Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

'Come inside, but watch your step. There is a stairway down to the right.'

Warily, holding the skirt of his long kilt clear of the rubble beneath his feet, the alchemist went through the opening and followed the French knight down a short flight of stone steps built into the thickness of the foundations. It was dark, but at the bottom, yellow light flickered through an arch. Alexander stopped in the doorway and looked with surprise at the sight before him. A wide undercroft, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling supported by thick pillars, stretched away for at least forty paces. He calculated that it must occupy the whole of the original building that once stood above them. The floor was flagged, unevenly in places, but it was better than the usual beaten earth, and though there was a dank smell, the dungeon seemed fairly dry. A fire burned in an open hearth to one side, but the smoke was conducted away up a chimney, which from the colour of its stones and mortar seemed to be a much later addition.

'This was the crypt of the old abbey,' explained de Blois. 'I am told that there were no coffins found here — it was quite empty when Prince John's men cleaned it up a few months ago and built that fireplace.'

The little Scotsman turned around slowly, surveying the long chamber, which, in addition to the fire, was lit by a dozen rush-lamps set on brackets around the walls. The wicks floating in their bowls of oil combined to give an acceptable light, once the eyes became accustomed to it. He saw half a dozen straw-filled palliasses along one wall and several tables and benches appeared to offer working surfaces for the paraphernalia of his profession. Alongside the hearth were two small furnaces, now cold, and some alchemical apparatus was set up on another table, with parchments and books on a nearby shelf. All that was missing were occupants.

'Where are these men I am supposed to work with?' he demanded.

Raymond shrugged in his Gallic fashion. 'I wish I knew! They are supposed to be labouring away here, in preparation for your coming, but they slipped away three days ago and haven't returned yet.'

His tone suggested that, whoever he was talking about, they were far from being his favourite people.

'We obviously sleep down here, by the look of those mattresses,' grumbled Alexander. 'But where do we get our food? There's no sign of any down here, nor in that miserable hut above.'

'Never fear, those two villeins cook for us in one of the other sheds. We keep a good stock there and they are out hunting and foraging every day,' explained the Frenchman. 'As the Count of Mortain owns the land, there's no fear of them being taken as poachers, so we get plenty of coney, hare and venison. They buy bread in Aveton and we get ale and wine sent in regularly.'

This allusion to external support sparked another question from the inquisitive Scot. 'This manor-lord I met in Gloucester a month ago — I understood that I was to meet him down here when I arrived?'

Raymond nodded as they walked towards the fire and sat on one of the benches.

'So you shall — as soon as you've had a night's rest after your long journey. As these other damned people have vanished, we may as well go tomorrow. It's but a few hours' ride from here to Revelstoke, where Sir Richard has his manor.'

The coroner and his officer rode off on Thursday morning, feeling strange without their clerk tagging along behind them. They certainly made better time without him, and were at their night's lodging well before the early November dusk fell. This time, they avoided Totnes and went twenty miles down the main high road towards Plymouth, where the Benedictines of Buckfast Abbey offered bed and board to travellers. For a modest donation, they secured a mattress in the large guest hall on the north side of the abbey yard and ate a plain but substantial meal in the lay refectory. Afterwards, they sat in front of the fire with jugs of ale and talked to other travellers for a while, but, weary from the saddle, they soon climbed into the dormer to seek their bags of hay. As they settled down under their cloaks, Gwyn was still thinking of his little friend.

'If that holy runt Thomas was here, he'd be on his knees in the bloody church half the night, praying that his backside would be less sore on tomorrow's journey!' he muttered to the shape next to him, dimly visible in the gloom.

'Perhaps I should be doing the same,' grunted the coroner. 'There was a time when I could ride all day and every day for a week and think nothing of it. But we're getting soft in our old age, Gwyn. My arse is aching just coming from Exeter today. Now shut up and get some sleep!'

The next morning they broke their fast with bread and hot oatmeal gruel, sweetened with the honey for which the monks of Buckfast were famous, then saddled up and rode off. The distance to be covered today was to be rather less, and they reached Ringmore by early afternoon. The bailiff, William Vado, was not overjoyed to see them, as law officers were never very welcome in any manor or hamlet — they usually meant trouble and often more fines. He was civil enough, however, and offered them food and a place near the manor-house fire for the coming night. He shook his head when John asked him whether there was any more news relating to the deaths after the wreck of Thorgils' ship.

'Nothing at all, Crowner. We've had no more corpses washed up, thanks be to Jesus Christ.' He crossed himself, reminding them again of the absent Thomas. 'The vessel is safe and sound, though,' he added on a more cheerful note. 'She was hauled up the river and beached at the highest tide of the month in a small inlet up near Bigbury. Roped to a couple of trees, she'll be safe there until your shipwright comes to repair her.'

John offered his gruff thanks to the bailiff for his diligence. 'We'll go and have a look at her tomorrow — I need to give my partner in Exeter some idea of what the repairs might cost.' The talk of ships sparked another thought in his mind.

'That curragh that was found on the beach — I need to see that, too. Where is it now?'

William Vado had a hurried conversation with Osbert the reeve, who was hovering behind them as they sat around the fire-pit.

'It's on our main beach at Challaborough, where we went last time you were here. Some of the fishermen have been using it, for it would be a pity to let it go to waste,' he added defensively.

'Then I must look at that too, to see if we can tell if it really came from the Mary and Child Jesus . If it did, then it should go back to her as part of her fittings.'

They decided to go to Challaborough beach before the light faded and made the short journey down the wooded valley to the sea. Once again to their left they saw the rocky shape of Burgh Island, with the tide fully in now, cutting it off from the land. The curragh was pulled up on the beach, upside down alongside the rude huts of the fisherfolk, and Gwyn, the self-styled marine expert, ambled over to inspect it. The black tarred fabric of the hull seemed sound enough, and when Gwyn and the bailiff turned the light craft over, the ribs and interlacing hazel withies that supported it were undamaged.

'Anything to show where it came from?' asked John, though well aware that no one there could read, even if there had been a name carved into the flimsy woodwork. Gwyn peered around the inside of the elongated cockleshell and shrugged. 'Only a sort of picture cut into the for'rad thwart,' he announced.

The coroner pushed forward and looked down at the first of the light planks that braced the curragh from side to side and provided seats for the rowers. In the centre was a crude carving, made with a knife. It was hard to make out at first, but when his eye became more attuned he saw a simple female figure with a wide ring around its head. Underneath was an angular squiggle that, thanks to the patient efforts of both Thomas and a vicar at the cathedral, John was able to recognise as a letter of the alphabet.