The Elixir of Death (20 page)

As with their last journey, they stopped at Buckfast for the night, rather than Totnes, for accommodation for female travellers was better in the large abbey hostel than in Totnes Castle. Though there were no nuns there, the hostel was run by lay servants, whose wives and daughters were employed in the segregated part reserved for women.

John was glad of the respite from the grim presence of his wife which he had endured during the many hours they had ridden from Exeter. He sat thankfully in the travellers' hall with Gwyn, their soldiers and a few other patrons, drinking ale and putting the world to rights with their gossip.

The next day, they were off again soon after dawn to cover the remaining twenty miles to Revelstoke, the last eight being through small lanes and tracks off the main Plymouth high road. As they went farther west, the already leaden sky darkened even more and a cold wind sprang up, with a few flakes of snow spinning in its icy breath. Around them, the countryside was hunkering down for the coming winter, the last of the leaves being whipped from the trees by the stiff breeze.

John had never been to his brother-in-law's manor before - he had never been invited. When they reached it, he was surprised by the extent of both the surrounding farmland and of the house itself. He wondered cynically how much of the money that Richard had embezzled in his various schemes had been invested in improving the property. As they reined up outside the gatehouse, he looked at the stone-tiled roof and castellated parapet that were visible above the boundary wall and wondered whether de Revelle was more concerned with defending himself against sea rovers or possible retribution from the king, if he was up to his old schemes again.

Once within sight of her old home, Matilda lost some of the icy impassiveness that she had shown throughout the journey. She became restless on her side-saddle, and John could see her biting her lip as they rode up to the gate. He wondered whether she was becoming anxious about their reception or whether a reunion with her disgraced brother was difficult for her to bear, since her former hero-worship had been so ignominiously undermined. As had often happened in the past, the sight of his wife in a state of obvious worry and unhappiness stirred both his conscience and his compassion. He leant across and touched her arm.

'He'll be glad to see you, never fear,' he growled, but Matilda made no response, other than to pull her arm away from his hand.

The porter, recognising the lord's sister, lugged open the gates and they walked their horses across the heavy timbers that spanned the deep ditch that ran around the walls. Inside the large compound, grooms came scurrying to take the horses and Gwyn and the two men-at-arms went with them to see that the beasts were fed and watered. John assisted Matilda to dismount and together they walked towards the steps to the hall, followed by Lucille, lugging a large parcel of her mistress's clothing. Warned by a blast from the porter's horn, the steward appeared, and his wrinkled face broke into an obsequious smile as he saw Matilda climbing up to the doorway into the hall.

'My wife is fatigued after the long journey,' rasped John, determined to take the initiative from the start and not appear at any disadvantage in this house of a man he despised. 'Please conduct her to Sir Richard and Lady Eleanor at once.' Several servants appeared from side doors and two women bobbed their knee to Matilda and ushered her away, followed by another man carrying her two large leather bags, which had been slung across the backs of the soldiers' mounts.

As she vanished up a staircase in the wall, John turned to the fire-pit and stood above the burning logs, rubbing his hands to warm his fingers, his riding cloak still hanging from his shoulders. A fat priest sat on a stool opposite, drinking ale and two other men occupied a bench to one side, dressed in rustic clothing that suggested that they were falconers or huntsmen. All acknowledged him with nods, but made no attempt at conversation.

The steward hurried back and with much head-bowing and gestures conducted the coroner to a side chamber, where a fire burned in a small hearth with a chimney, obviously a more modern addition to the structure of the house. It was much warmer than the gloomy hall outside and was well furnished, with several leather-backed folding chairs, a table, stools and a bench. John could see that an inner door led to a bedchamber and he assumed that this was to be the accommodation for Matilda and himself. The steward, who John later learned rejoiced in the name of Geoffrey de Cottemore de Totensis, stood by as an old woman and a young girl brought in food and wine to set on the table. 'Lady Matilda is being entertained by my lord and lady, sir,' Geoffrey announced loftily. 'She says she will join you later. Supper will be served in the hall soon after dusk.'

Having confirmed that Gwyn and the soldiers were being cared for in the servants' huts at the back of the manor, the steward strode out and John was left alone to enjoy a hot pottage made of lumps of meat and bone swimming in a mixture of herbs and vegetables. There was a wooden bowl containing a large apple and an orange, an ostentatious import from southern France. The bread and cheese were accompanied by a good Anjou wine, so John assumed that he was not going to be cast out of his brother-in-law's house that night. He ate heartily, keeping to the old soldier's dictum that one should eat, sleep and make love whenever the occasion presented, in case the opportunity never arose again.

When he had finished the food, he went to the window and pulled open the shutter that covered the narrow slit. The late afternoon was darkened by a heavily overcast sky, which had that pinkish-grey hue that suggested snow. A few flakes were still falling, but nothing was yet settling on the ground. John earnestly hoped that they would not get snowed in, as the shorter the time he had to spent under Richard's roof, the better he would be pleased. He wanted to be off again early in the morning.

He pulled one of the chairs nearer the fire and sat down with a pewter cup of wine. A few moments later he was snoring, dreaming that he was in an inn near Vienna, a sense of foreboding and recrimination clouding the scenes in his mind. It was a dream he had had many times during the past three years, but now it vanished as the creak of the door opening jerked him awake. In the failing light, he saw Richard de Revelle standing on the threshold, glaring at him. Rising to his feet, he faced his wife's brother and for a long moment the two men stared silently at each other.

'You are tolerated here for Matilda's sake, de Wolfe,' said Richard finally. 'I am told that, as far as you are concerned, your visit is upon official business. I doubt that you would have had the temerity to come for any other reason.'

His tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness that was not lost on John.

