard and moustache, the steward answered, ‘We suffered the loss of a vessel last year. Some say it sank after leaving here for Bude, but we never found any signs of the wreck.’

  ‘So why d’you think it was pirated?’ asked John.

  ‘One dead body was washed up on Braunton Sands a fortnight later. He had wounds that I’m sure were from an axe or cleaver. Some said they were due to being pounded on rocks by the waves, but there are no rocks where he was found. And I say the injuries were from a sharp-edged weapon.’

  ‘That was before you had a coroner to look into it,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Almost the same thing has happened near Ilfracombe and we need to find who’s responsible – then hang them!’ He told the steward bluntly, that Appledore had been under suspicion, but this raised a laugh rather than indignation. ‘Those dolts couldn’t capture a coracle full of nuns, let alone a merchant vessel! It’s a wonder they can find the sea with their fishing boats, they’re that stupid. It’s the in-breeding, you see, in a place so small and remote.’

  As half the hamlets in England were equally small and remote, de Wolfe wondered why the steward had such contempt for this particular village, but before he could pursue it, de Grenville’s henchman went back to piracy. ‘Don’t waste your time looking at places like Appledore, Crowner. I know damn fine who took our vessel – and I’m sure the same goes for the one at Ilfracombe.’ He paused for effect, his dark eyes staring into de Wolfe’s. ‘De Marisco, he’s the man you want. Not that you can ever get near him, stuck out there on his rock of Lundy. He thinks he’s not part of England – nor does he take any notice of its laws. His men are a bunch of bloody brigands and pirates. You need look no further than them.’

  His air of conviction was impressive and de Wolfe began to think that he was probably right.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In which Crowner John visits his mother

  Once again, the horsemen reached Exeter just before the gates closed at the twilight curfew, though this was getting later every evening as March progressed. Gwyn left them outside the walls to go to his home in St Sidwell’s and the men-at-arms clattered away to the castle, leaving de Wolfe to stable Odin at the farrier’s.

  He crossed the road to his own house and, whilst wearily taking off his riding clothes in the vestibule, heard voices from inside the hall. Hungry and thirsty, he pushed open the inner door fretfully, far more interested in filling his stomach than dealing with a visitor. As he walked across to the hearth, he saw Gilbert de Ridefort was talking animatedly to Matilda. Clad in a plain brown tunic, a hooded cloak discarded across a nearby stool, he rose courteously as John entered. ‘Your good lady has been entertaining me graciously until your return,’ he said. ‘I was anxious to hear if you had any more news, especially of somewhere where I might hide myself more discreetly.’

  Instead of her usual grim welcome, Matilda gave her husband a weak smile and enquired solicitously after his leg following such a long ride. ‘Supper will not be long, John,’ she added uncharacteristically. ‘I’ve told Mary to make a special effort, as I’ve invited Sir Gilbert to dine with us again.’

  De Wolfe groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to entertain a guest, when all he wanted was to eat, then go down to the Bush to see Nesta. Even sitting at his own fireside with a pitcher of ale would be preferable to listening to his wife and Gilbert prattling on about the glories of Normandy.

  He sank on to the seat just vacated by de Ridefort, who took the one opposite.

  ‘Is there any news?’ persisted the former Templar.

  De Wolfe shook his head wearily. ‘Nothing from the north of the county. It was a wasted trip.’

  ‘But what about this priest? And is there any sign of strange knights in the city?’

  ‘I’ve just set foot back in Exeter, so I have no means of knowing,’
he said irritably. ‘I must go up to the castle after the meal so maybe I can learn something then.’

  ‘I think that tonight my brother is attending a feast at the Guild of Cordwainers,’ said Matilda, with a return of her usual abrasive tone.

  De Wolfe, however, was determined to fight for his alibi to visit the Bush. ‘That won’t be until later this evening – and, anyway, I have other business to attend to in my chamber, if you can call such a hole in the ground by that name.’

  Mary came in to set places at the table, followed by Simon staggering under a basket of logs for the fire. He returned with more wine and ale, and for the next hour, the three ate and drank. De Wolfe sat mostly in silence, trying to stop his ears to Matilda’s persistent attempts to extract details from de Ridefort of his life in France. He found it difficult to reconcile the stern warrior he had known in Palestine with this urbane and courteous fellow, who so obviously had a way with women when the need arose.

