Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

'The western end of the county is a long ride for a lady,' he responded, with genuine concern for her comfort. It was the wrong thing to say, for she bridled and turned the comment against him.

'I suppose I'm not wanted once again,' she snapped. 'Perhaps you intend travelling via Dawlish!'

Holding his temper in check with an effort, John grunted that she was very welcome to go with him and suggested that they set out in two days' time, on Thursday. 'I hope the weather will be kind to us. It is now November, but we should miss the first snows, if we keep clear of Dartmoor.'

Once the notion had seized her interest, Matilda became almost civil, deciding what kirtles and mantles she should command Lucille to get ready. 'The girl must accompany us, of course,' she said firmly. 'No lady can travel without her maid beside her.'

John's heart sank. He could see this trip turning into a caravan of packhorses piled with feminine accoutrements.

'My officer and clerk will have to ride with us, of course,' he countered, hoping that Matilda's aversion to both Gwyn and Thomas might dissuade her from coming. He was out of luck, as the idea had now become so fixed in her mind that it seemed she would welcome even Satan himself on the journey.

'I suppose we could do with that Cornish lout as a guard,' she said loftily. 'He might be of some use in keeping off outlaws and footpads.'

Matilda retired early, announcing that she needed to sort out her gowns with Lucille and get extra rest in preparation for the rigours of the journey, so John was able to give Brutus his evening walk without waiting too long. As always, the dog took him to the Bush Inn, and John glumly related this latest complication to his friends in the tavern.

'I'll be stuck with my dear wife for at least five days, unless I can persuade her to stay with her brother for a while and return without her,' he muttered.

'Why does she want to go to see her brother?' asked Gwyn, who viewed with horror the prospect of being near Matilda for such a long time. 'I thought she had fallen out with him after his downfall.'

'It'll be nice for you, John!' said Nesta, sarcastically. 'A second honeymoon, you might say.' Since John had reported the widowhood of Hilda and announced his intention of taking her into partnership with Hugh de Relaga, Nesta was finding it hard to hide her jealousy. He felt wounded by this, as only once or twice had his thoughts strayed to the possibility of reviving his liaison with the blonde Saxon, and he had done nothing to nudge such thoughts towards reality.

Thomas, too, was unhappy about the thought of riding for days in close proximity to the master's wife, who made no effort to hide her contempt for him.

'Do you really need me, Crowner?', he pleaded. 'It's not as if this was an inquest or an investigation of a death, where I would be required to take down a record.'

John, mindful of his clerk's recent long ordeal on a horse, relented and said that he could stay in Exeter, at which Thomas's euphoria returned in full measure. He regaled his friends with a full account of his adventures in Hampshire and the glorious moments when the Bishop of Winchester brought him back into the bosom of his beloved Church. Nesta listened avidly, her eyes glistening with tears as Thomas told how even his parents, whom he had not seen for four years, came to the cathedral to witness his restoration. His father was a minor knight with a lease on a small manor five miles from the city and had severed all connection with his son when his alleged misdemeanour became known. Now they were reconciled and Thomas's contentment was complete.

The clerk, for whom one pint of cider was more than enough, left early to meet some friends among the secondaries and vicars in the Close, leaving Gwyn and Nesta to debate other matters with de Wolfe.

'Do you think confronting de Revelle will achieve anything, John?' she asked. 'You know how much he hates you these days.' Her previous spat of jealousy seemed to have been submerged by concern for his welfare.

'I can think of no other way for me to advance this obscure situation,' he replied. 'I just want some information about his father and his knowledge of Peter le Calve. I doubt I will get anything but a hostile reception from Richard, but at least the topic is not one that concerns himself or his misdeeds.'

Gwyn pulled at the bushy ends of his moustache, which hung down below his jaw. 'As long as the reception isn't a shower of arrows from the gatehouse of his manor! He'll be on his own ground there and not disposed to accept any liberties from you, Crowner. '

'I'll be the soul of discretion!' snapped John, which made Nesta smile, as, though her lover had many worthy qualities, tact was not one of them. Gwyn was still tugging away at his whiskers, usually a sign that he was worrying about something.

'This talk of Levantines or Turks or whatever you want to call them,' he growled. 'Why the hell should they be in the west of England to aid this bloody prince? There can't be an army of them, so what use can a few be, if the rumour is true?'

'And where are they, anyway?' added Nesta, typically getting to the heart of the matter. 'No one has seen so much as a turban or whatever they wear. How can it possibly be true?'

De Wolfe held up his hands in mock protection against their objections.

'It sounds unlikely, I know, but the King's spies are usually accurate. What Mussulmen have got to do with this money that's to be found, I don't know — perhaps they are going to make the stuff for Prince John!'

Alexander of Leith's foray to Revelstoke had been made a number of days before de Wolfe's journey there, and the alchemist was now back in the lonely ruin in the forest, still thinking about the visit they had made to the former sheriff.

When they had left Bigbury to meet Sir Richard de Revelle, Raymond de Blois had escorted the little Scot rapidly across ten miles of the western end of the Devon coast, with the grotesque Fleming hard put to keep up behind them. They had to go inland for half the distance to find a ford over the River Erme, another of the estuaries that cleaved the landscape, then aimed for the Yealm, the next fjord that cut deeply into the coast. De Blois had been here as an envoy — and a spy — several times before, covertly entering England by the western sea route on missions from Paris to the Count of Mortain. He spoke English, knew the terrain and had a mental map of the main tracks through the county, so was able to aim unerringly for Newton Ferrars, a fishing village on the Yealm. This vill was not his destination that day, but rather the manor of Revelstoke, a large honour occupying most of the peninsula south of the Yealm, which stretched down to the cliffs at the western end of the huge bay that arced from Bolt Head to Gara Point. He had visited Richard de Revelle before and knew his way to the manor-house, which stood on the high ground of the peninsula halfway between Newton Ferrars and Stoke Point. This was a headland behind which sheltered the little church of St Peter the Poor Fisherman, built by Richard de Revelle a few years earlier, in a moment of generosity augmented by the belief that it would aid his entry into heaven.

The trio reached Revelstoke early in the afternoon, as they had been delayed in fording the Erme because of the high tide. The manor-house was set behind a stone wall and a deep ditch as, being so near a lonely part of the coast, there was always the danger of sea raiders. Though a few crofts and tofts lay around it, the manor was more diffuse than the usual village, with some large bartons farming the extensive field systems that occupied much of the peninsula. There were more dwellings down at Noss, where crofts and fishing huts faced Newton across an arm of the branching Yealm river.