The Elixir of Death (30 page)

Now the Moors had vanished again for several days and the French knight was seething with impatience, as he wished them to be here for the visit of Richard de Revelle, for him to impress upon them the importance of achieving some results for the Count of Mortain.

With the others away, the little Scotsman repeated his own work, but once more failed to make the last vital transition from an alloy to gold. Disillusioned with the situation and the inferior facilities in the old priory compared with those he had at Bristol, Alexander turned to his other research, the preparation of the Elixir of Life. Claimed by other alchemists as a liquid version of the stone that would transmute other metals into gold, the magic fluid was supposed to cure every illness and prolong life almost indefinitely. In his view, this was a more worthwhile project than the Philosopher's Stone itself. If necessary, real gold could be dug from the earth, but a potion to prolong life and banish disease would be the greatest boon the world had ever seen.

In the quiet of the crypt, with no one else to distract him, he laboured to dissolve his almost-gold with strong spirits of salt, then neutralised it with soda. Two days of filtering and distillation produced a small quantity of murky liquid, similar to many he had manufactured before, though this time he used Dartmoor tin and Tavistock copper.

The problem was testing the elixir - if it prolonged life, how long would he have to wait to know that it was effective? He had tried previous batches on a few small animals, such as mice, rats and cats, but they either died straight away or after a few days - or there was no effect at all. Maybe, he thought, the latter group were signs of success, but none of them seemed to achieve longevity beyond what one normally expected for that type of beast. With a sigh, he filled a small phial with his latest creation and hid it away inside his shapeless tunic, hoping that some inspiration about a method of testing would occur to him.

The next morning, the Moors were back, as impassive as ever and equally uncommunicative. After the early morning meal in the hut at the old castle, Alexander expected them to be harried back to work in the crypt by an increasingly exasperated Raymond. Instead, they all saddled up and, dressed in their monkish robes, rode off again to some unknown destination. Nizam refused to answer Raymond's demand to know where they were going, just saying that they would be back before nightfall.

Later that day, sitting in the hut where they ate their meals, Alexander confided in Jan, a rather one-sided conversation, though the Fleming seemed attentive enough.

'We'll give them a few more days, Jan, then abandon this and set off home.' Tugging a bone from the rabbit stew that the serf Alfred had made, he brandished it at his servant to emphasise his determination. 'If this de Revelle fellow cannot instil some urgency into these damned Turks, the whole venture is a waste of my time,' he exclaimed. 'I'm not cowed by John Lackland, even if he is the King's brother. I'll tell him to his face that the French king is either mocking him or has been hoodwinked himself by these Arabic charlatans.'

The Fleming nodded and made some gargling noises in his mutilated throat which indicated agreement. He had been bored out of his mind by the enforced isolation, with only two Saxon simpletons for company. As for his Scottish master, he too was at the end of his tether, working with insufficient equipment in a dank subterranean chamber with a trio of uncaring Saracens for occasional company. In spite of his strange appearance and clothing, which in truth Alexander cultivated to enhance his reputation as an eccentric alchemist, he had a sharp and practical mind and felt that he would be far better employed back in Bristol.

And if he was honest, he was uneasy to the point of fear when alone with the three Mohammedans, as he sensed an evil aura about them all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In which the coroner rides yet again to Ringmore

The last of the evening light was fading from the western sky when the stout wooden doors at Exeter's five gates were pushed shut by the porters and the great bars dropped into their sockets behind them. The two city constables began their patrol of the streets to make their token inspection, ensuring that all fires were extinguished or damped down for the night. The fear of a conflagration in a town whose houses were still largely built of wood was real, and the curfew or '
couvre-feu
' was in tended to protect the citizens as they slept. In fact, many fires were kept going overnight to save relighting them for the early morning cooking, but as long as no obvious flames or glow were visible, the constables turned a blind eye.

When they left their hut behind the Guildhall, the fatter of the pair, Theobald, turned up High Street to tramp the lanes in the eastern part of the city. His skinny Saxon colleague, Osric, made his leisurely way in the opposite direction down Fore Street, his dim horn lantern in one hand, his staff in the other.

He greeted a few people as he went, though most respectable folk were at home, either finishing their supper or already in bed, as the working day corresponded largely with dawn and dusk. From side lanes in Bretayne to his right and Smythen Street and Stepcote Hill to his left came the distant sounds of raucous singing and swearing from the more disreputable alehouses such as the Saracen, but tonight was no different from any other, and Osric stepped out unconcernedly past little St Olave's church towards the West Gate.

Halfway down the hill, he heard rapid footsteps coming towards him and from force of habit tightened his grip on his ash stave and held his lantern higher, though its pale light hardly reached his feet.

'Is that you, Osric?' came a breathless voice, wheezing as he hurried up the slope. The constable recognised Matthew, one of the night porters from the West Gate, which led out to the ford and rickety footbridge over the river to the main highroad beyond.

'Matthew? What are doing away from your warm fire?' A portly man of middle age came into the circle of lantern light. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and incongruously wore a battered iron helmet as his badge of office.

'It's all right, Aelgard is on the gate. He sent me to fetch you. We need your advice.'

'Why? Have the French landed at Topsham to invade us?' Osric was only half joking, as in these uncertain times anything could happen.

'There's a man outside demanding to be let into the city, even though we shut the gates almost half an hour past.'

'Then tell him to go to hell - or come back in the morning.'

'He's very insistent. Come down and talk to him yourself. I don't want to get into trouble with the portreeves or the sheriff for either letting him in or keeping him out.'