  Yet de Wolfe detected an undercurrent of anxiety in de Ridefort, and was conscious of the regular worried glances that the visitor gave him whenever he could disengage himself from Matilda’s importuning. Eventually the coroner took pity on him and disclosed his plans for settling him somewhere outside the city.

  ‘I’ve decided to lodge you in my home village, where I was born and where my family still hold the manor,’ he offered.

  The younger man’s face lit up and his relief was obvious, though Matilda’s scowl gave away her feelings: she despised her in-laws as much as they disliked her.

  ‘Are you sure they will accept me, John?’ asked de Ridefort. ‘And where is this place of yours?’

  ‘Stoke-in-Teignhead, about fifteen miles south of Exeter, just inland from the coast. It’s a few hours’ gentle riding, as long as the tide is low enough to cross the river at Teignmouth.’

  ‘Not much of a place, I can assure you,’ sniffed his wife, ‘but I’ll admit that it’s remote enough, if you really feel you should leave the amenities of the the city.’

  ‘Apart from your gracious hospitality, I’m not seeing much of Exeter, madam,’ observed Gilbert. ‘I spend all day cooped up in the inn to avoid drawing attention to myself.’

  John stood up and stretched his back, stiff after a day in the saddle. His leg seemed to have stood up to the journey remarkably well: it was pain-free and virtually back to normal. ‘I must go about my business for a couple of hours. Are you staying here or going back to your lodgings?’

  Matilda turned her eyes on the former Templar, her beseeching expression making her husband cringe. ‘You’ve just said you are imprisoned in that place, so stay awhile and sit at peace before a good fire. I’ll get the servant to fetch more wine.’

  De Wolfe was indifferent as to whether the knight might ravish Matilda on the cold flagstones, but he suspected that even the fearless Crusader was not equal to that challenge. As he made for the door, he promised to take de Ridefort to his new hideaway next morning.

  ‘Be ready with your satchel and horse. I’ll meet you at the Bush just after dawn.’ With that, he vanished into the darkness of Martin’s Lane, turning in the opposite direction from Rougemont and the sheriff.

  It had been some time since the coroner had had the chance to bed his mistress and he took advantage of a slack time in the tavern to spend an hour with her in her small room on the upper floor. There were a score of customers in the smoky room that occupied the whole ground level, most of whom were well known to him, but none remarked on his ascent of the wide ladder in the corner: his relationship with Nesta was too familiar to them to be worth a comment.

  Nesta’s room had a proper bed with short legs, rather than the usual pallet on the floor. He had bought this for her a year ago, to keep them both up a little from the draughts that whistled across at floor level. It had seen a great deal of action in that twelve months, and it was a tribute to the French carpenters that its legs were still intact after their vigorous love-making.

  Now they held each other quietly after this latest episode, contentedly snuggled under the coverlet of sewn sheepskins. Nesta enquired impishly after his aching back. ‘It must be all this riding today, Sir Crowner – both on your horse and elsewhere!’

  He pinched her bare thigh in retribution, but at the same time, buried his face in the auburn curls at the base of her neck. ‘I wonder how Gilbert de Ridefort is dealing with Matilda at this moment? Has he managed to fend off her lecherous advances?’

  The Welsh woman giggled. ‘I can’t imagine the poor woman having such a thought in her head – unless it’s for the fat priest at St Olave’s.’

  The thought of his wife reminded de Wolfe that he was running out of time. ‘I’d better get back before she has the poor fellow stripped of his tunic and hose.’ He sighed, groping over the edge of the bed for his clothes.

  Nesta slipped out the other side and dressed quickly in the gloom. ‘And I’d better attend to my business or that old fool Edwin and those daft serving maids will have driven all my patrons away with their stupidity.’ She opened the rough door and let in a dim light from a horn lantern left burning for the guests to find their way to their pallets. ‘Come down for a last mug of ale before you go – my last brew was better than ever, though I say it myself.’ As well as being a pretty woman and an enthusiastic lover, Nesta was an excellent cook and a talented ale-maker. De Wolfe often bemoaned the fact that both social barriers and his marriage prevented him from living with this jewel of a woman.

  He hauled himself from the bed and pulled on his undershirt and long grey tunic, slit back and front for riding a horse. The long black woollen hose came up to his thighs and his pointed shoes and a heavy belt completed his garb. He had left his hooded cloak of grey wolfskin downstairs.

