Now it was Gwyn who looked interested. ‘A horse-trader? One of those outlaws said that a horse-trader came in to see Robert Winter now and then. Could be the same man.’
‘Who’s this Father Edmund you speak of?’ demanded John.
‘He’s a priest-monk, but seems to conduct all the business for Buckfast. Came from Exeter a couple of years ago, but by his accent he’s from up north somewhere. I went to take a look at him, but I’ve never seen him before.’
De Wolfe rasped his chin again as an aid to thought.
‘He’s a senior priest from west of Exeter, which fits with the vague hint I had from your uncle. Though there’s plenty of them about.’
‘But worth looking into, if he has dealings with this horse-dealer, given it’s the same fellow as the one in the alehouse,’ recommended Gwyn.
‘I’ll ask about him, too,’ ruminated the coroner. ‘Ralph Morin is the one to talk to about horses. He has to buy them for the garrison.’
They chewed over the scanty information for a few more minutes, but failed to distil anything further from it. When the cider was finished, for which Thomas’s more fastidious palate was thankful, they went their various ways and John returned to his house in Martin’s Lane.
There was no one in the hall when he put his head around the screens, and when he climbed the stairs to the solar John found that empty as well. When Matilda went to her cousin’s house, she occasionally stayed until late — and sometimes, when she was particularly annoyed with him, she stayed the night without bothering to let him know. He was therefore not much concerned at her absence and decided to go straight down to the Bush to see Nesta and have something to eat.
As he clattered down the steep steps into the yard, Mary came out of her kitchen shed a few yards away and stood waiting with her arms folded in what struck John as a rather belligerent attitude.
‘She’s gone, you know!’ she said challengingly.
John stopped on the last step and stared at his maid.
‘I know that! Is she at church or at her cousin’s?’
‘Neither — I told you, she’s gone. This time for good, she said!’
He took Mary by the arm and led her back into her hut, pushing her gently down on to a stool, while he stood towering over her.
‘What’s all this about? How can she have gone — and where?’
The dark-haired maid, usually on his side against his abrasive wife, looked up accusingly. John had the feeling that she was siding with all the women.
‘You’ve really done it this time, Sir Crowner!’ Mary only used that half-cynical title when she was annoyed with him. ‘Your lady wife has discovered that you’ve got Nesta with child — and she’s up and left you.’
De Wolfe groaned. It had to happen sooner or later, but he had hoped to put off the evil hour a little longer. Nesta was not even showing her pregnancy yet.
‘She’ll be back,’ he said half-heartedly. ‘She’s taken umbrage many times before and gone to her cousin for a few days or so.’
Mary shook her head with disconcerting assurance. ‘Not this time! She’s taken herself to Polsloe and says she’s going to stay there for the rest of her life.’
John’s heart leapt in his chest. ‘The priory? I can’t believe it!’
There was mixed doubt and elation in his voice. This was something he had hoped for and even fantasised about for ages. He had been intending to ask his archdeacon friend whether Matilda taking the veil was equivalent to an annulment of his marriage, as this was the only way he could see himself ever being free of her, short of her death, for which he had never wished.
Mary was still glaring at him, from solidarity with all wronged women, but he pressed on with eager questions.
‘How did she find out? No one knows except a few at the Bush — and you. When did all this happen?’
Rapidly, he drew the story from his cook-maid, and once again it transpired that he had his brother-in-law to thank for stabbing him in the back. Richard de Revelle had turned up at the house the previous morning, and within a minute of being closeted with his sister in the hall there had been an outburst of yelling from Matilda. This was soon followed by a slamming of doors as she swept up to the solar, the sheriff letting himself out of the house with a satisfied smirk on his face.
‘I can’t think how he found out, damn him!’ muttered John, but Mary, familiar with the gossip network that connected every alehouse, shop and doorstep in the city, was in no doubt.
‘The sheriff has informants everywhere — and it was not that much of a secret, anyway. I heard of it from the pastry-shop man who drinks in the Bush, even before you told me.’
She continued her tale of Matilda’s departure. It seemed that his wife had screamed at her maid Lucille to pack some clothes into a bag and then go to the high street to order a two-horse litter. Within an hour, Matilda appeared, still in a towering rage and dressed in her best black kirtle with a white wimple and gorget. With a weeping Lucille trailing behind, lugging a large bag, she proceeded up to the corner of the lane, where a litter was waiting. They vanished, and Mary had heard nothing of them since.
John listened in silence. Once the first surge of hope had passed, he became more realistic and had grave doubts about Matilda really having left for good. After her occasional flounces to stay with her cousin — and once even six weeks away at her distant de Revelle relatives in Normandy — she always came home when her temper cooled. He supposed he had better take himself to Polsloe to see what the true situation was and bring her back, if the worst of her passion had subsided. But first he was going down to see Nesta and talk it over with her.
‘What about me, how do I fare in this?’ demanded Mary, as he started to leave. De Wolfe stared at her, then slid an arm reassuringly around her shoulders.
‘You stay right where you are, good girl! You’re almost a wife to me yourself. You feed me, clothe me, clean my house and tell me when to wash and shave. How could I ever do without you?’
She looked up at him with the suspicion of a tear in her eye. This was the only home she had, with her mother dead and her father an unknown soldier who had only stayed for her conception, not her birth.
‘What will happen to Lucille?’ she sniffed. ‘A nun can hardly keep a personal maid with her in the priory.’
De Wolfe shrugged. ‘This won’t last, mark my words. If Lucille comes back, tell her she can keep her room under the stairs and I’ll still give her twopence a day until the situation gets settled.’
His conscience assuaged, de Wolfe whistled for Brutus, who was lurking in the back of the kitchen, aware that something unusual was going on. Together they set out for the Bush, John’s head spinning with a mixture of hope and guilt, as well as recognition that this situation was too good to last.
In Idle Lane, he pushed through the tavern door impatiently, all his reluctance of past weeks vanished. The taproom was crowded, with a clamour of noise and a fug of the usual spilt ale and sweat. He saw Nesta at the back of the room, haranguing one of her serving wenches. Brutus, used to the ways of the Bush, sloped off to the back door, where he knew he could cadge some old trenchers and other scraps from the outside kitchen, leaving John free to march across and take Nesta by the arm.
‘Upstairs. We can’t talk in this hubbub!’ he growled. Something about his manner stopped her from making her usual protests about how busy she was, and she climbed ahead of him up the wide ladder in the corner.
In her room, he dropped the latch inside the door and sat on the bed, motioning her to come alongside him.
‘Matilda has left me,’ he said without any preamble. ‘She’s gone to be a nun at Polsloe, though whether it will last I fear to hope.’
Nesta stared at him wide eyed, then began to cry, turning John’s insides to water. He slid an arm around her shoulders as she leaned into him.