Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

Thomas wondered whether Rufus, a literate man with a great breadth of learning derived from his insatiable curiousity, could throw any light on the markings. The coroner's trio took the quarrels down to the little garrison chapel of St Mary, but found no sign of the amiable priest.

'He'll be supping ale and swapping yarns in the hall, I'll wager,' grunted Gwyn, who tolerated this particular monk because of his down-to-earth manner and his fondness for drink and gossip. Sure enough, they found the Benedictine in the keep and showed him the bolts that had caused so much damage. Enthusiastically, Rufus peered closely at the inscriptions on the flights, his large red nose almost touching them.

'It's Arabic, no doubt of that. Very blurred, as the tool that stamped them must have been blunt — and there's been no gold leaf impressed into them, to make them more prominent.'

'So what does it say?' barked de Wolfe, impatiently. Rufus fingered the leather, then broke off a splinter of wood from the edge of the rough table and used the tip to trace the shallow grooves.

'The same on both arrows. I'm no great scholar of Moorish writing, but one set of signs is for Allah. And I think another is 'just' or 'justice'.' He looked up at the coroner. 'Probably a quotation from the Al Qu'ran, meaning their god is just. That's about all I can get from it.'

De Wolfe nodded his thanks. 'But there's no doubt it's Arabic?'

The corpulent priest shook his head. 'No doubt about that — just the word 'Allah' proves that. The Saracens are very proficient with these cross-bows, though they use the short hand-bow as well, especially on horseback.'

John smiled sardonically. 'I'm living proof of that!' he said, feeling the still-tender spot on his chest, a reminder of the prowess of Saladin's troops with the bow. This was another piece of evidence that strengthened his conviction that there was a Moorish connection with these crimes, but it got them no farther in finding the perpetrators.

On Saturday afternoon, de Wolfe sought out Henry de Furnellis in his chamber, as since the arrival of a friendly sheriff in place of the haughty and sardonic Richard de Revelle he had fallen into the habit of talking over each week's events with the older man.

'Has there been any reaction from the Justiciar or the Curia to Peter le Calve's murder?' he asked Henry. 'Surely the news must have reached London and Winchester by now?'

De Furnellis shrugged and set his pint pot of cider down on the table.

'Nothing yet, but I'm sure that Hubert WaIter must know of it. I wonder if we should send him news of this Saracen involvement that you say is now all but definite?'

John nursed his own cider jar to his chest as he leaned over the small fire set against one wall. Kicking a log farther into the centre, he replied, 'It might be advisable, Henry. He was the one who sent us this idea about a Saracen connection, so maybe we should give him some confirmation from our end.'

'There's a messenger going up tomorrow. I'll get Elphin to write a note telling them of the attack on le Calve's son and the rest of the troubles.'

The sheriff, his drooping features looking more hound-like than ever, raised his eyes to the coroner. 'If this is all connected with Prince John, are we sure that my unlamented predecessor isn't mixed up in it? We all know that de Revelle has a strong inclination in that direction. God knows why the man hasn't been hanged for it twice over.'

De Wolfe gave another log a vicious kick that raised a shower of sparks. '

'I don't trust him anywhere out of my sight, Henry,' he rasped. 'But I can't see any evidence of him being involved.'

'This Burgh Island where the ship was wrecked, isn't that within sight of Revelstoke?' persisted de Furnellis.

'Yes, in the distance, far across the bay. But there's no way in which Richard or his men could be connected with the slaying of the crew. The vessel would not have touched land since it left France.'

The sheriff looked unconvinced, but had to bend to the facts.

'Is there nothing you can do about all these deaths, John?'

The coroner noticed that Henry said 'you', not 'I' — or even 'we' — in spite of the fact that he had been appointed the custodian of the King's peace in the county of Devon. It was again patently obvious that the sheriff was content to let de Wolfe take the lead in any investigation — though to be fair, John knew that he would not then claim any glory for success or avoid any responsibility for failure.

'Where can I start, Sheriff?' he growled. 'I'm sure now that there must be at least a couple of hostile Turks lurking somewhere in the county. They probably came from France on poor old Thorgils' vessel, but God knows where they're hiding now.'

Henry, whose somewhat bucolic appearance concealed a shrewd mind, pulled at the jowls under his chin. 'But why are they in Devon, John? What good can a couple of damned Saracens be to John Lackland?' This was the sarcastic nickname that the ambitious prince used to carry before his indulgent brother Richard bestowed lands upon him, a gesture that John threw back in his face when he tried to usurp his throne.

De Wolfe had no answer to this. 'I'll ask them when I catch up with them, in the few seconds before I ram my sword through the bastards' hearts!' he grunted ominously. 'But first we've got to find the swine.'

'I'd gladly give you a posse of Ralph Morin's troops, if it would do any good,' replied Henry morosely. 'But until we get some clue as to where they might be, what's the use?'

John picked up his wolf skin cloak and slung it around his shoulders as he moved towards the door. 'My gut tells me they're somewhere down in the west of the county. But that's a hell of a large area, and unless some of the locals get wind of them, we've no chance of finding them.'

'Unless they make another attack and get careless,' suggested de Furnellis, unaware of his prophetic powers.

That same day, the former sheriff had a visitor at his manor of Revelstoke, to which Richard had just returned. He seemed to favour this manor now, much to Lady Eleanor's displeasure. The envoy from the French king, Raymond de Blois, came alone from Bigbury, covering the miles at a quick trot and occasional canter, so that he was at Noss Mayo well before noon. He made an impressive figure on the bay gelding that had been supplied by de Revelle. Tall and erect, he was an excellent horseman and in fact was a successful competitor in many of the tournaments held around Paris and farther afield. Much of his appreciable wealth came from his winnings on the tourney grounds, both in forfeited arms and horses and in ransom money for those he defeated with lance and sword.

When he cantered up to the gatehouse of Revelstoke, the porter peered through his peephole and saw a commanding figure waiting for admittance. Raymond wore a yellow surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk, all covered with a dark green riding cloak. Though his head was bare, a round iron helmet hung from his saddle, alongside a wicked-looking ball-mace. A large sword was slung from his baldric, as, travelling alone, he took no chances on the lonely lanes of this remote part of England. Like his mount, these arms had been supplied at Bigbury by Prince John through de Revelle, as Raymond had been unable to bring much with him on the hazardous journey by ship and curragh. He carried no emblazoned shield, nor did his surcoat display any heraldic device. He was an enemy agent loose in the country, and though no one was likely to challenge him outside the towns, de Blois prudently avoided advertising his origins.

The porter knew him from several previous visits and hurried to swing open the gate, yelling for an ostler to come and take the horse. Minutes later, Raymond was ushered into de Revelle's chamber off the hall and made welcome with wine and the promise of food as soon as it could be brought from the kitchens. Richard hurried in, resplendent in a blue linen tunic almost to his ankles, loosely covered with a green silk surcoat trimmed with squirrel fur.