De Wolfe lowered his head towards de Revelle, as he stooped across the table. ‘Why would their leader, this Roland de Ver – until recently a senior member of the main Templar house in Paris – concern himself with buying a few hides of Devon soil?’
The sheriff waved a hand with assumed airy nonchalance. ‘You had better ask him yourself, John.’
‘I have just asked him – and was told to mind my own business. Why should they be so sensitive and secretive if all they are doing is negotiating for the purchase of some land?’
De Revelle’s face flushed above his trim beard and moustache. ‘You mean you’ve been pestering them already? You have no right, John. The Templars have immense power and influence!’
‘Especially with you, no doubt,’ said de Wolfe tartly. ‘Will you receive commission if you help them buy land in your county?’
‘The business transactions I carry out are no business of yours, Coroner.’
John gave one of his rare, lopsided grins. ‘You’ll get little commission out of a dead heretic, Richard. For that’s what I’m certain these knights are here about.’
‘They are attending to Templar interests, I tell you!’ shouted de Revelle furiously.
‘I can believe that, though their present interest is not land! If they are concerned with their investments, you had better invite them to come with us on Monday. Maybe they can at last succeed in winning their allotted land on Lundy!’ With that parting shot he left, convinced that his devious brother-in-law knew a lot more about the visitors than he was admitting.
It was dusk when he left the castle and walked home. Matilda was out, presumably still praying for the soul of Gilbert de Ridefort, so John took the opportunity to visit the Bush and spend an hour with Nesta in her room upstairs. After a satisfying dalliance with her under the sheepskins, he came down and continued his enjoyment with a boiled fowl, onions and cabbage, washed down with her best ale.
As he sat at his favourite bench near the hearth, the comely tavern-keeper kept him company, sitting opposite with her elbows on the table, looking affectionately at the lean, brooding man she loved. They talked of inconsequential things for a while, as de Wolfe had already told her everything about the strange death of the run-away Templar.
Eventually, he pushed aside the pile of chicken bones and the soaked trencher to concentrate on his quart of ale.
‘You are off to Lundy, then?’ asked Nesta, concern on her pretty face. ‘Be careful, John, both of the sea and the men who live there.’ At the hub of gossip related by travellers and mariners passing through the inn, she was on top of every piece of news in Devon and well knew the bad reputation of that lonely island set a dozen miles off the north coast.
As he was reassuring her of his safety, which would be ensured by the large party of knights and soldiers going on the sheriff’s escapade, the old potman Edwin limped across to the table and addressed him by his old military title. ‘Cap’n, someone was seeking you, when you were … well, upstairs earlier on.’ He leered at the coroner, his collapsed whitened eye slewing horribly in its socket.
Nesta scowled at his innuendo. ‘Who was it, you old fool?’ she snapped.
Edwin twitched his thin shoulders under his frayed woollen tunic. ‘Never saw him before. A gentleman, no doubt, dressed in riding clothes, booted and spurred. He asked for the crowner, but he didn’t say who he was or why he wanted him.’
‘What did you tell him? That he was upstairs with the ale-wife?’ she said, threateningly.
The old soldier grinned, showing the blackened stumps in his gums. ‘No, I said the crowner would almost certainly be in here within the hour. He said nothing and walked out.’
‘What did he look like?’ demanded John.
‘Big, tall fellow, no moustache or beard. Couldn’t see his hair, he had a leather cap tied around under his chin. Looked about thirty or more years.’
‘Not another bailiff come to report a sudden death?’
‘Didn’t look like any bailiff. More likely a soldier.’
De Wolfe looked at Nesta. ‘I wonder if this is our long-expected Bernardus de Blanchefort? If it is, he’s got a nasty shock awaiting him.’
Someone else marched up to the table, no rogue Templar but Gwyn of Polruan. ‘A couple of messages, Crowner. First, that little toad Thomas has seen this Italian priest down at the cathedral Close. He turned up before I could send him down to the priory, saying that this Cosimo has come back to the bishop’s palace with his two strong-arm men. Bishop Marshal is still away, but he has met two of the Archdeacons and the Precentor.’
‘Has Thomas any idea of where they have been these last two days?’
‘None at all – but their horses were tired and mud-spattered so they’ve covered some distance lately.’
De Wolfe gave a loud grunt, his usual means of responding when he had nothing constructive to say. ‘And your other news?’
‘Sergeant Gabriel was sent down to the gatehouse by the sheriff to tell me to command you to attend on him as soon as possible.’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know – but Gabriel said that two of the Templar’s squires had been up there within the last hour.’
De Wolfe rose wearily to his feet. ‘I’d better be off, I suppose. Maybe the Knights of Christ have thought better of refusing to speak to me.’ And with Gwyn in tow, he began trudging back up to Rougemont.
If John de Wolfe had thought that the three Templars might have softened their attitude, he was very much mistaken. When he reached the castle keep, he found de Revelle’s room almost filled with the Templars and their sergeants. Unlike their previous appearance in Exeter, all three now carried the large red cross of their Order on the shoulder of their mantles. Brian de Falaise and Roland de Ver wore the famous white cloaks of celibacy and, as a previously married man, Godfrey Capra was in black. Though they wore no armour or helmets, nor the surcoats with the red cross on the breast, the knights had long swords buckled to their baldrics. Their sergeants, grim-looking men who were much older than most squires, stood in the background, dressed in sombre brown that also carried the broad cross.
As John entered and stood by the door, the beefy Brian de Falaise glowered at him. ‘Here he is, de Revelle! Tell this man to mind his own business, or it will be the worse for him!’
With this unpromising start, a cacophony of recrimination and protest began, some of it contributed by de Revelle. De Wolfe began shouting back and nothing was achieved above the din for several minutes. Then Roland de Ver rapped the pommel of his dagger upon the table and, in a steely voice, called for quiet. ‘Let us all regain our tempers! I wish for no personal quarrel with you, Coroner. I realise that you have been charged with certain duties by the king and I respect your fidelity in wishing to carry out your legal functions.’
Somewhat mollified by this sensible statement, de Wolfe advanced to the table and nodded to the leader of the group. ‘When a man is killed against the king’s peace, especially a Norman knight, it cannot be ignored.’
‘God will not ignore it and that is what matters,’ said de Ver piously. ‘Pope Eugenius long ago made the Templars independent of archbishops and you well know that Rome has decreed to all states in Europe that our Order is to be exempt from all national laws. Thus, you have no jurisdiction over us and cannot interfere with our activities.’ He paused, then his tone changed to accusation. ‘Not only do we deny you the right to question us, but we wish to question you. We are concerned at your apparent intimacy with Gilbert de Ridefort, especially your insinuations that he imparted certain information to you. De Wolfe, did he or did he not expound on his crazed heretical beliefs?’