Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

John, his face paler than usual, tried to talk his way out of believing Thomas.

'New it might be, but there must be many like it.'

'Not in such fine amber, master. And to put it beyond doubt, look at the end!'

He reached out and touched a small silver crucifix that dangled from the tail of the rosary. Next to it hung a small silver medallion, with a rather crude picture of a seated saint on one side, wearing a crown. On the reverse were some punched letters, which John could not read.

'That is St Olave, sir, the first Christian king of Norway.

Your good wife diligently attends St Olave's church in Fore Street.'

Reluctantly convinced, de Wolfe stared about him wildly, his mood swinging between bewilderment and anger.

'So what the hell is it doing here, in a chapel with a murdered corpse? Who brought it here, for Christ's sake?'

Gwyn, who had listened silently until now, said quietly, 'Revelstoke is but a few miles west of here, Crowner. And your wife is mightily fond of making her devotions at any church or chapel that takes her fancy.'

De Wolfe calmed down with an effort, steeling himself to think rationally and act practically. Though he had more than once wished Matilda transported permanently to the other side of the world, he had never wanted her dead, which was now a possibility that he hardly dared voice. To his credit, the thought that it would make him free never entered his mind.

'But does the presence of her rosary have to mean that she was here herself? That amber is valuable — I recall now that she bought it herself many years ago, at quite a high price. Perhaps some cut-purse stole it from her at Revelstoke and then killed this old man for some reason.'

Gwyn rose and touched his master gently on the arm. 'Think how he has been killed, Crowner. With wounds like that, this can only be connected to those other deaths. This is no casual robbery.'

De Wolfe lowered his head and shook it like a bull being baited.

'So what do we do — where do we search?'

His two assistants had never heard him sound so hopeless and despondent. Then, almost as if in some divine answer to John's desperation, Thomas heard some faint sounds coming from the north wall of the chapel. Without saying anything to the other men, who were muttering agitatedly among themselves, he walked across to a small door that he presumed led to Ivo's living space. Putting his ear to it, he heard a soft keening wail and tentative tappings and scratchings.

'Crowner! Gwyn! There's someone in here!'

With huge strides, John hurled himself across the little nave, the bailiff and Gwyn close behind. He seized the rusted iron hoop that served as a handle and pulled and pushed without avail.

'Matilda! Matilda!' he roared. 'Is that you in there?' The only reply was more pronounced sobbing and wailing from the other side of the door.

'Open the damned door, d'you hear?' he boomed, pounding on the rough panels with his fist.

Gwyn pushed him aside.

'Let me break it open, Crowner.' But as he backed off, preparing to charge the panels with his shoulder, there was a rattle of a bar being lifted and the door opened a few inches. A thin face peered fearfully out and John de Wolfe stared at it in deflated amazement.

'Lucille! What the bloody hell are you doing in there?

Where's your mistress?'

Though Matilda was well used to being on the back of a horse, she was always sitting in the saddle, not draped across it like a sack of oats. She had to suffer the fearful ignominy of being laid face down with her belly on the leather, held on by a rope passing under the beast, lashed to her ankles and wrists. The weight of her own body made breathing difficult and by the time they had covered the mile and a half into the forest, she was gasping and purple in the face. Disoriented, terrified and in fear of death, she used what little breath she had to whisper prayers, an endless series of paternosters and supplications to Mary, Mother of God.

The past half-hour had been the worst nightmare of her life, heightened by the fear that it might also be the last. Matilda had been on her knees in the little chapel of St Anne, praying peacefully. She had also asked the Almighty that the waters of the well, which she intended visiting would help cure the unsightly ailment of patches of silvery skin which had recently appeared on her elbows, knees and in the hair of her scalp. She was telling off the beads in her rosary as she whispered the endless round of prayers. The old man with the milky eyes hovered near the door to his pathetic dwelling, a hut built on to the chapel wall, far too small to swing a cat in it. Lucille crouched behind her mistress — bored, sniffing continually and pretending to pray, though Matilda knew that her devoutness was only superficial.

There was the sound of horses' hoofs approaching outside, and Ivo de Brun's head went up at the welcome prospect of pilgrims and more alms. But what his weakened eyes saw a moment later was an apparition out of hell itself, as three figures burst in waving long, curved daggers. Dressed in flowing robes with turbans coiled around their heads, they ran silently to the centre of the chapel and stood menacingly around the two women and the old man. Matilda and Lucille heard Ivo's cry before noticing the intruders, and turned to see the dark faces of the Turks glaring at them. With a terrified scream, Lucille shot away towards the north wall, while the heavier Matilda lumbered to her feet. Bemused by this unlikely intrusion, she glared belligerently at the hawk-faced Arabs.

She opened her mouth to protest and begin upbraiding these defilers of a holy place, but Nizam forestalled her.

'You are a de Revelle?' he snarled.

Matilda gaped at him, then became indignant. 'I am a de Wolfe, fellow! My husband is the King's Coroner and you will answer to him for this outrage!'

The oriental ignored her. 'You are sister to de Revelle?'

'I am indeed. My brother was the King's sheriff and again you will be held to account by him for your.. '

She never finished the sentence, as with a jerk of his head to his two men, Nizam grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards the door. As Abdul and Malik closed in to seize her more securely, Matilda realised the seriousness of the situation and began to struggle and scream. While Lucille dived through the open door of the curator's hovel, slamming it behind her, Ivo himself stumbled forward with cries of protest and tried to launch himself at the marauders. Almost casually, Nizam struck him repeatedly in the chest and belly with his knife, and when the old man had fallen to the floor he knelt over him and with quick, practised movements mutilated his face. Having wiped the blade on Ivo's ragged tunic, the leader of the assassins followed his men out without a backward glance.

Now, half an hour later, Matilda was gasping for breath as she stared at the ground below the horse, seeing a narrow track covered with grass and weeds. She turned her head with an effort and saw that they were going along a path through dense trees, but a few moments later they came to a halt and the rope was untied from her ankles. She was pulled roughly off the saddle and fell in an ungainly heap on the ground, but was immediately dragged to her feet by one of the Turks tugging on the rope around her wrists. Stumbling and wailing, Matilda was pulled along by the man, the other two moving across to some derelict huts. As soon as she recovered her breath, she began screaming abuse, but all that happened was that her captor turned and smacked her hard across the face.

He said nothing, and even in her bewildered, terrified state, she sensed that he did not understand a word of what she was shouting. They reached a doorway in a ruined wall and she was pulled down some stairs, almost falling headlong as the villain tugged on the rope. In the dim light below, she hazily saw a couple more figures watching her, but within seconds she was hauled across to a door in the far wall. The Turk, who smelt strongly of sweat mixed with some aromatic scent, lifted the bar and thrust her inside, slamming it shut and dropping the wooden beam back into its sockets.