Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

'This was all of forty-seven years ago,' objected Gwyn. 'None of us was even born then.'

'But Joel was! He would have been a lusty young fighter of twenty-three, if he was seventy when he died,' Thomas pointed out. 'And old Arnulf le Calve would have been about the same age.'

'As would Gervaise, Richard de Revelle's father!' added John.

The other two looked at him, puzzled looks on their faces.

'But his son's not been murdered, more's the pity,' rumbled Gwyn.

'No, but Peter le Calve's son was shot at — and no doubt the poor steward was mistaken for the other son,' retorted John.

There was a thoughtful silence as they pondered this until, as usual, the phlegmatic Gwyn acted as the brake on their enthusiasm.

'Hold on, wait a moment!' he grumbled. 'This is almost half a century ago, for God's sake! And we're halfway across the world from where it happened.'

He tore a piece of bread from the loaf on his lap and used his dagger to cut a wedge of hard yellow cheese to accompany it, still not convinced that all this speculation would help them discover who had killed Thorgils and the others. 'I still don't see what we can do about it! Who are the swine going to attack next?'

His officer's last question caused the coroner to feel a niggle of worry gnawing away at his mind. If this theory about vengeful Saracens was right, then they had dispatched a knight who had been in the Levant at the time of that ill-fated Crusade — and had killed the son of another, going on to wound a grandson and slaying his steward, probably by mistake. If this really was a blood feud involving the families of the perpetrators of some ancient evil, then what about the de Revelles? Old Gervaise had long been in his grave, safely beyond revenge — but if the pattern of murder was to be repeated, then was his family at risk? John cared little about Richard de Revelle, but in spite of everything he was certainly concerned about Matilda, the daughter of Gervaise.

Abruptly, he shook off the spiral of worry that had descended upon him. For God's sake, he thought, he was sitting in Exeter on a cold Monday morning, in a castle with four score men-at arms near by. His wife was either safely at home or among her friends in St Olave's church or the cathedral. This idea about secretive Saracen killers slinking about, intent on murder most foul, was surely a fantasy.

'You're probably right, Gwyn,' he conceded. 'We're letting our imaginations run away with us. But I'd still like to find the evil bastards who did this. I'm sure the answer lies out west, somewhere around Ringmore.'

The two ship-masters who had worked for Thorgils were now more devoted to Hilda of Holcombe than ever. When her husband had been alive, she had looked after their wives and families if things went wrong while they were at sea. Now that he was dead, Hilda had seen to it that the dependants of their comrades, the murdered sailors, remained housed and fed. The latest sign of her concern for them was the arrangement she was entering into with Sir John and the portreeve, which would ensure that they and their crews would remain employed in the only trade they knew. So when Hilda asked them to take her to Salcombe, they agreed without demur. After all, the ships were hers and they were her servants, but they did it willingly, rather than as a duty.

'We need to go there soon anyway,' said Roger Watts, the older captain. He was a short, rotund man with a weather-beaten face and bright red hair. 'Must keep an eye on those shipwrights who are repairing the Mary.'

He did not see it as his place to ask the mistress why she wanted to make even a short voyage so late in the season, but the other ship-master, Angerus de Wile, was not so reticent. A lanky man of about twenty-eight, with an under-shot lower jaw that gave him the appearance of a bull-baiting dog, he respectfully wondered why Hilda wished to brave the cold and the possibly bad weather.

'For several reasons, Angerus,' she replied, as she poured them each a jug of cider in the kitchen room of her fine house. 'I have a need to see where my husband died on the ship he loved. Somehow it would help me to close off that part of my life. But I also wish to make some enquiries in the district, to know if anything has been heard of the villains who killed Thorgils.'

They knew better than to dissuade Hilda, as they knew from experience that her gentle manner hid an iron will. Once her mind was made up, nothing could divert her.

On a dawn high-tide two days later, the cog St Radegund, a slightly smaller version of the Mary and Child Jesus , sailed out of Dawlish creek and headed briskly south-west in a wintry east wind. Hilda had many times accompanied her husband on voyages to Brittany, Normandy and the Rhine, so was impervious to the pitching and rolling of the unladen vessel, but her maid, who was chaperoning her, soon wished she was dead. However, so favourable was the wind that her agony was short-lived, for they rounded Start Point by early afternoon and before dusk were safely at anchor in the calm waters of the Salcombe estuary.

Rowed ashore in the curragh, they were settled in one of the quayside inns by Roger Watts, who suppressed his concern at leaving his mistress without a male escort for some unknown purpose of her own.

'You will wait for me until I wish to return, Roger,' she ordered, giving him a purse of silver pennies to keep him and his crew fed for a few days. 'I may go on a short pilgrimage, so I cannot say exactly how long I will be away.'

With that he had to be content, and he went back to his vessel, where the crew slept in the hold, coming ashore to eat.

The following morning, Hilda was taken by Watts and Angerus to a boatyard in a small side creek just outside the town, where the Mary was beached, so that the shipwrights could check every plank. They were also restoring some caulking, lost during the buffeting she had received when driven ashore at Burgh Island. The new mast and main spar lay on the shore, ready for stepping when the hull was finished. Hilda clambered up a plank to her deck and tactfully the two ship-masters called the shipwright and his mates aside, so that she could be left in peace for a while. There was nothing to see on the small area of deck aft of the open hold. There were no bloodstains or scars on the timber from swinging swords, but the blonde Saxon woman stood silently for a few minutes, turning to slowly view each part of the little ship. She was remembering her voyages with Thorgils, and his amiable face came back to her clearly as she stared at the patch of planking where he would have stood to grip the big steering oar that rested in its bracket on the right side of the stern. She shed no tears, but her resolve to try to bring his killers to justice was hardened by the experience. After a time, she left the cog and had a few polite and intelligent words with the men who were making her seaworthy again, before asking Roger Watts to accompany her back to the inn. He left her there, still with misgivings about leaving such an attractive woman alone in a strange town, but resigned to falling in with her inflexible wishes.

Hilda then took her maid shopping in the bustling little town, which was becoming an important harbour and fishing centre. Wooden houses straggled along the steep banks of the branching estuary, but around the fine new church some stone buildings indicated the growing prosperity of Salcombe. Hilda's purchases were simple enough, and a short walk along the narrow winding lane that was the main street provided them all. At one stall she bought a long hooded cloak of brown wool with a cross sewn on one shoulder to indicate that she was a pilgrim. At a shop whose shutter hinged down to display its goods she haggled a little over a pair of strong walking shoes, and at another stall she bought a black felt coif, a close-fitting helmet that had laces which tied under the chin. On the way back to the tavern, they stopped by an old man who was crouching at the side of the street, amid a collection of walking sticks, shepherd's crooks, crutches and the like. From him she bought a thumb-stick, a holly pole with a small Y-shaped top, which would do service as a pilgrim's staff. Taking her purchases back to their tiny chamber, she changed into the sombre clothes she had bought and gave her bemused maid instructions for the next few days.