  When he climbed down the wooden steps into the ale-room, lit by the flickering flames of a large fire and a number of tallow dips on the tables, he made out a familiar shape sitting near the door. As he reached the floor, Nesta bustled past, intent on chasing one of her harassed serving maids. ‘Thomas has been waiting patiently for you these past ten minutes – he has some message for you, he says.’

  She sailed away and he went over to the little clerk, who hopped to his feet and peered bird-like up into de Wolfe’s face, his sharp eyes glistening in the candlelight. ‘I’ve found out who the priest is – the one from France,’ he squeaked excitedly. Eternally grateful to the coroner for giving him employment, which had saved him from penury and perhaps starvation, Thomas was always desperately anxious to prove his worth. Although de Wolfe and Gwyn usually treated him with scornful contempt, he had been inordinately useful to them on many occasions.

  ‘So who is he?’ demanded his master.

  ‘An abbot from Paris, called Cosimo of Modena.’

  ‘Modena? That’s not in France.’

  ‘No, he’s from the north of Italy. I gather he is a Vatican priest, posted to Paris some time ago as a special nuncio. No one knows what his special duties might be,’ sniggered Thomas.

  ‘How did you discover this? And where is he now?’ demanded the coroner.

  ‘I was talking to one of the Benedictines from St James’s Priory, who came up to a service for St Jerome today. He said that Abbot Cosimo has installed himself at the priory, much to the discomfort of the prior.’

  ‘Why should he complain?’

  ‘First, because Cosimo is a Cistercian – in their strictness they look down on these Cluniac Benedictines, even though their Orders have the same origins. Also it seems he arrogantly demanded accommodation and sustenance for himself and his two men on the authority of Pope Celestine, producing some letter from Rome that virtually overrides any reluctance, even by bishops.’ Thomas crossed himself spasmodically as he spoke.

  De Wolfe considered this, leaning against the inside of the inn door. ‘And no one knows on what errand this Italian is engaged?’

  The little clerk looked crestfallen. ‘I couldn’t discover this, Crowner. No one seems to know. The abbot is a ver
y secretive person, it appears.’

  John thoughtfully rubbed the dark stubble on his long chin. ‘We got on well with the jolly prior at St James’s, did we not?’

  Thomas, delighted to be asked his opinion, bobbed his head eagerly. ‘Prior Peter was very amiable when we were there for the catching of that fish a few months ago,’ he agreed.

  Just before de Wolfe’s disaster, when his old horse both broke his leg and saved his life, they had visited the priory when the coroner had had to attend the landing of a sturgeon. The prior, a rubicund fellow with a taste for good wine, had made them welcome on that occasion.

  ‘Be ready at dawn, Thomas, with whatever you need for a few days’ absence from that flea-pit you stay in near the cathedral. I have a task for you that you may well enjoy.’

  And with that the former priest had to be satisfied.

  The coroner thought that at forty he must already be getting old as he jogged on Odin through the early-morning mists alongside the river Exe. As an active soldier, he had woken as fresh as a daisy at whatever hour the trumpet sounded, but now he felt bleary-eyed and his brain remained sluggish until he could shake off the effects of sleep.

  Behind him rode Gwyn on his big brown mare, and Thomas, sitting side-saddle on his moorland pony. Alongside him was Gilbert de Ridefort, sitting as tall and erect as a fence-post on his grey gelding. He looked every inch a Templar knight, even if the famous white cloak with the large cross was missing.

  The quartet rode silently, each with his own thoughts, though every few hundred yards Gilbert would give a quick look over his shoulder, checking that no pursuing shapes were dashing after them through the morning fog.

  They passed a number of peasants and traders making for Exeter, many carrying huge bundles or pushing handcarts with goods to sell in the city, others with laden donkeys or ox-carts full of produce. The road went due south from Exeter towards Topsham, the small port at the head of the estuary of the Exe. Between them was the tiny priory of St James, founded half a century before by Baldwin, the famous sheriff of the county. The small building was down on the slope, just above the floodplain of the river, and John told Gwyn to stay up on the main road with Sir Gilbert, out of sight of the priory, in case the mysterious Roman priest was abroad. He and his clerk went down to the building and, within a few minutes, de Wolfe had returned alone. ‘As I hoped, it was an easy task,’ he explained, as they set off more briskly towards Topsham. ‘Prior Peter seems to have no real love for this Italian, who he feels has battened upon him like an unwelcome leech.’