The Elixir of Death (36 page)

'What about the other writing there?' demanded the coroner, now very worried about Hilda's disappearance. 'Even I can tell that it's not Latin.'

Thomas peered more closely at the soiled and smudged parchment.

'Some of it is Greek, but some is an oriental script that I have no knowledge of. It could be the language of Araby.'

'You are a great scholar. Can you make anything of the Greek?' demanded de Wolfe.

'I know only a few words of Homer and Aristotle,' said the little priest, defensively. 'I can make out 'life' several times and 'water' or 'fluid' ... and yes, there is 'gold' again.'

Gwyn had a suggestion. 'Maybe the fat monk Rufus up at Rougemont could read it - he seems to be familiar with the Saracen world.'
 

Thomas bridled at this reflection on his linguistic abilities.

'I doubt he'll make much of these few words! It seems to me that the congruence of 'mercury, lead, tin and gold' points to the main preoccupation of alchemists, the transmutation of base metals into gold.'

'What about the rest of it?' snapped de Wolfe.

'The words 'life' and 'fluid' may refer to the parallel search for the liquid form of the Philosopher's Stone - the Elixir of Life, which is supposed to confer health and everlasting life on those who partake of it.' Thomas crossed himself as he spoke. 'It is a form of blasphemy, seeking an alternative path to everlasting life other than through the love of God and the Holy Trinity.'

Gwyn was the usual dissenting party. 'Whatever it means, it doesn't help us find Hilda.'

John rasped his fingers over his stubble, a habit that seemed to stimulate his thoughts. 'I'm not so sure, Gwyn. Parchments like that don't land in lonely Devon forests unless someone is there to lose them. It tells us that someone is in that area who doesn't belong there. It smacks of Mohammedans with that Levantine script, adding to the suspicions we already have.'

'What about this alchemy gibberish?' grunted the Cornishman, still unconvinced.

'If someone can make gold from Devon tin, then Prince John can buy all the armour, pikes and horses he wants,' pointed out Thomas. 'This fits in twice over with what the Chief Justiciar said in his message.'

Even the coroner was scornful at this point. 'But that claim is nonsense, surely! Fools have been trying to make gold since Noah built his ark, but no one has ever succeeded.'

'There have been certain claims of success,' countered Thomas, cautiously. 'Though admittedly none has ever stood the test of time. But eventually, someone has to be first. '

'What about Mistress Hilda?' asked Angerus de Wile, who had stood with his friend in the doorway while the others debated the parchment. 'Shall we go back to Salcombe and start searching again?'

De Wolfe thought for a moment, then shook his head. 'I considered whether it would be quicker for you to take us by ship, but it's not practicable to carry our horses with us and we need them there. You go back to Dawlish and await events. I will seek out the sheriff at once and see what's best to be done.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In which Richard de Revelle visits an alchemist

Matilda was tired of travelling, weary of being shaken about in an unsprung carriage that was little better than an ox-cart with a canopy, curtains and cushions. Admittedly, it was pulled by a pair of rounseys rather than an actual ox, but even that had its disadvantages, as the two horses went somewhat faster and so shook up the occupants even more on the rutted tracks of Devon.

Her sister-in-law, Lady Eleanor, sat alongside her, swaddled in an ermine-lined cloak, which did nothing to thaw the iciness of her tongue. They spoke rarely, and when they did it was with a cold formality that confirmed the antipathy that had existed between them for a decade and a half. Richard de Revelle's wife, the daughter of an Oxfordshire baron, considered that not only had she herself been married off beneath her station, but that her husband's sister had gone down yet another step in the social hierarchy by being wedded to John de Wolfe, the younger son of an insignificant knight from somewhere in the wilds of Devon.

Now they had to put up with each other in the close proximity of a lady's wagon, trundling between Exeter and Revelstoke, a journey of over two days halfway across a county, that, after Yorkshire, was the largest in England.

