Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

A fire required wood and he needed to replenish the stock of fallen branches that he had stacked at the back of his cell, protected from the leaks by a torn fragment of old sail canvas. The nearest source of fuel was the woods around the corner of the headland, along the west bank of the river, where stun ted trees and scraggy bushes had a little shelter from the prevailing gales.

He reached the sand and plodded across the isthmus, leaving a trail of bare footprints behind him. To his left the surf hissed as it surged forward, then retreated, while on the opposite lee side the water was much calmer. No one was about, the fisherfolk having gone back to their shacks at Challaborough and Bantham, after their day's work was done.

The anchorite reached the rocks on the mainland side and clambered up on to a path that ran around to the right, into the mouth of the Avon estuary. The start of the forest was half a mile farther, and he trudged along, turning over in his mind half-remembered stories from the Gospels and fragments of liturgy recalled from his youth. He had no Vulgate, so had to depend on his memory for all his religious experiences.

Murmuring to himself, he reached the first of the trees, just above the small inlet where the wrecked ship had been placed for safety. Hoping that the recent strong winds had brought down some more branches, he had started casting about for fallen wood when he saw an unusual sight for that normally deserted path. Three figures were advancing towards him, robed and hooded in black.

Though Benedictines were not uncommon anywhere in the countryside near one of their priories or abbeys, to see such a trio on the lower reaches of the Avon was rare indeed.

Joel dropped the few pieces of wood that he had gathered and waited for the monks to approach.

'God be with you, brothers,' he called when they were twenty paces away. They stopped and stared at him, only the dark shadow of their faces visible under their deep cowls. They said nothing.

'I am Joel, a solitary worshipper of Christ,' he said in his deep voice. 'I live a contemplative life on a small island near this place.'

This seemed to transform the leader of the three men, who stood a little ahead of the other two. He stepped forward another pace and threw back his hood to reveal a dark Moorish face, with a hooked nose and black moustache. With a sudden leap of intuition, the hermit knew why these men were here. A glad hymn of thanks coursed through his brain, as he realised that his long years of self denial and suffering were over.

The coroner's period of uneasy peace ended in the middle of the second week after he had left home. Early in the evening of Wednesday, he called as usual at his house in Martin's Lane to gossip with Mary and take Brutus for a walk around the Close. The moment he entered the back yard, he sensed that things had changed. His cook-maid peered rather furtively from her kitchen shed and rolled her eyes upwards towards the solar high on the back of the house. As he followed her gaze, he saw that the door to Lucille's box-like room under the stairs was open and a moment later the weedy French girl appeared, clutching an armful of folded clothing. With hardly a glance at the pair in the yard, she clattered up the steep steps and vanished into the solar, the door closing behind her with a slam.

John stepped hurriedly into the kitchen, where Brutus was trying to look inconspicuous at the back.

'She's back, then?' he asked needlessly.

'This afternoon. It seems she's been in Tiverton with her brother, after leaving her cousin.' Mary sounded resigned, as, like her master, she had been enjoying peace and quiet for over a week.

'What sort of mood is she in?'

'Grim, from what little I've seen of her. She just asked me if you were at home, then vanished upstairs.'

'Did you tell her I was living at the Bush?'

Mary looked scandalised. 'Of course not! It's none of my business. But I doubt she is ignorant of the fact. There are plenty of wagging tongues both here and in Tiverton that would gladly relay such a tasty piece of scandal.'

De Wolfe slumped on to a stool, looking the picture of dejection.

'What do I do now, Mary?' he asked meekly.

The dark-haired woman laid a hand on his shoulder in an almost motherly fashion. 'You either come home and make the best of it — or you stay away and face whatever problems that brings.'

The coroner's dark face took on a stubborn look. 'I'm damn well not going to give in to her. Why should I spend my life in angry squabbling, when I can find peace and happiness half a mile away?'

The maid shrugged. 'You are the master of this house. Most Norman gentlemen would have their way, even if they had to knock their wives senseless twice a week, which many of them do, so I am told.' She said this with an undercurrent of spite, as she was from a Saxon mother, even if her father's identity was in doubt. Mary rarely missed a chance to make a caustic remark about the race that had conquered her people, even though it was five generations earlier.

'This past week was the quiet before the tempest,' he observed glumly. 'I knew it was too good to last. I suppose I'll have to face her sooner or later.'

Mary, as well as having political leanings, appeared to be a latent feminist. 'At least you should tell her that you have left her,' she complained. 'You just walked off the other day without a word.' She could have added that she thought this was a coward's way out, but even their former relationship was insufficient for her to push her luck with her employer that far. De Wolfe knew that Mary was right and his conscience pricked him on the issue. But before he could say anything in his defence, there was a familar bellow from outside.

'John! Are you there?'

Matilda was on the platform at the top of the solar stairway, gripping the rail and glaring down into the back yard. Realising that the sneaky Lucille must have told her mistress of hIs return, John reluctantly hauled himself to his feet.

'Wish me luck — or possibly farewell!' he muttered to Mary, as he left the cook shed and plodded heavy footed towards the solar, Lucille hurried down and, like a frightened rabbit, disappeared into her hutch under the stairs. As he slowly climbed up, his wife went back into the room and, when he entered, she was standing at the foot of their bed, fists planted on her wide hips.

'You've not been at home while I've been away,' she snarled. 'Where were you?'

Though he knew that she was perfectly well aware that he had been staying in the Bush, she wanted him to admit it to her face. As so often happened, his anxiety rapidly turned to anger when she confronted him.

'You know damn well that I've left you, wife!' he snapped. 'I told you so clearly enough when we parted.' This was not exactly the truth, but he was working himself up to a rage so that niceties of speech counted for little.

'You've been with that Welsh whore — or was it that yellow-haired strumpet down at the seashore?' she snarled, her square face flushed with righteous indignation.

'What should it matter to you, Matilda? I no longer live with you, that's all you need to know.'

'The shame of it!' she screeched. 'A knight of the realm, the King's Coroner and a Crusader, living in sin with God knows how many women!'

Her exaggeration went unchallenged when he responded. 'Are you claiming that I am unique, woman?' he snapped. 'I would find it difficult to name more than a handful of men who are faithful to their wives. Mostly those like me, who were pushed into loveless marriages by scheming parents!'

She opened her mouth to vilify him further, but he ploughed on.

'The sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, had a mistress that I know of, as did Ralph Morin, Guy Ferrars and half the cathedral canons!'