Nesta slipped out the other side and dressed quickly in the gloom. ‘And I’d better attend to my business or that old fool Edwin and those daft serving maids will have driven all my patrons away with their stupidity.’ She opened the rough door and let in a dim light from a horn lantern left burning for the guests to find their way to their pallets. ‘Come down for a last mug of ale before you go – my last brew was better than ever, though I say it myself.’ As well as being a pretty woman and an enthusiastic lover, Nesta was an excellent cook and a talented ale-maker. De Wolfe often bemoaned the fact that both social barriers and his marriage prevented him from living with this jewel of a woman.
He hauled himself from the bed and pulled on his undershirt and long grey tunic, slit back and front for riding a horse. The long black woollen hose came up to his thighs and his pointed shoes and a heavy belt completed his garb. He had left his hooded cloak of grey wolfskin downstairs.
When he climbed down the wooden steps into the ale-room, lit by the flickering flames of a large fire and a number of tallow dips on the tables, he made out a familiar shape sitting near the door. As he reached the floor, Nesta bustled past, intent on chasing one of her harassed serving maids. ‘Thomas has been waiting patiently for you these past ten minutes – he has some message for you, he says.’
She sailed away and he went over to the little clerk, who hopped to his feet and peered bird-like up into de Wolfe’s face, his sharp eyes glistening in the candlelight. ‘I’ve found out who the priest is – the one from France,’ he squeaked excitedly. Eternally grateful to the coroner for giving him employment, which had saved him from penury and perhaps starvation, Thomas was always desperately anxious to prove his worth. Although de Wolfe and Gwyn usually treated him with scornful contempt, he had been inordinately useful to them on many occasions.
‘So who is he?’ demanded his master.
‘An abbot from Paris, called Cosimo of Modena.’
‘Modena? That’s not in France.’
‘No, he’s from the north of Italy. I gather he is a Vatican priest, posted to Paris some time ago as a special nuncio. No one knows what his special duties might be,’ sniggered Thomas.
‘How did you discover this? And where is he now?’ demanded the coroner.
‘I was talking to one of the Benedictines from St James’s Priory, who came up to a service for St Jerome today. He said that Abbot Cosimo has installed himself at the priory, much to the discomfort of the prior.’
‘Why should he complain?’
‘First, because Cosimo is a Cistercian – in their strictness they look down on these Cluniac Benedictines, even though their Orders have the same origins. Also it seems he arrogantly demanded accommodation and sustenance for himself and his two men on the authority of Pope Celestine, producing some letter from Rome that virtually overrides any reluctance, even by bishops.’ Thomas crossed himself spasmodically as he spoke.
De Wolfe considered this, leaning against the inside of the inn door. ‘And no one knows on what errand this Italian is engaged?’
The little clerk looked crestfallen. ‘I couldn’t discover this, Crowner. No one seems to know. The abbot is a very secretive person, it appears.’
John thoughtfully rubbed the dark stubble on his long chin. ‘We got on well with the jolly prior at St James’s, did we not?’
Thomas, delighted to be asked his opinion, bobbed his head eagerly. ‘Prior Peter was very amiable when we were there for the catching of that fish a few months ago,’ he agreed.
Just before de Wolfe’s disaster, when his old horse both broke his leg and saved his life, they had visited the priory when the coroner had had to attend the landing of a sturgeon. The prior, a rubicund fellow with a taste for good wine, had made them welcome on that occasion.
‘Be ready at dawn, Thomas, with whatever you need for a few days’ absence from that flea-pit you stay in near the cathedral. I have a task for you that you may well enjoy.’
And with that the former priest had to be satisfied.
The coroner thought that at forty he must already be getting old as he jogged on Odin through the early-morning mists alongside the river Exe. As an active soldier, he had woken as fresh as a daisy at whatever hour the trumpet sounded, but now he felt bleary-eyed and his brain remained sluggish until he could shake off the effects of sleep.
Behind him rode Gwyn on his big brown mare, and Thomas, sitting side-saddle on his moorland pony. Alongside him was Gilbert de Ridefort, sitting as tall and erect as a fence-post on his grey gelding. He looked every inch a Templar knight, even if the famous white cloak with the large cross was missing.
The quartet rode silently, each with his own thoughts, though every few hundred yards Gilbert would give a quick look over his shoulder, checking that no pursuing shapes were dashing after them through the morning fog.
They passed a number of peasants and traders making for Exeter, many carrying huge bundles or pushing handcarts with goods to sell in the city, others with laden donkeys or ox-carts full of produce. The road went due south from Exeter towards Topsham, the small port at the head of the estuary of the Exe. Between them was the tiny priory of St James, founded half a century before by Baldwin, the famous sheriff of the county. The small building was down on the slope, just above the floodplain of the river, and John told Gwyn to stay up on the main road with Sir Gilbert, out of sight of the priory, in case the mysterious Roman priest was abroad. He and his clerk went down to the building and, within a few minutes, de Wolfe had returned alone. ‘As I hoped, it was an easy task,’ he explained, as they set off more briskly towards Topsham. ‘Prior Peter seems to have no real love for this Italian, who he feels has battened upon him like an unwelcome leech.’
‘So what of your clerk?’ asked de Ridefort.
‘The prior is letting him stay there under the guise of a travelling brother on his way to take up a parish in Cornwall. Thomas is well suited to spinning such deceptions. He could probably make them believe he was the new archbishop!’
‘Why should the prior agree to this?’ grunted Gwyn.
‘I told him that the secular authorities wanted to know why a papal nuncio was in England without announcing himself to the authorities. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but neither does the prior. Thomas is going to snoop about to try to find out why this Italian is here.’
‘I have no doubt why that man Cosimo is here,’ commented de Ridefort bitterly. ‘He was sent last year to investigate the Cathar heresy in the Albi region of France and to report back to his master in Rome. Now he has a similar mission to find me.’
De Ridefort had already confirmed that Cosimo of Modena was indeed the priest he used to see about the Commandery in Paris. He was now convinced that this abbot had been sent to deal with him, either by capture or elimination.
Presumably with the stimulus of the abbot so near, the Templar set a cracking pace and within half an hour they were in the little port of Topsham, seeking the ferry that crossed the river to the marshes on the western side. From there, they trotted to Powderham then on to Dawlish, the first village on the open coast. As they passed through, Gwyn watched his master from the corner of his eye and, as he expected, saw him look longingly at a fine stone house in the only street.
Mischievously, the ginger-haired officer couldn’t resist some comment, which was lost on de Ridefort, though his thoughts were mainly on his own predicament.
‘Quite a few vessels beached here, Crowner,’ observed Gwyn, with a false air of innocence. ‘Some of them real sea-going vessels – the Normandy fleet must be in.’