Richard had called at the house in Martin's Lane on his way to Revelstoke from his manor at Tiverton, to where he had again journeyed to fetch Eleanor. His aloof wife much preferred Tiverton, but he was insistent that he had urgent business down in the far west of the county and, with an ill grace, she was persuaded to accompany him. Her ill grace increased when she discovered that he had again invited his sister to stay with them at Revelstoke, but was slightly tempered by the news that this was because the scoundrel John had left her to live with a common ale-wife - and a foreign Welsh woman at that.

'You would be well to be competely rid of him,' said Eleanor, during one of their infrequent conversations. 'Can you not petition the Church for some sort of annulment?'

Matilda, who had no intention of either making it easy for John or losing a coroner-knight for a husband, had a ready excuse.

'He is too thick with the Archbishop of Canterbury. When he was a soldier, Hubert Walter was well acquainted with my knavish husband.'

'Then go straight to the Pope!' said her sister-in-law, airily. 'A man like that deserves excommunication, before hanging and drawing!'

Much as John de Wolfe was out of favour with her, Matilda resented Eleanor sneering at him. Insulting John was solely her privilege, and she relapsed into a stony silence that lasted for almost the rest of the journey. Eventually they reached Revelstoke, and Richard and his half-dozen men, who had been riding with the wagon, dismounted with groans of relief and came to assist the ladies from their conveyance.

'I hope by Christ and all his angels that they have a good fire going in our chambers,' were Eleanor's first words, as she stiffly descended the steps placed at the back of the cart. It was blowing fine snow again, and though this was unlikely to settle, the cutting wind and the grey skies of the waning afternoon made the manor-house a dismal sight. Amid the bustle of servants carrying their bags and bundles indoors and the chink of harness as the horses were taken away to the stables, the two women walked to the door of the hall. Here they were met by serving women with possets of warmed wine and honey, before they went wearily to their chambers - the large house had half a dozen rooms, apart from the main hall.

That evening, the three of them dined in one of these rooms, as, unless they were feasting or entertaining guests, Eleanor disliked eating in the hall with the commoners. For once, this was a sentiment with which her fellow arch-snob Matilda fully agreed, and they sat alone in the candlelight before a large log fire, working their way through fresh poached fish, roast pigeon, venison and a blancmange of chicken and rice boiled in almond milk, flavoured with cinnamon. Afterwards there was flummery of boiled oatmeal, strained with raisins and honey.

In spite of the good food and the excellent wine, which Richard imported through Plymouth from Anjou and Bordeaux, the trio was silent and morose. Eleanor had virtually exhausted her repetoire of condemnation of Matilda's husband during the long journey, and Richard seemed worried and preoccupied about something.

'I have to ride out again tomorrow morning,' he said eventually. 'But I will be back before nightfall.'

His wife scowled at him, just as Matilda did when her own husband announced another absence from home, which she always assumed was an excuse for drinking and wenching.

'We have only just arrived,' protested Eleanor. 'Why must you vanish again so soon?'

'I have urgent business to attend to, not far away. You ladies never seem to appreciate that a manor-lord has many duties and obligations. Revelstoke won't run itself, you know, and I can't depend on bailiffs and reeves for everything. '

'So you will be within the demesne, if we need you?' Richard looked shifty at this. 'Not that close, my lady. But I will be home for supper, I assure you,' he replied, evasively.

'Can we not ride with you, if it is but a short distance?' demanded Matilda. 'It would relieve the boredom of remaining within these walls.'

Eleanor scowled at her implication that their hospitality was tedious. Richard for once was on her side and soon squashed the suggestion.

'It is likely to be foul weather tomorrow, sister. This snow looks set for another few days and there is a keen east wind. You will be better off near a good fire. Next time, you may accompany me, if the weather improves.'

