In the large room upstairs, the maid served ale and wine, and platters of fine wheaten bread, cheese and savoury pastries were handed around. Though sad, Hilda seemed to be bearing her new widowhood with equanimity and was quite willing to talk business with the two men from Exeter. The portreeve did most of the talking, and they soon agreed on a mutually advantageous scheme, which could later be put in writing and sealed by one of the few lawyers in the city.
'Will I need to take any active part in this?' she asked. 'I have no knowledge of business and cannot even write my own name!'
Hugh's cherubic face creased in a smile. 'All you need do, dear lady, is buy a larger treasure chest, as I have no doubt that John will be coming down quite often to add more silver to it!'
Even this jocular reference to frequent future visits to Dawlish caused a worm of unease to wriggle in the back of de Wolfe's brain. The other night, when he had gone up to Nesta's bed, their lazy conversation after making love had drifted to his proposition to include Hilda in the partnership. He immediately sensed a stiffening in her voice, and she enquired several times how often this would require him to travel to Dawlish. The mild tenseness passed off quickly, but left him with a wariness and a resolve to tread very softly with Nesta where any mention of Hilda was concerned.
Here in the blonde woman's solar, he sighed at the thought that now two women were looking on Hilda as a threat — his wife and his mistress.
That week, there were fewer cases to deal with than usual and at home Matilda was no better and no worse, spending most of her time either praying or staying with her cousin in Fore Street. She ignored him at mealtimes and at night he contrived to stay out of her bed until she was asleep.
With Nesta, he was careful to avoid any mention of Hilda and the concern he harboured over her nascent jealousy thankfully subsided. When she asked him whether there had been any news of who might have killed the ship's crew, he kept the discussion strictly to the Ringmore end of the story — not that anything had been reported from there to give him the slightest clue as to what might have happened.
'I must go down there again soon and see if any local news has surfaced,' he said. 'To be honest, I have no idea where to start looking, unless someone in that locality comes up with some information.'
Towards the end of the week, another matter began to absorb their attention, though it was mainly Thomas de Peyne who was involved.
At last the time had come for him to go to Winchester to be received back into the bosom of his beloved Church, following his absolution from the alleged crime that had led to his ignominious ejection from the priesthood. When he was teaching in the cathedral school there, a malicious accusation of indecency had been made by one of the girl pupils and Thomas was lucky to escape with his neck intact. As an unfrocked priest, he almost starved for a year — until he walked to Exeter to throw himself on the mercy of his archdeacon uncle, who found him a clerk's job with the new coroner.
Now he was to attend the cathedral there on Thursday of the following week for the brief ceremony that would restore him to grace. Originally, John was going to send Gwyn with him as a companion and bodyguard on the long journey, but fortuitously the sheriffs trip to the exchequer to deliver the county taxes coincided with Thomas's appointment. Henry de Furnellis readily agreed to having the clerk tag along with his party, which would be escorted by Sergeant Gabriel and six men-at-arms, to make sure that the large sum of silver coinage would be safe from prowling outlaws.
In addition, after this had been arranged, Archdeacon John de Alençon, Thomas's uncle, decided to include himself in the party. He claimed to have ecclesiastical business in Winchester, but the coroner suspected that he was keen not only to see his much-maligned nephew vindicated, but to savour the chagrin of his fellow canons in Winchester, who had so readily accepted the downfall of his young relative.
They were to leave at dawn on Monday, spending two nights on the journey, which was almost a hundred miles. By Friday, Thomas was already in a fever of excitement, hardly able to credit that the nightmare of his long period in the wildnerness was now almost over. He persuaded Gwyn to shave his tonsure down to his scalp, scraping off every vestige of thin mousy hair from the top of his head. His uncle bought him a new black robe to replace the patched, threadbare garment that he had worn for more than two years. Nesta gave him a pair of strong leather boots and Gwyn's present was a new shoulder bag of doehide to carry his writing materials. John, bereft of any original ideas to celebrate this happy event, handed him a purse containing a hundred silver pennies, the equivalent of more than four weeks' wages. The little clerk was overcome by the kindness of his friends and babbled his thanks to each of them, tears of gratitude mingling with his joy.
Monday morning could not come soon enough for Thomas, but then on Sunday, at about the ninth hour of the Sabbath, just as the nearby cathedral bell was tolling for Terce, de Wolfe was in the stable across the lane from his house. He was waiting for Andrew the farrier to finish saddling Odin, as John felt that the big stallion needed some exercise down on Bull Mead and perhaps a canter down the Wonford road and back. Just as Andrew was tightening the saddle girth, a figure appeared in the doorway from the lane. So often in the past, it had been Gwyn arriving with some news of a fresh body, but this-time it was Sergeant Gabriel. John's first thought was that he had come with some news of a change of plan for the sheriff's departure for Winchester the next day, but the grizzled old soldier had news of a different kind.
'A fellow from Shillingford has just turned up at the gatehouse with some nasty news, Crowner!' he exclaimed, with an excited gleam in his eye. 'Their manor-lord has been found dead, on account of his head being lopped off and gone missing!'
John stared suspiciously at Gabriel, but he knew that the sergeant was not much given to humour or practical jokes.
'Shillingford? That's the honour of Sir Peter le Calve! Dead, you say?'
His tone carried incredulity, as in peacetime manorlords were not expected to be murdered.
'Dead as mutton, Sir John! Beheaded, he was — and no sign of his nut anywhere!'
'Is Gwyn up at Rougemont?'
'I'm sure he is, Crowner. Playing dice in the hall, last I saw of him.'
De Wolfe turned to the farrier, whose jaw had dropped at this bizarre news. 'Get Odin ready for the road, Andrew, while I go for my cloak and sword. Gabriel, get back to the castle and tell Gwyn to saddle up and meet me back here, as quick as he can.'
As the sergeant turned to hurry away, the coroner called after him.
'And send whoever brought the message down with him.'
As the farrier fussed with Odin, John went across to his house and sought out Mary to tell her that he would be missing his dinner once again. When he told her where he was going, she asked whether she should fetch Thomas.
'No, leave the poor little fellow in peace today. No doubt he's praying in the cathedral, practising for next week. He'd be in no fit state to do any work, anyway.'
He stalked to the vestibule and pulled on a pair of riding boots, buckled on his sword and slung his mottled wolfskin cloak over his shoulders, securing it over his left collar-bone with a large buckle and pin. Then he went back to the stable to wait impatiently for his officer to arrive.
It was a short ride to Shillingford, as the village lay little more than two miles to the west of the Exe, on the high road that led to Ashburton, Buckfast Abbey and distant Plymouth. Going at a brisk trot, the three horsemen covered the distance in half an hour, long enough for de Wolfe to get the story from Alfred Clegland, the manorial servant who had brought the news. A short, red-faced man with bristly fair hair, he was the falconer, an unusual person to act as messenger, as he explained as he rode alongside the coroner.