The Elixir of Death (23 page)

'God's tits, where have they gone to this time?' he exploded to Jan, who was raking dung from the stable.

The hulking servant shrugged and made clear gestures, accompanied by guttural throat noises, that the three Asiatics had ridden off up the track to the road. A further pantomime told Alexander that they had been wearing dark cloaks with hoods, and his portrayal of a cross indicated that they had been dressed as monks. For a moment, the alchemist contemplated packing up and riding back to Bristol, but when his quick temper cooled, he decided to wait for Raymond's return.

He had a long wait, as the Frenchman remained away almost until dusk the next evening, eventually trotting in on a tired horse with a story that he had had to put the herald from Gloucester back on the right road to Totnes. He was in no mood to listen to Alexander's tale of woe, but after some food and wine served by the two Saxon guards, he unwound enough to sit by the fire in the crypt and consider what the Scotsman had to say.

'I'm beginning to think that this Nizam knows no more about transmutation than my dumb Fleming,' he began irascibly. 'I can get little sense out of him, and in spite of his having a speck of gold in his pouch, I doubt if he knows one end of a crucible from the other!'

De Blois tried to calm and reassure him. 'It must be the problem with language, magister. He was sent personally by my noble King Philip because of his prowess and reputation in your science. They met in Palestine and the King was so impressed by him that he brought him back to France. I was there myself, by the side of our sovereign, so can vouch for him.'

'But can you vouch for his expertise in alchemy, for there's precious little sign of it so far,' countered Alexander tartly. 'I feel I'm wasting my time here. I could be making more progress in my proper workshop in Bristol. And now the bastards have taken off again. They left yesterday. God knows where they've gone this time!'

Wearily, Raymond agreed to have a showdown with them when they returned. He angrily wondered where they had gone - this was the second time since they had arrived at Bigbury that the three Turks had vanished without explanation, even though he had lectured them on the need to lay low and keep out of sight of any of the local inhabitants. They had all brought monks' habits with them from France, as a necessary disguise to conceal their Moorish dress and features, but even these would not stand too close an inspection in daylight.

Raymond, guide and provider to this secret enterprise, did his best to pacify the indignant little Scotsman.

'We must persevere with this vital task, Alexander,' he cajoled. 'Sir Richard de Revelle has put himself at considerable risk and expense over this endeavour, and the messenger from Gloucester whom I have just left conveyed the concern of the Count of Mortain that success be speedily achieved.'

Reluctantly, the alchemist agreed to stay, but privately decided that he would carry on his researches alone, with little anticipation of help from the Mussulman, unless the latter demonstrated a radical change of attitude.

On Friday of that week, John de Wolfe took himself off to Dawlish with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he looked forward with disturbing enthusiasm to seeing Hilda, yet knowing of Nesta's disconcerting attitude he was almost afraid to mount his horse and commit himself to the visit. He took Gwyn with him, but left Thomas to his newfound delights around the cathedral. They trotted down to Topsham, led their steeds on to the flat-bottomed ferry for the short trip across the muddy estuary to the marshes beyond, then cantered across to the coast road at the foot of the low hills that led down to the sea and became cliffs farther south. Gwyn sensed his master's preoccupation and was well aware of the cause. Close companions though they were, it was not his place to offer advice, but he slipped in a few oblique hints when he had the opportunity.

'A fine woman, that Hilda! She'll have no trouble in getting herself a new husband in double-quick time!'
 

John scowled across at his lieutenant as they rode along side by side. 'Are you trying to tell me something, you old rogue?'
 

Gwyn innocently shook his head, his wild hair swaying like a corn stook in a gale. 'Just saying, Crowner, that's all! I'd make a play for her myself, if I wasn't a married man!'

'You mean just like me, don't you? Don't fret, Gwyn, I'm not going to throw a leg over her the minute I get inside her house. I've got Nesta breathing fire down my neck - and Matilda never misses a chance to remind me of my sins in that direction.'

