The archdeacon came back into the discussion, privately most concerned – as was his friend the coroner – about Gilbert de Ridefort’s bloody end. ‘Abbot Cosimo, I am not at all clear about your mission in Devon. Did you come because of these two Templars?’
The Italian’s strange profile slowly turned up to the taller priest. ‘I regret that I cannot discuss such matters, Archdeacon. As you know, I am a papal nuncio and as such have complete authority to conduct myself in any way that seems beneficial to the Holy See. But I can tell you that I am charged with the rooting out of heresy, wherever it may be found.’
After being told to mind his own business, John de Alençon stared stonily at de Revelle. ‘What is to be done about this, Sheriff? Though I have pointed out to you that the precinct is outwith your jurisdiction, I take your point about not wanting a riot. Already, several of my priests and some monks have protested to me about the rumours concerning tomorrow.’
Richard threw back his cloak over one shoulder in a dramatic gesture. ‘I will arrest the man the moment he shows his face. I will soon find some suitable charge.’
In spite of an icy glare from Roland de Ver, Brian de Falaise cut across de Revelle in a loud voice. ‘Let us take him! We need no legalistic excuse, he is a renegade member of our Order and as such is subject to our discipline. As our leader says, we need to remove him to the New Temple so that he can be readjusted.’
De Wolfe wondered if ‘readjustment’ included tearing de Blanchefort’s arms from their sockets on the rack, but the priest from Modena was now entering the verbal fray.
‘What matters is that this troublemaker must not be allowed to open his mouth in public,’ he hissed. ‘In five minutes before an audience of dull-witted but impressionable folk, he might begin something that could do incalculable damage to the Holy Church. I don’t care if the sheriff hangs him or the Templars drag him back to London, as long as he is not allowed to remain at liberty where at any time he might begin to spread this heresy.’ With a face that momentarily reminded de Wolfe of a snake, he threw a poisonous look at the coroner. ‘I hold you responsible in part for all this trouble. You seem very bound up with these two men – I trust you yourself have no leanings towards their perverted ideas.’
He looked over his shoulder to where his two glowering retainers stood menacingly near the door. ‘I intend to have a presence in the cathedral Close tomorrow, as a safety measure in case you others fail in your duties.’ With that, he pulled up the pointed hood of his black habit, glided towards his men and vanished with them into the night.
Now the Templars, the archdeacon and the sheriff all turned to the coroner. ‘So where is he, John?’ snapped de Revelle. ‘You seem to know most about him. In fact, we have only your word for it that he actually exists!’
‘De Blanchefort exists all right, as did de Ridefort,’ growled Brian de Falaise. ‘I saw them both in Outremer – they were strange then. De Ridefort had strangeness in the blood, for his damned uncle proved that!’
John de Alençon held his hands as if in prayer. ‘Do you know where he is now, John?’
‘I have no idea where he is,’ said the coroner, almost truthfully. ‘I presume he is still in the city, as the gates are now locked, though he may have left since this afternoon, when I last saw him.’
De Wolfe satisfied his conscience with the evasion that he did not know exactly – to a few hundred paces – where Bernardus was at that moment, for as soon as he had known that he was going to the Chapter House for an inevitable grilling about the fugitive, he had seized Gwyn in the castle guardroom and sent him down to the Saracen to get the Templar out and hide him somewhere until the morning.
One of the brown-cloaked Templar sergeants moved forward and whispered to Roland de Ver. The knight nodded and pulled thoughtfully at his right ear. ‘It is pointless trying to find this de Blanchefort tonight. I have never met him, but both my brothers here know him slightly by sight, and in the morning can patrol the streets around the cathedral to seek some sign of him.’
De Ver pulled his white mantle with the bold red cross more closely around him in preparation for leaving. ‘Whatever happens, this man must not be allowed to climb the cathedral steps, let alone open his mouth to say even as much as “Good morning”,’ he declared. Turning on his heel he stalked from the bleak chamber, followed by the sheriff, then his fellow Knights of Christ and their sergeants.
The two Johns were left alone, apart from the rather overawed Thomas lurking near the lectern. ‘You have a talent for becoming involved in desperate situations, John,’ said the archdeacon, with a twinkle in his eye even at this serious moment. ‘A few months ago it was the murder of that silversmith, then it was the business of Prince John. Now you bring international heretics into our city and cathedral! What will it be next?’
De Wolfe gave his friend one of his rare grins. ‘I’ll think of something, John, never fear!’
Chapter Thirteen
In which Crowner John plays a trick
The services of Terce, Sext, Nones and High Mass took place in the choir of the cathedral from about the ninth hour of the morning. The first three were short devotions, mainly sung psalms. Once the main mass of the day was over, the clergy, who had already been at Prime and then the Chapter meeting since about the seventh hour, were usually more than ready for their dinner at about the eleventh.
But this Sunday morning, even empty stomachs were not enough to keep many of the canons, vicars, secondaries and choristers away from the West Front, attracted by the rumours that had been circulating since the previous day. The prospect of a break from the tedium of the endless round of services, the same faces and the same surroundings of the episcopal city-within-a-city, drew a considerable crowd into the Close and the number of clerics was swollen by scores of citizens.
The mood was one of curiosity rather than a desire for enlightenment, though a few of the older people, both lay and clergy, were either indignant or incensed that someone might have the effrontery to try to preach heresy from the cathedral steps.
As the black-robed clerics streamed out of the door from the nave into the weak sunshine – for it had stopped raining at last – they slowed down into a sluggish pool of humanity surrounding the broad West Front of the huge building. Some, whose desire for food was greater than for dramatic diversion, walked slowly towards their lodgings, determined that if nothing exciting occurred before they reached the edge of the Close they would go home. But many others milled about the foot of the steps, gossiping and staring around, eager to get a glimpse of the renegade who had promised to reveal some awful secret.
Amongst this fluid throng were a number of solid rocks, in the shape of sentinels determined to prevent any such sabotage of the Faith. The three Templars and their sergeants were spaced out across the width of the building, within easy reach of the steps. In the centre, Abbot Cosimo stood, closely flanked by his silent henchmen who stared around them with suspicious hostility. Further back, in an arc at the edge of the open space before the West Front, stood the sheriff, with Ralph Morin, the castle constable and half a dozen men-at-arms under Sergeant Gabriel.
Near the small wicket-gate set in the closed centre door to the nave, Archdeacon John de Alençon stood with the coroner, though for once neither of de Wolfe’s assistants was with him.
Every moment or two, a ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd, as someone saw, or fancied he saw, a stranger appear in the Close. Several times, this rolling murmur came then faded, and each time there was a tensing of muscles and shifting of feet amongst the guardians of truth.