The Elixir of Death (28 page)

When he cantered up to the gatehouse of Revelstoke, the porter peered through his peephole and saw a commanding figure waiting for admittance. Raymond wore a yellow surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk, all covered with a dark green riding cloak. Though his head was bare, a round iron helmet hung from his saddle, alongside a wicked-looking ball-mace. A large sword was slung from his baldric, as, travelling alone, he took no chances on the lonely lanes of this remote part of England. Like his mount, these arms had been supplied at Bigbury by Prince John through de Revelle, as Raymond had been unable to bring much with him on the hazardous journey by ship and curragh. He carried no emblazoned shield, nor did his surcoat display any heraldic device. He was an enemy agent loose in the country, and though no one was likely to challenge him outside the towns, de Blois prudently avoided advertising his origins.

The porter knew him from several previous visits and hurried to swing open the gate, yelling for an ostler to come and take the horse. Minutes later, Raymond was ushered into de Revelle's chamber off the hall and made welcome with wine and the promise of food as soon as it could be brought from the kitchens. Richard hurried in, resplendent in a blue linen tunic almost to his ankles, loosely covered with a green silk surcoat trimmed with squirrel fur.

'I returned here only last night, de Blois,' he said. 'My wife has decided to stay at my manor near Tiverton - she says she finds the winds from the sea too chill here, now that winter is threatening to descend upon us.'

The French knight had arranged this visit when he was last at Revelstoke with Alexander of Leith, and had been hoping now to report that the alchemists had made good progress. Instead, he had to deliver his misgivings about the whole enterprise.

'These Moors are uncontrollable, I fear,' he said, warming his chilled body with mulled wine. 'Our little Scotchman does his best, but he can get no sense out of this Nizam creature. Last night, Alexander came to me complaining that he fears that the man has no real expertise in his craft. He is also beginning to suspect that the nodule of gold that the Arab claims to have made has been planted there to sustain the deceit!'

The lord of Revelstoke looked aghast at his visitor. 'Surely that cannot be true? This Saracen was sent at the express wish of your king! He must have had credentials to prove his prowess?'

Raymond gave a Gallic shrug. 'I knew of the man in Paris. Philip Augustus brought him back when he returned from the Crusade more than two years ago. He claimed then to have discovered the Elixir of Life and was confident that he could soon convert this substance into its other form, with the ability to transmute base metals into gold.'

De Revelle began pacing up and down in front of his table.

'Yes, yes, I know all that! But the Prince in Gloucester is impatiently awaiting results. He sends a herald here every week or two, demanding news. Why is this Godblasted Nizam proving so difficult, eh?'

'He keeps vanishing for days on end, together with these mute ruffians he has as bodyguards,' explained Raymond wearily.

'What are they up to? They are supposed to lie low all the time, to avoid being seen. What can bloody foreigners like them want with skulking around the countryside?' He ignored the fact that de Blois himself was a foreigner to Devon.

'I wish to heaven I knew - but then again, perhaps I prefer not to know!' answered Raymond fervently. 'They are dangerous men. I fear no one in fair combat, I welcome any adversary before me with sword or lance. But these strange beings are so untrustworthy, I am reluctant to turn my back on them, in case they slide a knife between my ribs.'

Richard de Revelle stared anxiously at his guest. He respected him as a brave and honourable knight, even though he was spying for another king. For him to admit to fears about these men was serious indeed.

'What were they like when you brought them across the sea?' he asked.

'They were quiet enough until we came in sight of this coast. I brought them from Paris to the Vexin, which is in King Philip's hands now, then we slipped into Normandy dressed as black monks, for those white nightshirts and headgear they wear are hard to disguise.'

'Which port did you use, then?' asked Richard, curious to hear about the ways of espionage.

'We embarked at Harfleur, where I paid this shipmaster well to drop us at Salcombe on his way home to some place near Exeter. He was a little suspicious of these hawk-faced 'Benedictines', but I spun him a story about them being hermits from Sinai wishing to go on a pilgrimage to Glastonbury, via Buckfast Abbey.'

'But you never got to Salcombe?'

Raymond de Blois shook his head sadly. 'I intended that to be the plan, but after I explained to this Nizam that we would need to go back a few miles from Salcombe to Bigbury, they went into a huddle. As soon as the ship came close inshore in this big bay, they suddenly rose up and callously slew all the crew, apart from one lad who had time to leap overboard - though he must have perished.'

'What reason did they give?' asked Richard, uneasy that he had to deal with such dangerous people.

'Oh, Nizam said that the shipmen might give us away to the authorities and it would be better if they were silenced. They wiped their bloody daggers on the clothing of the poor sailors and then calmly put the small boat into the water and we paddled ashore.'

'Perhaps you were lucky not to have had your throat cut as well!'

Raymond shook his head emphatically. 'No, they needed me to survive. I knew the way to the hideout in the forest and without me they would have had no prospect of food or shelter.'

'And how are they to return when their task is completed - if it ever is, from what you have told me today,' persisted de Revelle.

The Frenchman shook his head slowly in bewilderment. 'I can't make them out, they seem so unconcerned. My plan was to make the journey in reverse, take them in their disguises to one of the ports and seek passage across the Channel, then work our way back to Paris. But they are quite incurious about this - at least Nizam is, for it is impossible to communicate with the other two, who are clearly nothing but ruffians recruited to protect the alchemist. '

He paused to drain the last of his wine cup. 'There is something odd about them. Often they seem drugged and sleepy, at other times they seem wildly excited. They chew some scented brown gum and spit filthy curds upon the ground. It seems to be some sort of opiate that affects their minds.'

