Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

Once within sight of her old home, Matilda lost some of the icy impassiveness that she had shown throughout the journey. She became restless on her side-saddle, and John could see her biting her lip as they rode up to the gate. He wondered whether she was becoming anxious about their reception or whether a reunion with her disgraced brother was difficult for her to bear, since her former hero-worship had been so ignominiously undermined. As had often happened in the past, the sight of his wife in a state of obvious worry and unhappiness stirred both his conscience and his compassion. He leant across and touched her arm.

'He'll be glad to see you, never fear,' he growled, but Matilda made no response, other than to pull her arm away from his hand.

The porter, recognising the lord's sister, lugged open the gates and they walked their horses across the heavy timbers that spanned the deep ditch that ran around the walls. Inside the large compound, grooms came scurrying to take the horses and Gwyn and the two men-at-arms went with them to see that the beasts were fed and watered. John assisted Matilda to dismount and together they walked towards the steps to the hall, followed by Lucille, lugging a large parcel of her mistress's clothing. Warned by a blast from the porter's horn, the steward appeared, and his wrinkled face broke into an obsequious smile as he saw Matilda climbing up to the doorway into the hall.

'My wife is fatigued after the long journey,' rasped John, determined to take the initiative from the start and not appear at any disadvantage in this house of a man he despised. 'Please conduct her to Sir Richard and Lady Eleanor at once.' Several servants appeared from side doors and two women bobbed their knee to Matilda and ushered her away, followed by another man carrying her two large leather bags, which had been slung across the backs of the soldiers' mounts.

As she vanished up a staircase in the wall, John turned to the fire-pit and stood above the burning logs, rubbing his hands to warm his fingers, his riding cloak still hanging from his shoulders. A fat priest sat on a stool opposite, drinking ale and two other men occupied a bench to one side, dressed in rustic clothing that suggested that they were falconers or huntsmen. All acknowledged him with nods, but made no attempt at conversation.

The steward hurried back and with much head-bowing and gestures conducted the coroner to a side chamber, where a fire burned in a small hearth with a chimney, obviously a more modern addition to the structure of the house. It was much warmer than the gloomy hall outside and was well furnished, with several leather-backed folding chairs, a table, stools and a bench. John could see that an inner door led to a bedchamber and he assumed that this was to be the accommodation for Matilda and himself. The steward, who John later learned rejoiced in the name of Geoffrey de Cottemore de Totensis, stood by as an old woman and a young girl brought in food and wine to set on the table. 'Lady Matilda is being entertained by my lord and lady, sir,' Geoffrey announced loftily. 'She says she will join you later. Supper will be served in the hall soon after dusk.'

Having confirmed that Gwyn and the soldiers were being cared for in the servants' huts at the back of the manor, the steward strode out and John was left alone to enjoy a hot pottage made of lumps of meat and bone swimming in a mixture of herbs and vegetables. There was a wooden bowl containing a large apple and an orange, an ostentatious import from southern France. The bread and cheese were accompanied by a good Anjou wine, so John assumed that he was not going to be cast out of his brother-in-law's house that night. He ate heartily, keeping to the old soldier's dictum that one should eat, sleep and make love whenever the occasion presented, in case the opportunity never arose again.

When he had finished the food, he went to the window and pulled open the shutter that covered the narrow slit. The late afternoon was darkened by a heavily overcast sky, which had that pinkish-grey hue that suggested snow. A few flakes were still falling, but nothing was yet settling on the ground. John earnestly hoped that they would not get snowed in, as the shorter the time he had to spent under Richard's roof, the better he would be pleased. He wanted to be off again early in the morning.

He pulled one of the chairs nearer the fire and sat down with a pewter cup of wine. A few moments later he was snoring, dreaming that he was in an inn near Vienna, a sense of foreboding and recrimination clouding the scenes in his mind. It was a dream he had had many times during the past three years, but now it vanished as the creak of the door opening jerked him awake. In the failing light, he saw Richard de Revelle standing on the threshold, glaring at him. Rising to his feet, he faced his wife's brother and for a long moment the two men stared silently at each other.

'You are tolerated here for Matilda's sake, de Wolfe,' said Richard finally. 'I am told that, as far as you are concerned, your visit is upon official business. I doubt that you would have had the temerity to come for any other reason.'

His tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness that was not lost on John.

'I need to ask you some questions, Richard. They concern your father.'

This was a surprise to de Revelle, who had expected some stern interrogation connected to his own recent misdeeds. He had been ejected as sheriff by the Chief Justiciar several months earlier for illegally appropriating treasure trove destined for the royal treasury, but there were older, more serious allegations relating to his support for Prince John which might be revived at any time. But now to be asked about his long-dead father was as unexpected as it was welcome, if his own transgressions were not at issue.

'My father? You have come all this way to enquire about Gervaise de Revelle? You well know that he died many years ago.'

He stood aside as a servant came into the chamber with two three-branched candlesticks and placed the lights on the table. As he left, Richard waved a hand towards the chairs, inviting John to be seated. He himself went to stand in front of the hearth, hands behind his back, deliberately posing as the lord of Revelstoke to emphasise his ascendancy over his unwelcome visitor. Reluctantly, de Wolfe lowered himself into the chair, which creaked as he leaned back against the thick hide of the back-rest.

'This concerns a particularly brutal murder of one of our own kind, Richard,' he said sombrely. 'If you have been down at this end of the county for the past week or two, you will not have heard of the death of Sir Peter le Calve of Shillingford.'

His brother-in-law seemed to lose some of his naked antipathy at this news, as he stared at John in obvious surprise. 'Le Calve? Was he set upon in a robbery?'

The coroner described what had happened, holding back no detail of the macabre killing. All he held back was his vague suspicion that there might be a tenuous connection with other deaths, such as that of Thorgils and his men.

'But what has this to do with my father? He died sixteen years ago.'

De Wolfe had cause to remember that, as it had been a year after Sir Gervaise de Revelle had agreed with his own father to the disastrous marriage between his daughter Matilda and the dashing young warrior John de Wolfe.

'I have been told that Peter le Calve's father was previously a close friend of your own father. I am trying to find any clue in Peter's past which might explain why he was murdered in such a bizarre manner. I have asked Matilda, but she says she was too young to have any useful recollection of the elder le Calve.'

Richard was so relieved that the visit of the coroner was unconnected with his own past that he abandoned the hostile antagonism with which he had come prepared to meet de Wolfe. His brow wrinkled in thought as he pirouetted on a foot before the fire.