‘He did not – and I would have scant interest if he had. I am concerned with one thing only, and that is the manner of his death and who caused it.’
Roland de Ver patently disbelieved him and again repeated his firm intention of not answering any questions on any subject.
The coroner scowled at the calm features of this slim soldier-monk. ‘Are you confessing that you had something to do with the death of your fellow Templar, but are refusing to let me question you about it?’ he thundered.
‘Watch your tongue, de Wolfe,’ yelled Brian de Falaise, but de Ver held up his hand for silence.
‘The last part of your question is true. You may not question us about anything. The first part is unanswerable, as we say neither yea nor nay to anything you might ask. We do not – we cannot – forbid you to investigate this death. You are welcome and have a duty so to do, as long as you do not try to ask us anything about that or, indeed, any other subject that we choose not to discuss.’
De Wolfe shook his head in exasperation. ‘Well, do you choose to discuss Templar land-holdings in Devon? That seems an innocuous subject.’
His brother-in-law spoke up. ‘I have already told these good knights about our expedition to the north on Monday and they have agreed to accompany us. We would welcome the support of six seasoned warriors, especially as they have a specific interest in the rightful claim of their Order to the island of Lundy.’
There was a silence, which allowed frayed tempers to simmer down. De Wolfe could see that the will of the Templars remained intractable and, having respect generally for their organisation, he had to admit defeat in any frontal attack upon them, though he remained highly suspicious of their involvement with the death of de Ridefort. His eyes roved over their faces, including those of the grimly silent squires, and he felt that any one of them might have slain de Ridefort, if their fanatical devotion to their Order demanded it. But there seemed no way of pursuing it now, though he resolved to continue investigating by any other means he could devise.
They took his silence for defeat and the atmosphere relaxed a little, as Roland de Ver obtained more details from the sheriff of the departure on Monday morning, and the arrangements for accommodation, food and fodder en route for Barnstaple. The coroner remained silent throughout these exchanges and stood aside as the six Templars filed out, the knights giving him a cursory nod as they left for the priory of St Nicholas.
He was left alone with Richard de Revelle, who breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘John, why is it that you seem to antagonise every person of authority with whom you come in contact?’ he asked wearily. ‘The Templars are the most powerful force not only in England but in the whole of Christendom – and yet, within the blinking of an eye, you manage to incense them with your accusations!’
‘The dead man was also a Templar, but no one seems concerned about him,’ retorted de Wolfe.
‘He was a renegade of some sort, so Roland de Ver informs me,’ replied the sheriff. ‘Who are we to probe the mysteries of that occult Order? Keep out of it, John, it’s none of our business.’
De Wolfe had his own ideas on that, but knew that it was useless arguing with de Revelle. He cared only about deferring to the most powerful men in the vicinity, men who even if they could not advance him would at least not hinder him in his eternal search for preferment. ‘Why are they willing to join our expedition on Monday?’ he asked, trying a slightly different tack.
‘As I told you, they say that their purpose in Devon is to seek new Templar holdings – so what more natural than that three tough fighters and their hardy squires should take the chance to investigate how their long-established grant of Lundy has been frustrated for so many years?’
De Wolfe had to admit to himself that this seemed reasonable, given the long history of defeat that the Templar claim to the island had suffered. Cynically, he thought that maybe now that their task of eliminating Gilbert de Ridefort had been successfully completed, they felt that a few days’ diversion in the service of their Order might be appropriate.
De Wolfe pushed himself upright from the table edge and the sheriff pointedly picked up a quill and a parchment, ready to continue his work. ‘So what is to be done about this dead knight? Is he to be pushed into a hole in the cathedral grounds and forgotten?’
De Revelle brandished the feather of his pen at the coroner. ‘I would suggest doing just that. I don’t want to know about him, now that three senior Templars have warned us off. Forget it, John. Go on to your next case – it’s safer that way.’
With a snort of disgust at his brother-in-law’s apathy, John stalked out and went home, but he was fated this night to have no peace. Outside his front door, he found his clerk hopping from foot to foot in impatience, with a summons from the archdeacon to visit him immediately at his house in Canon’s Row.
Uneasy, but glad of another excuse to postpone sitting in his wife’s company, the coroner beckoned Thomas to accompany him and strode along the few yards of Martin’s Lane and into its continuation along the north side of the cathedral Close. Many of the twenty-four prebendaries of the cathedral lived here, together with their vicars, secondary priests and male servants, for theoretically no woman was allowed to reside in the Close.
John de Alençon was Archdeacon of Exeter; the other three holding that rank in the episcopal hierarchy were archdeacons of other parts of the diocese. He was John’s special friend, a staunch supporter of Richard the Lionheart, which was more than could be said for the Bishop, the Treasurer and the Precentor. A thin, ascetic Norman, he nevertheless had a dry sense of humour, but tonight it was not much in evidence when de Wolfe entered his bare study in the narrow house facing the cathedral.
‘I have had a visit from this abbot from Italy, John,’ he began, without any preamble. ‘As the bishop has left for Canterbury, I had to receive him in the Chapter House and listen to his orders from France and Rome.’ He sounded bitter at what must have been a traumatic meeting with such a powerful emissary.
‘What orders were these, John?’ asked de Wolfe mildly.
‘That this corpse you brought back from somewhere is not to lie before an altar in the cathedral – and that it is not to be buried in the graveyard outside.’
The coroner stared at his friend. ‘And what is to happen to him, then? A stake through his heart, then buried at midnight at the crossroads? Good God, man, the deceased was a monk, a follower of the Rule of Benedict. He can’t be consigned to an unmarked grave like a suicide!’
The thin priest, enveloped from neck to toe in a black robe, looked saddened but resolute. ‘Those were my orders and, after being shown a signed authority from the Vatican, I had no option but to obey.’
Thanks to Thomas’s spying, John knew that this letter existed and was genuine. ‘But why? A few hours ago you allowed him to rest in the North Tower.’
‘That was before this Cosimo came to inform me of certain matters, John.’
‘What matters would they be?’
John de Alençon shook his head sadly, the tight grey curls at the sides of his head lifting. ‘I cannot tell you that. He forbade it. Suffice it to say that, given the damage that this Gilbert might have done, I am not surprised that he came to a dreadful end. It is a wonder that he was not cloven in two by a lightning flash from heaven.’
There was a moan from behind, and looking round, the coroner saw that his clerk was crossing himself in an almost frenzied way. ‘And you can tell me nothing more, old friend?’ he asked softly.
‘Not even you, John. Like the confessional, some things are inviolate, and the command of a messenger from the Holy Father is one of them, much as we may dislike its content.’