So the next morning the lord of Revelstoke set off with only two armed retainers. His steward and bailiff offered to accompany him as added protection, but he declined. The fewer who knew of his destination and the nature of his seditious business, the better he would be pleased. He even bribed the two escorts with a few pence and the threat of dire retribution if they gossiped about the expedition. They rode the ten miles towards Bigbury and, after they had passed St Anne's Chapel, de Revelle pulled them off the main track and on to a forest path, well before reaching the village. The half-blind custodian of the shrine had heard their hoofbeats and dimly saw three riders going by, but could not distinguish any details. He wondered again at the unusual activity that had disturbed his placid life these past few weeks, but decided it was none of his business, even when a couple of hours later he heard the same horses returning and vanishing westwards.

As soon as they had gone far enough along the forest track to lose sight of the Bigbury lane, Richard de Revelle ordered his bodyguard to dismount and stay there with their horses until he returned. He added a strict command for them not to wander off, but to rest there and enjoy the food and drink in their saddlebags. He wanted no witnesses to the activity at the old priory and castle, even two thick-headed peasants like these. He rode on down the narrow path, which he had travelled once before, when Prince John's men had come to renovate the crypt for the alchemists. Just before he reached the clearing, he almost fell from his saddle in surprise, as two men reared up from the bushes on either side of him, one with a longbow ready pulled, the arrow aimed at his heart. The other held a lance high up over his shoulder and seemed quite prepared to launch it at the interloper.

'Stop there, you!' yelled the one with the lance. Richard now recognised the two Saxon ruffians who guarded the place. He identified himself in his usual arrogant fashion and demanded to be taken to Raymond de Blois. Still surly and suspicious, Alfred and Ulf let him pass, but followed closely, the bow and the lance still at the ready.

When he reached the derelict bailey of the old castle, Raymond de Blois came out of the kitchen hut and saluted him, sending the two guards away to continue their patrols of the area.

'I only wish the damned Moors were as obedient as those Saxons,' muttered the Frenchman. 'They come and go as they please, in spite of my orders that they keep out of sight as much as possible.'

'Where are they now?' asked de Revelle, noting that when they entered the hut for some food and wine, the place was empty.

'Down in the crypt - for once, they actually seem to be doing what they came for,' said de Blois grudgingly. 'I've had that weird Scotsman moaning at me ever since he came, saying that this Nizam has made no progress with his alchemy. In fact, Alexander suspects that he is a fraud.'

Richard drummed his fingers irritably on the rough table.

'The whole point of this dangerous enterprise is to produce gold for the Count of Mortain' s future campaign to seize the crown!' he said. 'It seems obvious that my royal namesake is never going to return from his wars in France. The country is going to the dogs, being bled dry by that bastard Hubert Walter, just to fund the King's mania for warfare. England needs Prince John - and he'll be generous with his thanks to those who helped him.'

The French knight looked doubtful. 'Well, there seems little prospect of getting any gold nuggets out of these fellows here. I sense that Alexander is genuinely trying his best, but he expected that the Turks would be bringing new knowledge from the East to bolster his own efforts.'

Richard swallowed the rest of the inferior wine and stood up.

'You wanted me to speak to them to impress upon them the importance of this mission. What are they like, these Saracens?' De Revelle had never met any such people.

'Very strange indeed,' muttered Raymond. 'The two ruffians Nizam has with him neither understand nor speak a word of French or English, unless they are playing a very deep game. The alchemist himself speaks a little of both when he chooses, but I suspect he is far more literate than he admits. They are surly, secretive men, whom I wouldn't trust a hand's-breadth out of my sight.'

'What about the other two?'

'This Scottish dwarf is strange, but seems honest enough. He has a great dumb ox of a Fleming to look after him, lacking both a tongue and a brain.'

With these discouraging words, de Blois led his visitor across the overgrown compound to the hidden doorway to the crypt. At the bottom of the stairs, Raymond looked quickly to his left, towards the door to the storeroom at the far end of the long vaulted chamber. It was tightly closed and there was no sound from beyond. Richard de Revelle had no reason to notice his host's rapid scrutiny, as he was taking in the scene in the rest of the crypt. Many flickering wicks floated in their cups of oil on sconces around the walls, but nearer the hearth, whose fire itself contributed much of the illumination, a denser concentration of lamps and candles shed their light on the complex apparatus of alchemy.