The granite-faced forester looked stonily at the coroner. ‘The Prince’s name was never mentioned. I know nothing of politics, I did what I was asked and was paid for it, that’s all.’
‘Were you also asked to stab William Gurnon to death at the deer-leap — or was that your idea?’ growled Ferrars, still smarting at the loss of some roe buck and his servant.
‘We were told to get Winter’s men to dig the saltatorium — but I killed no one afterwards,’ said Lupus stonily.
De Wolfe pointed to the men’s weapons lying on the floor.
‘Are those your daggers?’ he demanded, motioning to Gwyn to bring them across. He held the belts up for them to see.
‘Which is yours and which belongs to Crespin?’
Sullenly, the men confirmed which was their property. John slid the knife belonging to Michael Crespin from its sheath and looked at the intact blade. He laid it on Thomas’s writing desk, then pulled out the weapon belonging to William Lupus. Dropping the belt to the floor, he used his free hand to feel in his waist pouch, pulling out a shrivelled green leaf. His fingers freed a shining triangle of steel and, wordlessly, he held the dagger up for all to see. As he displayed the broken tip, he showed how the fragment from his pouch fitted exactly.
‘I took that scrap of metal from the body of William Gurnon. Does any one here need better proof?’
There was silence, broken only by the footsteps of Richard de Revelle, as he followed the example of Philip de Strete and walked out of the undercroft without another word.
John went home to his empty house for a meal. He could have gone to the Bush, where he had eaten so often in the past, for the cook-maid was providing the same good fare as before Nesta had been taken to Polsloe. However, with his mistress absent, he had no urge to sit at their table by the hearth without her and preferred to eat in his own hall. Mary kept him company for a while, as she brought him various dishes from her shack in the back yard. As he tackled the ham-and-bean stew and the boiled knuckle of lamb with cabbage and onions, she sat across the table, her handsome dark head supported on her fist, listening to his account of the past few days. When she came back with bread, butter and cheese, she raised the subject of Matilda, her worries about the future still nagging away.
‘I’m going up to Polsloe later this evening,’ said John, with a reassuring tone that failed to convince her. ‘Gwyn and Thomas have asked if they can come with me, as they’ve not seen Nesta for some time, with all this commotion in the forest.’
He paused to cut a thick slice from the loaf with his knife.
‘This time I’ll insist on seeing my wife. It’s ridiculous that I can’t get some kind of answer from her about her intentions, one way or the other.’
‘Lucille is even more concerned than I am,’ said Mary. ‘At least for me there’s always the house and the cooking to be attended to — but without a mistress, what use is a mistress’s maid? I don’t like the girl, I’ll admit — but I’m sorry for her, being so uncertain about her future.’
Once more, John promised to discover what he could that evening, and when his meal was finished he walked the few yards across the cathedral Close to the house of his friend, the archdeacon.
The evening period after Compline was the most restful time for the clergy, as this was the last of the nine canonical hours, the services that occupied most of the ecclesiastical day. There was free time now until Matins at midnight, when priests could pray, read, sleep, eat or gossip.
John found the archdeacon in his usual place at that hour, sitting in his austere room, reading a book, with a flask of good wine on the table in front of him. He greeted his namesake with a smile and set another cup before him. Though de Wolfe rarely made formal confession, it was to the Archdeacon he came when that was necessary — but more often he unburdened himself to him as friend to friend, over a measure of wine.
This was how it was tonight, as he unfolded the whole story of his visit to Winchester and the subsequent escapade in the forest.
De Alençon listened intently, crossing himself when the coroner described the extermination of the outlaws. ‘It seems brutal, John, but as the law stands they would have died one way or the other, with every man’s hand against them,’ he said soberly.
‘They had burned the tanner alive, shot the verderer in the back and inflicted many other miseries on the forest dwellers,’ pointed out de Wolfe. ‘I have no stain on my conscience about them.’
‘What about these two foresters and their pages?’
The coroner shrugged and took another sip of the excellent wine.
‘Crespin was denounced as a killer by Lupus’s brute — and I showed clearly that it was Lupus who stuck his dagger into the back of Ferrars’ woodward. Our impatient baron wanted them hanged straight away, but I have attached them to the next visit of the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, who will undoubtedly send them to the gallows.’
‘And the pages, what about them?’
‘They are stupid louts, but I will do likewise with them and let the Commissioners decide on their fate.’
The archdeacon drummed his fingers lightly on the leather cover of his book.
‘And your dear brother-in-law? How is he to come out of this?’
John gave one of his rare lopsided grins. ‘The sheriff’s reputation, such as it was, is in tatters. Hubert Walter is well aware of the situation in Devon and I am sure he will begin maneuvering within the Curia to get rid of de Revelle. But you know as well as I that our sheriff is supported by some powerful names, both by barons and those in the Church.’
‘Some no more than a few hundred paces from here!’ agreed de Alençon, dryly. ‘Speaking of that, did you get my message about that monk from Buckfast?’
The coroner nodded. ‘And I also hear that he has left for Coventry, for good, it seems.’
‘He’s gone back to that nest of insurrection built by Bishop Hugh. We’ll hear no more of him in these parts. The Cistercians will close ranks, as they have no love for this king, but have high hopes of who they think will be the next.’
They sat silently for a moment, both thinking of the injustices that the division between Church and state could throw up.
Then the archdeacon roused himself to broach another subject.
‘I have done some research into canon law on your behalf, John,’ he said rather diffidently. ‘I fear I can find no precedent for annulling a marriage because the wife has entered a monastic order. It would require an appeal to the Holy Father in Rome, and even then I doubt whether it would succeed.’
John de Wolfe nodded glumly. ‘I had expected that would be the answer. I don’t know what’s going to happen there. She still refuses to speak to me. I’ve only clapped eyes on her once since she left — and that at a distance in the priory.’
He threw down the rest of his wine and stood up.
‘I’m going up to Polsloe now, to see how Nesta is faring. According to Dame Madge, she came near to death from blood loss when she miscarried and is still far from well.’
With the concerns of his friend and promises of his prayers in his ears, de Wolfe took his leave and walked up to Martin’s Lane in the evening warmth to fetch Odin from the stables. Gwyn and Thomas were waiting patiently for him on their mounts at the East Gate, and half an hour later they were at the gate in the wall of St Katherine’s.
‘We’ll wait here until you have finished your visit, Crowner, then slip in one at a time to pay our respects to Nesta,’ said Gwyn with uncharacteristic tact, having been primed previously by the more sensitive Thomas.
John strode to the door of the little infirmary and went inside. He had visited often enough now, not to seek one of the nuns to admit him, and he walked the few steps to Nesta’s cell, the first in the short corridor.
The door was ajar and he pushed it open. His usual greeting died on his lips as he was confronted by a familiar broad back, bending over Nesta’s low bed.