At this point, two servants arrived with food for the traveller, and Richard joined de Blois in taking more wine while the knight tucked in to a roast fowl, grilled sea-fish, sliced mutton and boiled beans. Fresh bread, cheese and some fruit filled the envoy's stomach as they resumed their anxious discussion.

'So what's to be done about this?' demanded de Revelle. 'The Count of Mortain will doubtless be sending another of his messengers down here very soon, wanting to hear of progress.'

De Blois dipped his fingers into a bowl of water scented with rose petals and wiped them fastidiously on a napkin. He approved of the civilised style that de Revelle affected in his house, but his worried mind was occupied with their problem.

'I think that you should talk personally to these two alchemists, de Revelle. I can do nothing with them to bring them together and the Scotchman is becoming increasingly angry and frustrated. He is already talking of returning to Bristol.'

Richard paled slightly at the prospect of being closeted with an unbalanced trio of Turks who seemed all too ready to commit multiple murder.

'Is that really necessary?' he bleated. 'What can I say that you have not already demanded?'

'You will be a fresh voice with much authority. You are the direct agent of the Count in this enterprise and you can threaten them with dire consequences if they do not submit.'

Richard had his doubts about this, but his friendship with the Prince and the great prizes of power and advancement for him that were hinted at when John seized the throne were too important to jeopardise.

'Very well. If there is no improvement in the situation within the coming week, I will ride briefly to your hideout to talk to this Nizam. But make sure they behave themselves when I am there!'

CHAPTER TEN

In which the Widow Hilda makes a decision

Thorgils had built his house in a side lane off the main street, but the window of the upstairs solar faced back towards the sea, and the woman standing before the open shutter could see over the irrregular roof-line of the older buildings below. Though they blocked her view of the strand, she could see the sea in the distance, dotted to the hazy horizon with white caps from the stiff westerly breeze.

Beyond that horizon was the Continent, and Hilda stared as if she could see over the curve of the earth to the places where her husband had voyaged since he was twelve years old. He had brought wine from Bordeaux and taken Devon wool to Cologne, sailing to every port between them in the course of his long life. This fine house that was now hers had been built with the profits - and when she had opened his treasure chest and counted through the many leather bags it contained, she had been amazed at how much silver and even gold it contained. His three ships were now hers, and if John's and Hugh de Relaga's plan came to pass, she would want for nothing for the rest of her life - except, perhaps, for John himself.

Hilda turned from the window and closed the shutter, as the grey sky began to spit cold rain down on Dawlish. She sat on a padded chair near the small fire that burned in the hearth, the narrow cone of the modern chimney taking the smoke up through the tiled roof. Her embroidery stood neglected on its frame near by, as for the past few days she had felt too restless to bother with it. Elegant in her blue kirtle of fine wool, wide sleeved and girdled with low-slung gilded cords, she stared into the glowing embers and felt both sad and angry. She was sad over the loss of her husband, and also for the uncertainty of what life held for her - or what it might fail to hold. Her anger was for the way he had died.

Though she had never loved Thorgils in the way that she had loved John de Wolfe, she had felt considerable affection for him and respected him for his unfailing generosity and concern for her welfare. Though many years older, he had had a healthy passion, and she readily acknowledged that she had enjoyed their coupling in bed, though for the last year or two his advancing age had cooled his desire. She herself was very fond of lovemaking, and now she wondered whether she would ever feel those delicious moments of rapture again, with any man. Thorgils was gone, John was wrapped up in his marital problems and his infatuation with the ale-wife, so where did that leave her? At the moment, she could not even visualise going with another man, and though she knew without any conceit that she was still very attractive, her widow's wealth might prove to be a burden. Suitors would be easy to find, but would they want her for herself or for the contents of her treasure box?

These past few days, she had spent a lot time sitting alone and staring into the fire. Thorgils had been buried for several weeks and every few days she went to place flowers on the low mound of earth in the churchyard. She spoke to him under her breath as she bent over the grave, telling him that she wished she had been able to love him more, and pouring out her sorrow at his passing and her loneliness. Gradually, her self-pity was replaced by a slow but growing anger. He had been a good man and he had been stolen from her. As she had told John de Wolfe, she had long been resigned to the cruel sea taking him one day - but not the cowardly blade of some evil killer.

Hilda felt guilty as she stared into the reddened logs, guilty not because of her failure to truly love her husband, or even because she had occasionally been unfaithful to him with her childhood sweetheart.

She felt guilty that she could not avenge him, discover who killed him and for what reason. He deserved a better end than to be stabbed by some uncaring murderer, she thought bitterly. When would they be brought to justice, if ever? De Wolfe himself seemed powerless to discover the culprits - she would have heard by now if there had been any progress in his hunt for them.

Hilda was a determined, practical woman of peasant stock, daughter of a village bondsman. She was relatively young, both fit and strong - was there nothing she could do to avenge Thorgils? Getting up, she paced the chamber to recall what little she knew, as told by John. The key must surely lie down in the west, where her husband had met his death. She was under no illusions about the difficulties, not least the problem of a woman travelling about the countryside - but that might be the one advantage she had over the coroner and the sheriff and their heavy-handed investigations. Maybe a woman, especially a local Saxon, could better infiltrate the common folk of the villages and learn something useful.

At least she could try - and it would be something to fill an empty life. She avoided admitting even to herself that most of that emptiness was caused by the knowledge that John de Wolfe could never be hers.

The same Atlantic wind that whipped up white horses on the sea off Dawlish whistled even more menacingly over the bare island of St Michael de la Burgh. On the windward side of the craggy isle, which was less than a quarter of a mile across, the waves lashed up in angry, snarling breakers, gouts of creamy spume flying upwards like feathers. The tide was ebbing, and already a line of sand was appearing between the island and the low headland that guarded the entrance to the River Avon.