His officer decided that he had better leave the subject alone and subsided into silence as they covered the last few miles to the little harbour. In the village, Gwyn diplomatically took himself to one of the two taverns, where John could pick him up when he had finished his business, innocent or otherwise. The coroner walked Odin down the lane that led from the creek where boats were beached and tied him to a hitching rail outside the solid stone dwelling that Thorgils had built.

Again the young maid was surprised to see him at the door, but with half-concealed giggles, simperingly she led him up the stairs to Hilda's solar. The widow had given up her mourning grey and looked elegant in a long kirtle of blue linen with a shift of white samite visible above the square-cut neckline. As usual indoors, her hair was uncovered and the honey-blonde tresses fell down her back, almost to her waist. John found it hard to remember her as the rosy-faced urchin with whom he had played in Holcombe many years before - and later as a lissom girl when they furtively kissed and coupled in the tithe barn. Looking at her now, serene, beautiful and self-confident, it was also difficult to accept that she was but the daughter of a manor-reeve, an unfree villein in his brother's employ - as she herself had been unfree until she had married Thorgils.

Hilda came towards him, her hands outstretched to take his, a smile of genuine pleasure on her face.

'John, it is so good to see you, no one is more welcome in this house!' She came close and, like iron chippings to a lodestone, his arms automatically came up to embrace her, though somewhere in his head warning chimes pealed as loudly as cathedral bells. Hilda's blue eyes and her full pink lips were inches away from his and he felt her breasts pressing against him as he held her. She stood immobile and he knew she was waiting for him to make the next move - or not make it. He realised that she was giving this old soldier the chance to attack or retreat, not forcing the issue but establishing where the watershed lay between prudence and abandonment. As he felt the heat growing in his loins, he groaned with longing and indecision, but then the vision of another pair of eyes, lips and breasts swam into his fevered mind. With a sudden movement, he pecked at her cheek with his lips and stood back, his hands sliding to hold her upper arms as they looked at each other gravely, the moment of decision reached - for now.

'I came to see if all was well with you, dear Hilda,' he croaked, then cleared his throat in one of the catch-all mannerisms he used to cover awkward pauses. Standing back, he saw that the maid was gaping at them, looking rather disappointed that they had not fallen to the floor in a frenzy of lust. Hilda led him to a chair and then sat opposite in another, after sending the maid scurrying to fetch wine and pastries.

'Tell me all your news, John. I have been quite out of touch since I came home from my stay in Holcombe.'

As he drank some of Thorgils' good Normandy wine and ate heartily of the pork and turnip pasties - for Hilda took little notice of the Church's edict regarding Friday fish - he brought her up to date on the plan to use the three ships to ferry goods from Exeter to other coastal ports, and especially those across the Channel. He wanted more details of the other two ship-masters, for in spite of his excuses to Nesta, he was not all that sure where they were to be found. The conversation flowed easily for an hour, though underneath was always their simmering awareness of their sexual attraction. The Saxon woman enquired after Matilda and patiently listened to John's bitter recitation of the hopelessness of their marriage, and his wish that the social gulf between them had been smaller before he had been forced into marrying de Revelle's daughter.

Then carefully, she asked about Nesta, whom she knew slightly and liked very much - though now she knew that the Welsh woman was an added barrier, in addition to Matilda. She suddenly came to appreciate that in fact if Matilda ceased to exist, she - Hilda - would be in a far better position to capture John de Wolfe than a lowly alewife, as there was no real reason why a Norman knight could not take her, a freewoman and the widow of a quite rich and respectable merchant, in marriage. Still, Matilda did exist and, being a sensible, realistic person, she felt no jealousy towards Nesta in a situation that was immutable.

John sat more easily as affection and admiration gradually replaced his lust and he settled down to enjoy the sight of her lovely face and body and the pleasant company that she afforded him. Eventually, the need to find the shipmen and to collect Gwyn from the alehouse before he became too drunk to sit on his horse drove him reluctantly to the door.