Grumbling under his breath, the constable followed Matthew back to the lower town wall, which ran along the line of the river, with the boggy land of Exe Island in between. Aelgard, a younger man and a Saxon like himself, led him up the stone steps alongside one of the squat towers that flanked the gate. They reached the parapet fifteen feet above ground and peered over.

Though it was now virtually dark, a cloud moving off the horizon let through enough of the last streaks of grey light to make out a figure on a horse almost directly below them.

'It's after curfew, you can't come in now!' called Osric. There was a whinny and a clatter of hoofs as the rider turned his horse to face the voice.

'I have to, it's urgent. I've ridden since early morning. This is the second horse I've worn out to try to get here in time.'

'Who are you and what do you want?' yelled the constable.

'William Vado, bailiff of Ringmore, here on the orders of the lord of Totnes, through his steward. I have to speak straightway to the coroner or the sheriff.'

Impressed by the credentials of the rider and the urgency of his tone, Osric weakened a little.

'What do you want with the crowner at this time of night?'

'To report a murder most foul - and one which Sir John will want to hear about from my own lips!'

The constable decided that this was a situation out of the ordinary and capitulated.

'Very well, we'll admit you and I'll take you to him myself. But no tricks, d'you hear - or you'll regret it!'

Though his ears failed to burn at his name being taken in vain, at that moment the coroner was only a few hundred yards away from the West Gate. He was sitting in his usual place in the taproom of the Bush, a quart pot before him and an arm around Nesta's waist. Across the room, Gwyn was drinking and playing dice with a few of his cronies.

De Wolfe's long dark face was more morose than usual as he described the return of Matilda that day. For the third time he recounted to his mistress every word that had passed between him and his wife, until it was glaringly obvious to Nesta that his conscience was troubling him even more than usual.

'Are you quite sure you shouldn't return to the poor woman?' she asked softly, her natural compassion for an unhappy soul vying with her desire to have John for herself.

'Never!' blustered de Wolfe, with a conviction that deep within himself felt rather hollow. 'I've made the break and I'm standing by it. She does nothing but upbraid and insult me whenever I try to placate her.' At least this part was true, and he used Matilda's abrasive rejection of his attempts at reconciliation to bolster his own confidence.

Nesta sighed and laid her red curls on his solid shoulder.

'What's to become of us, John? I love having you here and feeling the warmth of your body against me, especially at night,' she murmured in Welsh. 'But I feel every eye upon us and hear every mouth whispering when they see us together. I care little for my sake, but I fear for your reputation and your position.'

'To hell with them,
cariad
!' he growled. 'We have been together for almost two years now, so every soul in Exeter and half those in the county of Devon knows about us - not least my wife.'

'But living together, John! That's different somehow.'

'Why should it be?' he protested. 'What difference is there if we make love in the afternoon to making love at midnight?'

Nesta pulled away a little and shook her head at him. 'You are such a direct, practical man, John,' she said sadly. 'But a woman knows there is a difference. Being here all the time, forsaking your own home and hearth and turning your back on your wife, means a commitment far greater than a quick fumble when the chance presents.'

He looked down at her pretty face, a scowl trying to conceal his deep affection for her. 'Are you trying to talk me into going home, wench?' he growled. 'Have you tired of me so quickly?'

Little worms of doubt wriggled in both their minds, to be stamped upon ruthlessly. For Nesta's part, though she adored this big, gruff man, for several years past she had become used to living independently. Now, though he was hardly 'under her feet' all day, she felt obliged to sit with him as much as possible in the evenings, keeping him company when she should have been bustling about the tavern, attending to her business.

John loved sitting with her, slipping his hand around her to caress her and looking forward to climbing the ladder to her little room every night. But he missed his gossiping with Mary in the kitchen shed, fondling and talking to his old dog Brutus - and even yearned for the peaceful hours when he could doze in front of his hearth with a pot of cider.

Just as their talk threatened to become too serious, the awkward moment was broken by a sudden scuffle at the back of the taproom, a squeal from one of the serving maids and the crash of an ale jug as it fell upon a table.

'Bloody men!' snapped Nesta, jumping up to give a carter who had drunk too much the length of her tongue and scold him out of the back door until he had sobered up. John had learned not to interfere unless things got out of hand, as Nesta's powerful personality, often aided by a few of her admiring patrons, was usually more than equal to every occasion.

However, as she was haranguing the carter and pushing him towards the yard, another interruption came through the front door. The lanky shape of Osric bobbed his head under the lintel, closely followed by a shorter figure swathed in a dusty riding cloak. The coroner looked up in surprise.

'Bailiff! What the devil are you doing here?'

The two men dropped heavily on to the bench on the other side of his table. William Vado looked exhausted, and John shouted at old Edwin to bring some mulled ale to warm the bailiff. As the constable began to explain what had happened at the gate, Nesta hurried back, and as soon as she had gathered who the new arrival was, she sent a serving girl off to get some hot food for him. By now, Gwyn had been attracted by the arrival of the man from Ringmore and came over to stand listening at the table.

' ... so I thought it best to open the gates for him, Crowner,' concluded Osric. 'He said he knew you and that he had come on the authority of the lord of Totnes.'
 

De Wolfe nodded impatiently, and as soon as Vado had gratefully taken a long pull at his warmed ale, he demanded to hear his news.

'Another killing, Sir John, a real nasty one!' he began. 'When you were in Ringmore last, you told us about the death of that manor-lord near Exeter here - the one who was beheaded.'

John stared at him incredulously. 'Was this a beheading too? Who was killed, for St Peter's sake?'

William Vado shook his head. 'Not beheaded, Crowner. But you said the lord was sort of crucified and this poor man was lashed to a branch by his wrists, then hung by his neck from a tree! It was Joel, the old hermit from Burgh Island.'