‘Five minutes would be all I need to sow the seeds of doubt – and maybe the ears of the cathedral priests would be more fertile soil than those of the common people.’
De Wolfe was beginning to think that this man was mad, but the fact that Gilbert de Ridefort had had the same convictions – and de Blanchefort claimed that there were others still in France and even the Holy Land who agreed with them – weighed against this being some individual mental aberration. As he thought about de Blanchefort’s plan for a heretical sermon, it occurred to him that this might be a way to smoke out de Ridefort’s killers. If the former Templar tried to go ahead with this crazy idea, then similar means could be tried to silence him and the perpetrators might be unmasked.
As the man began some earnest theological debate across the table with the apprehensive Thomas, the coroner weighed up the risk of getting him killed with the chances of identifying the killers. He decided that if the damned fool wanted to stick his head into a noose – or more likely get burned at the stake – then that was his affair, but to reduce the likelihood somewhat, it would help if his intention to preach heresy was bandied about in advance. Then the opposition might take action before de Blanchefort committed some fatal indiscretion.
‘You will be assured of a bigger audience if it is known about beforehand,’ he said, with wily insincerity. ‘We can put about the news quite readily. Thomas here is especially well placed to noise it abroad amongst the clergy and all those in the cathedral Close.’ He looked at Gwyn with a lop-sided grin. ‘And my officer here could broadcast it in almost every alehouse in Exeter, although maybe the patrons of taverns are not too concerned with new concepts of religion.’
De Blanchefort accepted this advice with a readiness that almost made de Wolfe ashamed at his own duplicity, but he salved his conscience with the thought that he might be saving the man’s life, if not his liberty, in ensuring that he would be arrested before he committed some ecclesiastical treason.
Now de Wolfe changed the subject. ‘These three Templars you saw at St Bartholomew’s – do you know them?’
‘Godfrey Capra is a stranger to me,’ answered Bernardus. ‘But I certainly know the other two. Roland de Ver was prominent in the Paris headquarters until a year ago. I think he was sent to the new Temple in London to stiffen their sinews with the same discipline demanded by the Master in France. And Brian de Falaise is also known to me from Outremer, where I knew him for a courageous, if reckless warrior.’
‘They claimed to me to be in this part of England only to seek new estates for the Templars.’
‘I find that very hard to accept,’ said Bernardus scornfully. ‘That’s a task either for old members well past their fighting age – or, even more likely, for their sergeants. It is ludicrous to believe that three senior knights would be sent on such a mundane mission.’
‘And what of this Italian abbot? Do you know of him?’
De Blanchefort banged his empty mug on the table and Edwin hurried to refill it from a large jug. ‘Cosimo of Modena? Yes, I know him – who in France does not? He is a creature of Rome, though based at a priory near Paris. He has a roving commission to spy out heresy, supposedly being a servant of Hugh, Bishop of Auxerre, and William of the White Hands, Archbishop of Reims, who have taken it upon themselves to root out any form of dissension against Catholic orthodoxy. But he is widely thought to answer only to Rome itself.’
De Wolfe glanced at Thomas, who leered back smugly, to confirm that this was what he had already discovered.
‘And who is the most dangerous of all these?’ persisted the coroner, doggedly seeking the likely killer of de Ridefort.
‘Cosimo is most poisonous of them all, though I doubt that physically he is dangerous. That is why he travels with those two retainers who can protect his skin from the thousands who would like to flay it from his miserable bones – and to carry out any mischief he orders.’
‘And the Templars?’
‘Most of our Order are honourable men, unaware of the great secret that the Poor Knights of Christ have guarded for three-quarters of a century. Only recently has there been some leakage of the truth that is beginning to unsettle the consciences of a few knights such as myself.’ He paused for a drink. ‘These three are probably blind adherents to the Rule, who will carry out any mission directed by the Masters of a country or Commanders of Houses. This Roland de Ver ranks as a Commander of Knights, a step higher in the hierarchy of the Order, which again makes it ridiculous to think that he is on a mission to buy land.’
A distant bell tolled from the cathedral and de Wolfe downed the last of his ale and rose to his feet. ‘If you are set on this rash sermon of yours, you have a day to prepare, but I suggest you keep out of sight in the city, as did Gilbert de Ridefort when he was here. You could stay at this inn – it is far better than the Saracen.’
De Blanchefort looked around the big ale-room of the Bush, but shook his head. ‘I agree it is superior, but my horse is in their stable and my saddle bags in their loft. Also, I think it may be a less obvious place to find me, as I understand this is well known as the best inn in Exeter.’
Nesta beamed at this compliment, even though it meant that she lost a few pence in trade.
John murmured to her as they left, ‘Get Edwin and the maids to put it about that there will be a revelation on the cathedral steps after the morning services tomorrow – I want the news to get around.’
The Saracen tavern was only a few yards away, on Stepcote Hill leading down to the river. At the end of Idle Lane, de Wolfe waited until he saw the figure of Bernardus reach the door safely, his floppy hat pulled well down over his face.
Then he gave instructions to Gwyn, and especially Thomas, to spend the rest of the day advertising de Blanchefort’s proposed sermon, before walking back to his own house. He considered telling his friend the archdeacon of the man’s intentions, but could not bring himself to commit such obvious treachery against him, even though it might conceivably save his life.
However, when he arrived home he did tell Matilda. He found her in a subdued mood after the funeral and had no idea how she would take the news that yet another heretic had arrived in town. She listened in silence from her usual cowled chair by the hearth.
‘Sir Gilbert told us he was coming,’ she said, in a dull monotone. ‘Is he to suffer the same fate?’
When de Wolfe described how the new arrival intended to give a public declaration of the Templars’ awful secret, she roused herself from her apathy and became increasingly incensed. ‘Though I thought so highly of Gilbert de Ridefort, I have to accept now that it was God’s will that caused him to be struck down for his blasphemous thoughts – but at least he kept them to himself. Now this other man comes, full of the devil’s intentions. What is the world coming to, John? Is the anti-Christ now on earth and are we soon to witness Armageddon?’ Her voice rose stridently as her anger gathered pace. Her infatuation with Gilbert seemed to have died with him. As usual, she turned her sharp tongue in the direction of her husband. ‘You have been an instrument in this, John,’ she chided, leaning forward in her chair to bristle at him. ‘You should have sent de Ridefort packing from the county as soon as you realised that he was possessed of such heresy. The devil must have been within him, too, to make me feel warmly towards him, when all the time he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’
De Wolfe failed to follow her logic but wisely kept silent as she continued to vent her spleen on him. ‘And as for this new intruder, you should denounce him to the Church at once – and to my brother. He should be arrested and turned over to those who can close his blasphemous mouth.’