‘Could not the cuts in the hands be due to the poor man trying to defend himself?’ suggested William afterwards. De Wolfe had discounted this, as they were unlike the usual defence wounds and were identical on right and left palms. They had decided to take the body back to Exeter, rather than have it buried in the church of St Andrew at Stoke. De Wolfe’s stated motive was that a Templar knight should lie at least for a time in a cathedral and preferably be buried there, if there was no Templar church within reach – but he had an ulterior motive, which he kept to himself for the time being. As an ox-cart would have severely delayed their journey back to the city, he decided to have the body wrapped in hessian and slung across the back of a sumpter horse led on a head-rope by Gwyn.
The journey back took five hours, de Wolfe being unsure which was the slowest, the gelding with the corpse or Thomas side-saddle on his pony. When they reached Exeter in the early afternoon, he prevailed upon his friend the archdeacon to accept the body and have it laid before one of the side altars in the base of the cathedral’s north tower. He was careful not to describe or expose the strange injuries on Gilbert’s corpse, in case John de Alençon probed more deeply into the matter and refused to accept a possible religious renegade with blasphemous wounds.
Matilda was not at home and Mary told him that she had spent almost all day praying in St Olave’s for the soul of Gilbert de Ridefort. De Wolfe left his house and, with Gwyn at his side, strode through the streets to the priory of St Nicholas.
‘We’re in luck this time,’ exclaimed Gwyn, as they walked through the archway into the small courtyard. Three superb horses were tethered there, attended by the priory grooms.
De Wolfe looked at the large stallions, which were almost as big as destriers. ‘You can see that the Templars are never short of money!’ he observed cynically.
A porter appeared from the gate lodge and directed them to the guest rooms, a small extension from the little priory at the end of the courtyard. These were just a few cells opening off a narrow corridor, with a larger common room at one end. Knocking on the open door, the coroner found the three knights sitting on benches around an open fire. They looked up questioningly, as he introduced himself. ‘I am John de Wolfe, the king’s coroner for this county. I believe that I have met two of you gentlemen in the past, both in the Holy Land and in France.’
Brian de Falaise rose to his feet, a man of about forty, almost as big as Gwyn with hair cut to a shelf around his skull to fit under a helmet, heavy beard and moustache of a dark brown colour. His face was weathered and ruddy, his nose large and pitted, his whole appearance that of an intolerant, aggressive tyrant. ‘I remember you! They called you Black John at Acre and Ascalon,’ he said gruffly. ‘You were close to King Richard, as I recall.’
The second Templar was a slightly younger man, tall, thin and bony with black hair and moustache and a thick rim of black beard around his chin. Just as de Falaise was pugnacious, Godfrey Capra appeared morose and stern. He also recognised de Wolfe from a previous encounter. ‘I am sure that I have seen you, but I cannot remember where,’ he said, in a voice that was rather too high-pitched for a tall man.
‘It was at Gisors, at the Splitting of the Elm, when we had such trouble with the French,’ replied de Wolfe.
The third knight, the leader of the group, could claim no such memories of the county coroner. He introduced himself as Roland de Ver, in a quiet and somewhat offhand manner. Probably in his mid-thirties, he was also tall and slim with light brown hair, and high cheekbones above the obligatory beard and moustache of the Templars. His blue eyes seemed wary and gave John the impression that he was suspicious of everything and everyone.
With Gwyn waiting back in the courtyard, de Wolfe was invited to sit with them whilst they exchanged some cautious reminiscences of Palestine and France. Then they enquired about his business.
‘I had intended to visit you in any event, as I knew I had been acquainted with at least two of you in the past,’ he began. ‘However, today I bring you sad news concerning one of your fellow knights.’ He watched their faces intently to see if this produced any reaction, but the three soldier-monks stared back without a flicker of emotion.
‘And what might that be?’ asked de Ver, quietly.
‘Gilbert de Ridefort was murdered the night before last, way out in the countryside, some sixteen miles from here.’
There was a silence and de Wolfe felt that it was not from shock or surprise, but was a pause whilst each decided on the best way to react.
‘He was the nephew of our disgraced former Grand Master,’ announced Brian de Falaise eventually. His voice was flat and unemotional and he did not ask what a French Templar was doing in Devon.
‘We are sorry to hear that he has died a violent death. But that has come to many Templars – perhaps the majority, for we are soldiers of Christ,’ observed Roland de Ver, in calm, measured tones.
Presumably feeling that he must also contribute a comment, Godfrey Capra added, with a scowl, ‘Though he was no longer a Templar – he had reneged on his sacred vows.’
The other two shot him a look of angry caution, which was not lost on de Wolfe. ‘You knew he was here, then?’ he said.
‘We had heard that he was in England,’ replied de Ver, cautiously.
There was another silence and, as if they sensed that their lack of curiosity was suspicious, the burly de Falaise and Capra both spoke at the same time.
‘How did he die?’
‘So what happened, Crowner?’
Something told de Wolfe to be circumspect with details as he might need to keep something up his sleeve with these formidable men. ‘He was ambushed when riding in the woods. His killers must have known where he was staying and followed him.’
There was another uneasy silence and Roland de Ver shifted on his bench. ‘We cannot pretend that we are desolated by this news, de Wolfe. He was no longer one of us and his family have stained the name of our Order.’
‘It must have been in the blood, uncle and nephew both,’ snarled Brian de Falaise, his chronic ill-nature revealing itself.
The three looked up at de Wolfe with arrogant defiance.
‘I am the King’s appointed coroner, and though I opened an inquest on the body early this morning, that is by no means the end of the matter. I have to record all investigations for the royal justices when they next come to Exeter – and those investigations are by no means complete.’
Roland de Ver shrugged. ‘Good luck to you, Crowner. It’s none of our concern.’
His insolent dismissal of the matter incensed de Wolfe. ‘He was a Templar – or an ex-Templar, at least. You are three senior members of that Order, who just happened to have arrived in this county just before he was foully murdered. I think it reasonable for me to ask some questions of you, if only to eliminate certain possibilities.’
De Ver jumped to his feet, his face reddened with anger. ‘You will ask nothing, Coroner! Or, at least, you’ll get no answers from us. Our presence in Devon is none of your business. We are above the law. You know our Order well enough to realise that the Holy Father in Rome has granted us immunity from the rule of all kings and princes in Christendom – most of whom are beholden to us for both money and military support.’