‘But do you share his admiration?’ Matilda had a shrewd mind, when it was not clogged with religious fervour or after social advancement. She had detected some reserve in her husband’s attitude to the Poor Knights of Christ.
‘I admire their discipline and their valour, which often bordered on the foolhardy.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Yet I always felt there was something odd, almost sinister about them. We could see only their outward face – the one they turned to the world. They kept something hidden from all others.’
‘But they are exemplary Christians, surely. Wasn’t St Bernard of Clairvaux once their spiritual inspiration?’ Matilda might have been hazy about political history, but she knew her saints.
De Wolfe gave one of his shrugs. ‘Yes, he wrote the Rule, their strict code of behaviour, as far as I recall,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘But there are strange rumours about their beliefs. When they weren’t fighting the Muhammadans, they were studying their religion with apparent approval. And some say that the Templars have a very different outlook on Christianity from the rest of us, even to the point of heresy. But I find that hard to believe – the Pope has given them a status above everyone, even the crowned heads of Europe. All very strange.’ He stared pensively into the fire, his mind far away in the Levant, seeing again the ranks of mounted warriors in their long white surcoats emblazoned with the scarlet cross.
Matilda finished her wine and rose from her chair. ‘I’ll go up and have my maid attend to me,’ she announced. ‘Call me when Sir Gilbert arrives.’
As she left, he heard her yelling for Lucille, and exhaled in wonderment that the mere mention of a mysterious knighted monk should send her off, like some silly girl, to have her hair tweaked and her gown changed.
Outside, the day had turned colder and an early spring chill seeped through the shutters and under the doors. De Wolfe prodded the fire with an old broken sword kept in the hearth and threw on a few more logs. Half-way through his next cup of Loire wine, he started as Brutus suddenly hoisted himself to his feet and faced the door. He growled, but slowly wagged his long tail, so John knew that he had heard Gwyn arriving. The man was a favourite of every dog in Devon.
A tap on the door was followed by the whiskered face appearing cautiously in the opening, seeking out de Wolfe’s wife. Then, with relief, Gwyn opened the door wide and stood to one side. ‘Sir Gilbert de Ridefort, Crowner!’ he announced.
De Wolfe got up and went to welcome the visitor, nodding to Gwyn to escape to Mary’s kitchen for some food. ‘And tell her to take word to the mistress that our guest has arrived,’ he added.
Turning to the newcomer, he gripped his arm in greeting and waved him towards the fire. ‘So it was you who was haunting me these past few days, de Ridefort!’ he said. ‘Now that I know your name, I recognise you, but until then your lack of a beard and moustache was a perfect disguise.’
‘Pray God it remains so!’ said de Ridefort fervently. ‘Maybe if it fooled you, it will be equally effective with others.’
John sat him on a high-backed settle near the fire and dropped back into his own chair opposite. The knight declined the offer of food, but accepted some wine, which John poured from the jug into one of Matilda’s best chalices, taken from a shelf on the wall.
As they drank to old times, the coroner surveyed his guest, wondering whether his visit would mean trouble. He saw a man almost as tall as himself, with an erect bearing, broad shoulders and a slim waist. With his pilgrim’s hat removed, he had wavy brown hair down to the collar of his dark green mantle, another sign that something was amiss: Templars, though their faces were never shaven, were required to keep their hair short.
Gilbert had a rather long, aristocratic face with a straight nose set between large hazel eyes. His chin was square, below a firm mouth, now set in a rather sad smile. As John had guessed, he was on the right side of forty, a year or two younger than himself. A handsome fellow, thought the coroner, one who could easily turn a woman’s head, though celibacy was strictly enforced by the Rule of the Temple – they were not allowed to kiss a female, even a mother or sister.
De Wolfe came directly to the point. ‘What’s all this mystery about, Gilbert? Why are you not dressed like a Templar and what happened to your beard?’
De Ridefort sighed and bent forward, his hands grasping the cup resting on his knees. ‘I take you for an honest man, de Wolfe – and one who I have heard will not suffer injustice.’
John grunted: he could think of no better response.
‘But I also know you are King Richard’s man – you were often at his side in Outremer and you were with him when he was captured near Vienna.’
‘I claim no credit for that,’ snapped the coroner. He still blamed himself for failing to prevent the kidnap of his sovereign when they were trying to pass through Austria in disguise, after being shipwrecked on the way back from Palestine.
‘I mention the king because he is so partial to the Order of the Temple – and I wondered if your sympathies were equally strong.’
Puzzled, de Wolfe replied, in a noncommittal fashion, ‘I have nothing against you Templars – you were undoubtedly the best fighting men in the Holy Land.’
Gilbert took a sip of his wine and looked uneasily at John, as if undecided whether or not to confide in him. ‘I am no longer a Templar. In fact, I am a fugitive from them.’
This remarkable admission left the coroner staring at his guest. ‘But a Templar is for life – I’ve heard that they never allow abdication, except into an even stricter monastic order.’
The other man nodded sadly. ‘They do not believe that I have left them. In fact, they are searching for me, to take me back into the Order – in chains, if needs be, or even a shroud.’
The coroner leaned over with the wine jug and filled de Ridefort’s cup. ‘You’d better tell me the whole story,’ he said.
The handsome man opposite shook his head. ‘Not yet – not the whole story.’
John bristled. ‘Do you not trust me, then?’
‘It’s not that at all. I have no wish to embroil you in my troubles – certainly not until I know if you have any sympathy with my cause. And I need advice, as well as help, if you are willing to give it. Yet the devil of it is that at present I cannot explain everything to you. Some you must take on trust.’
The coroner took a deep drink and thought quickly. This man smelt of trouble – he had an aura of doom about him. Though de Wolfe had nothing against him, their depth of friendship was not great. He had met him across a table a few times at Gisors, and again in Palestine, either during troop marches or yarning around an evening camp-fire. He was not a bosom companion for whom he would lay down his life – though, de Wolfe’s nature being what it was, he would never stand by and see injustice done. ‘Why were you so reluctant to make yourself known to me?’ he asked. ‘All that furtive peeping around corners – you’re lucky my man Gwyn didn’t throw a spear at you, as I’m not short of enemies, even in Devon.’
De Ridefort smiled. For the first time his worried face had relaxed and again John saw that here was a man who could bowl over the ladies with no effort whatsoever. ‘I’m sorry for the skulking in alleyways, John, but I was anxious to see what sort of man you had become, since being elevated to your new judicial state – whatever a coroner is. I’m not at all clear on that.’
De Wolfe gave one of his throaty grunts. ‘It’s no great honour, I can tell you. You needn’t stand in awe of my great power. Now, are you going to tell me what you want with me?’
The revelations were interrupted again as the door opened and Matilda came in. She was resplendent in her best kirtle of green silk, tied around her thick waist with several turns of a silver cord whose tassels swept the floor. Her sleeves were almost as long, the bell-shaped cuffs knotted into tippets to keep them off the ground. Her hair was now gathered into two coils above each ear, held in place by silver net crespines. She had obviously goaded Lucille into extra efforts to make her look her best for the visitor.