'I need to ask you some questions, Richard. They concern your father.'

This was a surprise to de Revelle, who had expected some stern interrogation connected to his own recent misdeeds. He had been ejected as sheriff by the Chief Justiciar several months earlier for illegally appropriating treasure trove destined for the royal treasury, but there were older, more serious allegations relating to his support for Prince John which might be revived at any time. But now to be asked about his long-dead father was as unexpected as it was welcome, if his own transgressions were not at issue.

'My father? You have come all this way to enquire about Gervaise de Revelle? You well know that he died many years ago.'

He stood aside as a servant came into the chamber with two three-branched candlesticks and placed the lights on the table. As he left, Richard waved a hand towards the chairs, inviting John to be seated. He himself went to stand in front of the hearth, hands behind his back, deliberately posing as the lord of Revelstoke to emphasise his ascendancy over his unwelcome visitor. Reluctantly, de Wolfe lowered himself into the chair, which creaked as he leaned back against the thick hide of the back-rest.

'This concerns a particularly brutal murder of one of our own kind, Richard,' he said sombrely. 'If you have been down at this end of the county for the past week or two, you will not have heard of the death of Sir Peter le Calve of Shillingford.'

His brother-in-law seemed to lose some of his naked antipathy at this news, as he stared at John in obvious surprise. 'Le Calve? Was he set upon in a robbery?'

The coroner described what had happened, holding back no detail of the macabre killing. All he held back was his vague suspicion that there might be a tenuous connection with other deaths, such as that of Thorgils and his men.

'But what has this to do with my father? He died sixteen years ago.'

De Wolfe had cause to remember that, as it had been a year after Sir Gervaise de Revelle had agreed with his own father to the disastrous marriage between his daughter Matilda and the dashing young warrior John de Wolfe.

'I have been told that Peter le Calve's father was previously a close friend of your own father. I am trying to find any clue in Peter's past which might explain why he was murdered in such a bizarre manner. I have asked Matilda, but she says she was too young to have any useful recollection of the elder le Calve.'

Richard was so relieved that the visit of the coroner was unconnected with his own past that he abandoned the hostile antagonism with which he had come prepared to meet de Wolfe. His brow wrinkled in thought as he pirouetted on a foot before the fire.

'I remember Arnulf, Peter's father. He was of Gervaise's generation and they campaigned together a number of times.'

'Including in Outremer, I understand,' prompted John.

'Yes, as a child and a younger man, I heard endless boring tales of those battles. But what in God's name can any of that have to do with Peter le Calve?'

De Wolfe sighed. 'I will be frank, Richard, I am grasping at straws. A Norman knight has been murdered in a terrible fashion and a cathedral desecrated in a most sacrilegious way. I have not the slightest notion of who did this, nor why it was carried out in such a weird fashion, which seems to have some ritual significance.'

The appeal to his indignation at this assault upon Norman nobility struck a chord in Richard's aristocratic sensibilities, which were equally as snobbish as his sister's. 'It is certainly an outrage both to our class and to the Church!' he agreed. 'But I fail to see how his friendship with my father can enlighten you.'

John's fingers restlessly tapped the arm of his chair.

'Peter le Calve seems a highly unlikely candidate for some revenge killing. I fail to see how he could have engendered such hatred that he was sought out, crucified and beheaded. So I wonder whether he paid the price for some sin of his father?'

Richard looked uneasy at this. 'It is a theory with little substance, John. On that basis, given that my father and Arnulf le Calve shared so many campaigns together, then perhaps I am vulnerable as well!' He said this with an air of flippant bravado, but John detected an underlying concern in his voice. Richard de Revelle was not known for his personal bravery, and his ambitions had always been political, rather than military. He gave up his posing by the hearth and sat down opposite John, his elbow on the table and his fingers playing nervously with his small beard.

'The stories they told at the dining table and with wine cups around the fire were of many escapades in Ireland, France and especially the Holy Land,' he said.

'Any particular battles or sieges there?' demanded John.

'Damascus was the favourite, I seem to remember. They were both there in 'forty-eight.'

John grunted, contempt evident in his manner. 'The Second Crusade! The greatest fiasco this century. So they were at the siege, were they?'

Richard nodded, his anger at John's presence apparently submerged by this latest news, which, however faintly, might presage some danger for himself. 'And so were many others, both knights and men-at-arms. As far as I understand it, it was a military failure, but to hear those two older men talking, one would have thought it was a great victory. '

'But you heard nothing specific about the part your father or Gervaise played in it?' persisted John, worrying away at the problem like a terrier with a rat.

De Revelle shrugged his narrow shoulders under the elegant tunic of fine green wool. 'I can't recall all those tales spun on winters' nights. I was either a boy or a young man, more concerned with my own affairs. But no, there was nothing special over and above two old men boasting over a flagon of wine.'

The coroner could get nothing further from his brother-in-law after several more minutes of probing, and he sighed in acknowledgement of a wasted journey across more than half a county. Richard sensed this and, perhaps anxious to draw the meeting to an end before John could move on to more sensitive matters, he stood up and moved to the door.

'We will go to table in an hour, John. No doubt Matilda will then tell you herself, but she has decided to stay here for a few days. I will see that she is escorted back to Exeter in due course. Meanwhile, I trust that your business will not detain you and that you will be ready to leave first thing in the morning.'

With that abrupt dismissal, he went out and, in spite of the previous marked softening of his attitude towards John, slammed the door behind him with unnecessary force.

When Alexander of Leith and his dumb henchman Jan returned to the derelict castle with their French guide, they found that the missing men had returned. After they had taken their horses to the stable at the foot of the castle mound, they went to the next hut, which served as their kitchen and refectory. Raymond de Blois marched in and stopped just inside the rickety door.