De Revelle recognised the warning and grudgingly came to heel. ‘Very well. What’s the best way to go about this? From what I’ve heard in the past, we need look no further than Lundy. It was ever a nest of pirates, right back to the days of the Vikings.’ It occurred to neither of them that their own Norman blood was only a few generations removed from those same Norse pirates who had settled in northern France.
When he saw that his brother-in-law was disposed to be more reasonable, de Wolfe relaxed and moved back from the edge of the table. ‘I agree. It’s quite possible that William de Marisco and his island stronghold might be the source of this trouble. But there was a hint that this particular outrage may have come from Appledore.’
The sheriff’s fair eyebrows rose a little. ‘Appledore? Seems unlikely that they would turn to piracy without de Grenville knowing about it – unless you’re suggesting that he’s party to it.’
De Wolfe gave one of his grunts: the de Grenville family held the lordship of Bideford, which included Appledore, but he wouldn’t put a little piracy past them if the pickings were good enough. ‘Early days yet. We need to find out more facts before we start accusing anyone.’
This was another dig at Richard, whose methods of detecting crime usually began in the torture chamber below the keep, rather than through seeking the truth in the town or countryside. De Wolfe carried on with his advice. ‘Send a few men-at-arms up there for a start. I’ll go with them and look around the ports there – Bideford, Appledore, Barnstaple, maybe even Bude. Shake the tree hard enough and maybe some fruit will fall out.’
With obvious reluctance, the sheriff agreed to let Sergeant Gabriel and four of his men go up to the north of the county with the coroner for a couple of days. As John was leaving, he called after him, ‘It’ll be Lundy, you mark my words! Those de Mariscos are evil bastards – they have no respect for human life. Or the king’s peace.’
‘That’s rich, coming from you!’ de Wolfe muttered cynically, and slammed the door behind him.
The coroner had no duties until noon, when he had to attend two hangings at the Magdalen Tree outside the city walls so he decided to pay a visit to his mistress. On the way, he put his head into his miserable office and warned Gwyn that he was going to walk through the streets and to keep a sharp eye out for his annoying mystery man. The shaggy-haired Cornishman gave him a few moments’ start, then followed him at a discreet distance, keeping back to match the slow pace of his master, who still had a slight limp. They went out through the gatehouse of Rougemont and down Castle Hill, then turned into the main street.
Gwyn kept him in sight, pushing through the folk that thronged the narrow streets – shoppers, porters, loungers, pedlars and the rest. The coroner was an easy man to shadow, standing a head taller than most, his black hair bobbing over the collar of his mottled grey cloak.
Towards the end of the street, approaching Milk Lane that turned down to Butcher’s Row, the officer saw him suddenly stop dead in his tracks and stare to his left. Then he waved an arm at something out of sight and Gwyn tried to close the distance between them. A porter with two great bales of wool hanging from a pole over his shoulder got in his way, just as a donkey with wide side-panniers tried to pass him. Cursing and pushing, the Cornishman lost a valuable minute in getting to de Wolfe’s side, by which time the coroner had moved to the edge of the street, behind a stall selling trinkets and herbs. ‘He was there, blast him!’ fumed de Wolfe, pointing at a narrow gap between the side wall of a tall house and an adjacent storehouse. ‘I can’t move fast enough with this bloody leg of mine.’
Gwyn dashed into the gap, his huge shoulders almost filling the space between the two walls. ‘I’ll find him this time, never fear!’ he yelled over his shoulder.
‘If you do, I’ll be at the Bush,’ called his master and, with a snarl of disgust at his own infirmity, carried on down the street on his way to Idle Lane.
Not long afterwards, as the cathedral bell tolled for the morning high mass at about the tenth hour, Gwyn was bending his head beneath the low lintel of the tavern doorway, staring about in the smoky gloom for de Wolfe. There were only a few customers at that hour and Nesta was sitting with him at his customary table near the hearth, a jar of ale in front of him. The landlady beckoned to Gwyn, then yelled at the ancient potman to bring drink, bread and cheese for the coroner’s ever-hungry henchman.
‘I got him!’ rumbled Gwyn triumphantly, as he dropped heavily on to a bench opposite the pair.
‘So where is he?’ demanded de Wolfe, looking expectantly at the doorway. ‘Did you have to fight him? Or did you kill him, by chance?’
His officer shook his head, as Edwin banged a pot before him and placed a small loaf and a hunk of rock-hard cheese on the scrubbed boards of the table. ‘No fight, no struggle. The man wants to meet you secretly, so I told him to come to your house at the second hour this afternoon. You’ll be back from the gibbeting and had your meal by then.’
‘But who is he, this mystery man?’ demanded Nesta, her pert face quivering with curiosity as Gwyn stuffed his mouth with bread.
De Wolfe was accustomed to his bodyguard’s relaxed attitude to communicating news, but even so he jabbed a forefinger across the table towards him. ‘Swallow that quickly and tell us, or I’ll pull that moustache clean off your face, damn you!’
Gwyn gulped down his mouthful and wiped the back of a huge hand across his mouth. ‘He said his name was Gilbert de Ridefort and that he was sure you’d remember him.’
De Wolfe sat back in astonishment. ‘Good God, of course I do! Are you sure that was the name he gave?’
‘No doubt at all – he made me repeat it a couple of times. Said he daren’t show himself too openly and he wasn’t sure he could depend on you, now that you’re a king’s law officer.’
Nesta was looking from one to the other for enlightenment. ‘So who is he? And why didn’t you recognise him before, if you knew him, John?’
De Wolfe’s face was drawn into a scowl of concentration. ‘It was the beard and moustache – or rather the lack of them – that confused me. When I knew him, he had a faceful of dark brown hair. I’d never seen him shaven, as he is now. But, yes, the eyes and nose are Gilbert’s.’
‘So who is he? And why all this subterfuge?’ asked the auburn-haired tavern keeper.
‘He is a Knight of the Temple – or was.’
‘Why “was”?’
‘With no beard or moustache, something is amiss. They demand strictly that no Templar is shaven.’
Although everyone knew of the famous warrior monks, whose full title was the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, most people knew little about them, except that they were now rich, powerful and ruthless.
Nesta’s insatiable curiosity was now well and truly aroused. ‘How do you know this man, John? And why should he seek you out?’
‘I remember him now – at the siege of Acre in ’ninety-one,’ broke in Gwyn, through a mouthful of cheese.
De Wolfe waved his empty ale pot at Edwin, who hurried to get a refill from the casks at the back of the large room. ‘That’s right. He was one of the crazy Templars who fought like demons alongside us in Richard’s army. De Ridefort was one of the survivors and I met him a few times later, at the battle of Arsuf and again on the march towards Jerusalem.’ His ale arrived and he took a deep draught. ‘But I wonder what he’s doing in Devon – and without his beard?’