'Come to see me again very soon, John,' Hilda said without any trace of coquetry as he was about to leave. 'Let me know how our new venture is progressing and if you need a contribution to restoring poor Thorgils' vessel, you have only to ask.'

At the front door they kissed, and though this time it was fully on the lips, it was somehow chaste, as if a signal that for now they were as brother and sister. As John stalked away to untie Odin, he wondered whether Hell was a place where he was doomed to bounce for ever from one to another of an infinite number of women.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In which Crowner John examines some arrows

Though the cold persisted, the snow cleared away and bright crisp weather set in over the weekend. The sky remained blue, but dark clouds rolled in over John de Wolfe late on Monday afternoon, for not only did Matilda return, but she was accompanied by her brother Richard and his wife Eleanor, a haughty woman whose nature matched the frosty climate.

They were on their way to Richard's other manor near Tiverton at the eastern end of the county. He fervently thanked God that his house had no space for them to stay that night. Instead, they went to the New Inn in High Street, the best accommodation in the city, even if the cooking was inferior to that of the Bush. However, John did not get off scot-free, for Matilda invited her brother and sister-in-law to dinner on the following day.

'They provided me with bed and board for well over a week, John,' she snapped. 'The least I can do is to give them a good meal before they leave for Tiverton.'

Within minutes of his wife's return, his free-and-easy life had reverted to the familiar old pattern of silences at table, scowls at his every absence from meals and ill-tempered orders barked at Mary or Lucille. To avoid aggravating the situation on the very first evening, he desisted from his usual visit to Idle Lane and sat glumly at supper while Matilda, unusually loquacious, expounded on the luxuries of her brother's manor at Revelstoke, the excellence of his cooks and even the fertility of his fields. Her previous disillusionment with Richard seemed to have evaporated. He was now her idol once again, Matilda having conveniently forgotten his manifold sins and wickedness. By contrast, she was implying that her husband was all the poorer in substance and spirit for having treacherously stabbed her brother in the back when he finally denounced him to the Chief Justiciar. She now seemed to ignore the fact that Richard had committed the common crime of theft and the even worse one of treachery, both of which should have carried the death penalty, but which had been avoided by John's intercession.

Thankfully, Matilda was so full of her visit to the utopia of Revelstoke that she failed to make any enquiry about his own activities while she was away – but John knew that sooner or later she would get around to interrogating him about his journey to Dawlish and his scandalous attendances at the Bush Inn. After supper, she fired instructions at Mary concerning the lavish dinner that was to be prepared for the de Revelles the next day, then stalked off to bed, claiming fatigue after her journey that day from their night stop at Buckfast. Lucille pattered after her to get her undressed and settled for the night, leaving John to sit by his hearth, glowering into his ale-pot and bemoaning the end of his brief week of freedom. Even his hound Brutus looked miserable as he lay at his master's feet and rolled up his eyes so that the whites showed, in an expression of doleful sympathy.

The following day John de Wolfe spent the early part of the morning in glum anticipation of the approach of the noon dinner-time, but thankfully fate stepped in at literally the eleventh hour. It took a murder to avoid the ordeal of sitting down to a meal with three of the de Revelle family, but even Matilda must surely accept the urgency of attending another dastardly assault upon one of her beloved Norman county families. It began with the clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the cobbled floor of Rougemont's gatehouse arch, heralding the arrival of a messenger from Shillingford. This time it was one of the young stable grooms, perhaps chosen for his reckless speed on a horse. He gabbled his news to the soldiers in the guardroom and without delay he was hustled up the stairs to de Wolfe's chamber.

All three of the coroner's team were there. Thomas, having performed his paid Mass at an early hour, was now at his habitual task of making manuscript copies of cases for the next Shire Court. Gwyn was aimlessly whittling a piece of firewood with his dagger and whistling tunelessly through his drooping moustache. John was sitting moodily behind his table, but looked up as the groom came in, touching his shapeless woollen cap in hurried obeisance.