The appearance of a papal nuncio, charged with seeking out those who rebelled against the strict tenets of the Church of Rome gave credence to Gilbert de Ridefort’s fears, about which until now de Wolfe had been very dubious. He had half suspected that the man suffered from some paranoid state of mind, maybe rooted in some personal wrong-doing he was trying to blame on the Templars, but unless the arm of coincidence was very long indeed, Abbot Cosimo’s mission confirmed the story.
But what was the Italian priest intending to do? Was he here to persuade de Ridefort to see the errors of his ways and to take him back into the fold? Or was he here to denounce him to Bishop Henry Marshall – who was probably too concerned with his own affairs to worry about some foreign backslider? Or was the knight to be dragged back to the new Temple in London or even across the Channel to face the Inquisition in France? And how would that be achieved? A seasoned Templar warrior was no easy prey, even for the two strong-arm men that Cosimo had brought with him.
And what of this Bernardus de Blanchefort, who was allegedly on his way, like the Second Coming? Was the abbot here to trap him as well? Or maybe Bernardus was the prime quarry and de Ridefort was irrelevant.
And, anyway, what was this ‘awful secret’ about which de Ridefort made such oblique hints? All these questions and not a single answer made de Wolfe impatient for some action and, with a muttered curse, he stood up and promptly struck his head on the slimy stones of the low arched ceiling. His muttering turned into a bellow of profanity and, rubbing his scalp, he stepped out into the castle yard. Turning to look with loathing at the tiny cave his brother-in-law had foisted on him, de Wolfe decided that enough was enough: he would go back to his old chamber even if he had to be hauled up by a rope and tackle.
Striding across the mired bailey, dodged by passing men-at-arms, self-important clerks and porters pushing barrows, he made for the gatehouse, his grey cloak streaming out behind him in the cold wind. Within the guardroom, which lay just inside the raised portcullis, he found Gabriel yelling some admonishment at a young soldier, who scuttled away thankfully when the sergeant turned to greet the coroner. ‘Good day, Crowner. I hear we’re going back to the north again next week.’
‘Yes, you had better pick some men who don’t get seasick, if the sheriff is set on going to Lundy.’ De Wolfe looked at the bottom of the staircase to his chamber. ‘I fell down those damned steps last week, but my leg is much stronger now, after all the exercise. Stand behind me, Gabriel, and catch me if I collapse.’
With a somewhat apprehensive sergeant close behind, he began to climb the narrow, winding stairs. To the silent relief of both, he did far better than he expected and reached the top without so much as a stumble. As he pushed aside the sacking that did service as a door, he found Gwyn sitting in his accustomed place on a window-sill, eating bread and cheese with a pot of cider in his hand. He rose and pulled forward a rickety stool, the only furnishing in the office since the trestle had been taken below.
De Wolfe dropped heavily on to it, his back against the rough stones of the wall. The climb had taken more out of him than he expected, though his leg had held up well. ‘Give me some of that bread and ale first, man, then tell me what’s new.’
Gwyn handed him some victuals, then passed on to his master what he had learned of the three unknown knights who had arrived in the city the previous day. ‘I toured the alehouses last night, seeking gossip, but apart from many people seeing them ride through the town, no one knew anything about them. Several had heard the groom say they were Templars, but we knew that already.’
‘Nothing else?’ asked de Wolfe. He knew that Gwyn often kept the best bits until last.
‘This morning, I went into Bretayne and walked up to St Nicholas’s.’
Bretayne was the poorest quarter of Exeter, named after the Celtic Britons who had been pushed there when the Saxons took over the city centuries earlier. It was a slum of narrow lanes and miserable huts in the north-western corner of the walls, the small priory of St Nicholas lying at its edge.
‘There was a farrier in the yard, shoeing a big warhorse, one almost the size of your old Bran,’ continued Gwyn. ‘It was no monk’s nag and obviously belonged to one of the Templars. I got talking to the farrier and he said they needed the job done quickly, as they would be riding out of the city shortly. I asked him where and why, but he couldn’t tell me.’
‘Did he know the name of the horse’s owner?’
Gwyn scratched his head. ‘He did and it sounded familiar, though I can’t place it in my mind. Not to put a face to.’
John valiantly concealed his impatience. ‘The name?’
‘Brian de Falaise – I remember it, for it’s where William the Bastard came from.’
De Wolfe ignored the Conqueror’s origins and concentrated on the name. ‘There was such a Templar at Acre. A big heavy man.’
‘That applies to many men – especially Templars!’ observed Gwyn.
‘What about the other two?’ demanded the coroner.
His officer shook his head. ‘No sign of any of them, and the farrier knew no more. I called to a monk who was hoeing the garden and asked him who his visitors were, but he told me to mind my own business, the miserable sod.’ He swallowed the last of his cider. ‘If you want more information, best send that evil little gnome of ours down there. He has a way with priests, with his Signs of the Cross and his Latin speech.’
De Wolfe agreed with him, and told him what Thomas had discovered in the other priory. ‘If all else fails, I’ll go up to St Nicholas’s myself and ask these fellows why they’re here. I can play the old Crusader act, if Brian de Falaise is one of them.’
Gwyn hauled himself to his feet, half filling the chamber. ‘Well, they’ll not be here all day, according to the farrier. He was told to return at curfew, to check the shoes on the other horses after their journey from London.’
De Wolfe rose with him and moved to the stair-head. ‘I’ll try to visit them tonight or tomorrow. Meanwhile, when that miserable clerk of ours returns from his breakfast, I’ll send him to snoop around at St Nicholas’s.’ Pulling aside the sacking, he stood back to let the Cornishman through. ‘You go ahead of me, Gwyn. If I fall arse over beak, then at least I’ll land on you!’
That morning, fifteen miles away, John’s sister was attending mass at the church in Stoke-in-Teignhead, as she had almost every day since she was a child. Although her ambition to become a nun had long since faded, she remained very devout, though this never affected her amiable and outgoing nature. Today she was accompanied by the tall, handsome guest at their manor, Gilbert de Ridefort.
It was her mother who had pressed him to go with Evelyn – Enyd herself was less conscientious in her church-going, thinking that twice a week was sufficient for her soul’s welfare. She had an ulterior motive in sending him with her daughter: both women knew that there was more to de Ridefort than John had admitted. Though not in open conspiracy, they wished to wheedle as much of his story from him as possible and a sedate walk to and from the church, a quarter of a mile away, might be a good opportunity. Strangely, de Ridefort seemed rather reluctant to attend divine service, and as Evelyn sensed he enjoyed her pleasant company well enough, she had to conclude that it was the devotions themselves that were not attractive to him. This seemed strange for a Templar or even an ex-Templar, as he would have been accustomed to spending hours each day in church.