‘Did you see this man de Blanchefort last night to warn him off?’ asked the archdeacon, as another false alarm died down.
‘I’ve not set eyes on him, apart from that one meeting,’ said de Wolfe, truthfully as he had used Gwyn as an intermediary. ‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll stay well clear of this ambush, unless he wants to risk the same fate as his friend.’
Suddenly there was a stir at the further end of the front of the cathedral, towards the corner facing Canon’s Row. Heads turned, fingers pointed, and a surge in the murmur and chatter sent several of Gabriel’s men pushing forward through the crowd. But they were outpaced by one of the servants of the Italian priest and also the sergeant of Brian de Falaise, closely followed by the Templar knight himself. They converged on someone who had walked around the corner of the building from the north side, keeping close to the wall until he reached the edge of the half-dozen long steps that stretched below the three big doors. Once the movement began, it was almost alive in its self-generation and a wave of people surged forward, the sentinels pushing and thrashing to get to the front.
The archdeacon stretched his thin neck to see better and began to move forward too, but John de Wolfe stayed where he was, a faint smile on his saturnine face. The first to press up to the new arrival was Cosimo’s familiar, who seized him and swung him around. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled well down over his head and a long grey cloak with a hood, which lay in concealing folds around his neck and face. He was a big man, tall and wide within the folds of his mantle.
De Falaise was the next to reach him and, with a cry of triumph, grabbed him by the arm. Simultaneously, the sheriff and Cosimo pressed through to form a tight circle in the midst of the confused throng of clerics and townsfolk.
‘They seem to have got him, so pray God he cannot begin his devilish oratory!’ cried the archdeacon, but the coroner remained impassive, assured that there would be no attempt at any seditious speech. He watched as the man pulled away angrily from the grip of several who were now pawing at him, amid shouts of ‘Heretic!’ and ‘Anti-Christ!’
A second later, his hat was pulled off and his cloak ripped open, which provoked a great roar from the man. ‘Get off me, damn you! Can’t a fellow have a Sunday morning walk without being assaulted?’ The bright red hair, wild as a hayrick in a gale, and the luxuriant moustache revealed the presumed heretic as Gwyn of Polruan, doing his best not to laugh at the chagrin of his would-be capturers.
‘Who the hell are you?’ roared de Falaise, who had never seen the coroner’s officer before. Ralph Morin and Gabriel enlightened him, themselves suppressing grins. Although they had had no foreknowledge of Gwyn’s appearance, they knew instantly who had instigated the jest. The sheriff also knew, but he was by no means amused. ‘You great oaf! What do you think you’re doing?’ he snapped, confronting the Cornishman.
De Wolfe felt it was time he gave his officer some support and pushed his way to his side. ‘Ah, there you are, Gwyn,’ he said loudly. ‘You’re late, as usual.’
Abbot Cosimo and Roland de Ver demanded to know what was going on, as both realised that this was not Bernardus de Blanchefort.
‘This fellow has been making fools of us!’ blustered Richard de Revelle.
The coroner fixed him with a steely eye. ‘Since when is it forbidden for a citizen to walk peacefully in the cathedral Close, Sheriff?’
Richard de Revelle glared at his brother-in-law. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, John. When did your lout of a man ever wear a pilgrim’s hat and a grey cloak? Tattered leather and a sack around his head is his usual attire.’
‘Then we should be pleased that his tastes are improving, Richard,’ countered John sarcastically.
The crowd sensed that the fun was over and most realised that no heretic was likely to appear now. But Cosimo remained suspicious and looked around in every direction, with jerky movements of his head. ‘Can we be sure that this is not some trick, some diversion to allow de Blanchefort to slip past us?’ he hissed to Roland de Ver. He prodded his two retainers hard in their ribs to send them hurrying to each end of the West Front to stare about for any other stranger, who failed conspicuously to appear.
‘Come on, Gwyn, we have work to do,’ barked de Wolfe, with a wink at Ralph Morin. They walked away, leaving the three Templars glowering suspiciously after them and an exasperated sheriff protesting again to the archdeacon, who now could hardly conceal a smile of relief that no challenge to his beloved Church had been made.
Outside his house in Martin’s Lane, de Wolfe retrieved his hat and cloak from Gwyn and asked him about Thomas de Peyne. ‘Did they get away as we arranged?’
Gwyn nodded, still pleased with his role in the little play-acting they had devised. ‘Soon after dawn he collected the Templar from the Saracen and rode with him out of the North Gate. Even at that little dwarf’s riding pace, they should be past Crediton by now.’
‘Where are we to meet them on Tuesday?’
Gwyn dragged thoughtfully at one end of his moustache.
‘It’s difficult if we are with all those others. I told Thomas to hide de Blanchefort away somewhere well outside Bideford, then to come and meet us at the bridge at noon. We should be there by then.’
After Gwyn had gone about his business, de Wolfe entered his house where he had a silent meal with Matilda. She enquired shortly as to whether the heretic had appeared and he told her equally shortly that there had been no sign of Bernardus de Blanchefort. He made no mention of Gwyn’s mischievous masquerade, not wanting to give his wife another opportunity to castigate him.
Simon tottered in with a jug of wine, which Matilda seemed to relish far more than the salted herrings, turnip and cabbage that Mary provided from the kitchen. De Wolfe watched covertly as his wife drank a mug of the red Poitou and immediately refilled it. Since the shame of her brother’s involvement in the abortive rebellion in the New Year, he had noticed that Matilda sought solace not only from her religious devotions but also from the wine flask.
Following the miserable meal, she called for Lucille, who helped her up to the solar to lie on her bed until it was time for her next pilgrimage to St Olave’s.
John took the opportunity to go down to Idle Lane, where he also went to bed – in Nesta’s little room on the upper floor of the Bush. They made love energetically and repeatedly until they lay side by side in delicious exhaustion, his arm about her shoulders. As the thumping of his heartbeat subsided almost to normal, he stared up lazily at the rough roof beams, his eyes tracing the twisted hazel withies that supported the thick straw thatch above them. He told her about the scene in the cathedral Close that morning and Nesta wanted to know why he gone out of his way to help de Blanchefort.
‘Like de Ridefort, he was both a Crusader and a Templar, for whom I have always had admiration for their bravery and fighting prowess,’ he explained.
‘You old soldiers always stick together, eh?’ she said, in a gently mocking tone. He pinched her bare belly with his free hand and she squirmed under the sheepskin that covered them. ‘Not only that, but I had made a promise to Gilbert to help them both get away – and as I feel partly responsible for his death, I had to keep my word.’
She turned her head impulsively to kiss his black-stubbled neck. ‘It was not you who killed him, John. Someone else wielded that club and spear. Do you have any idea yet who it may have been?’
His gaze dropped to the rough boards that partitioned off this corner of the loft. Though it was a crude chamber, he had enjoyed more pleasure within its walls than anywhere else on earth. He shook away the thought and answered her question. ‘It must be either one of the Templars or their squires – though I would prefer it to be this poisonous abbot or his men. Not that I have any chance of discovering who it was now,’ he added regretfully. ‘I had hoped to use Bernardus as a tethered goat to tempt the killer to try again, but it could never have worked in the middle of Exeter. I had to smuggle him out for his own safety.’