'Again, a clean cut, no shattered bone. It's gone through the gristle between the joints of the spine.'
'So not hacked off with an axe?' grunted the monk, sounding rather disappointed.
'No, it could have been the same knife as cut through the soft flesh,' growled Gwyn. 'Looks as if the killer knew what he was doing — perhaps he had been a butcher!'
'You say 'killer', but was this poor fellow dead or alive when his head was cut off?' demanded the bloodthirsty chaplain.
John shrugged. 'No way of telling, Brother. If he had been still alive, there would have been a fountain of blood from the pipes in his neck — but he was found in a stream, which would have washed most of it away.'
'And remember, he also had a stab wound to his vitals, which may well have been the cause of his death,' Gwyn reminded them. 'I'd wager his head came off afterwards.'
John rose to his feet and motioned to his officer to put the remains back into the sack. 'Whichever way it was, he's dead — and he was murdered, so we have to discover who did it. At the moment, only God knows, begging your pardon, Chaplain.'
They left Brother Rufus to his contemplation of the wicked ways of man and set off on the short journey to Shillingford. An early morning carter had already taken the news from Exeter to the village, and they found the sons and their steward and bailiff waiting anxiously for their arrival. Godfrey and William le Calve had the distressing task of formally confirming that the contents of the sack were indeed the head of their late father and, this done, the coroner suggested that, together with the genitalia, it be reunited with the rest of the body without delay. The surly parish priest was summoned and told to get the sexton and dig up the coffin. An hour later, John accompanied the brothers to the grave-side, where the manor servants joined them in silence as the sexton replaced the head in an approximately correct position, packing it with cloths to hold it in place.
The priest muttered some dirge in Latin as the coffin lid was nailed back and the mortal remains of the manor-lord were once again lowered into the red soil of Devon. As they turned away from the grave, John again noticed the pale woman standing inconspicuously in the background and guessed that this had been Sir Peter's leman.
A subdued pair of brothers offered them meat and ale in the hall and de Wolfe sat with them as he tried to squeeze out more information.
'He had no connection with the cathedral or any of its canons that you know of?'
Godfrey shook his head sorrowfully. 'None at all. He attended Masses here in our own church, as we all do. But he had no further interest in religion, beyond what is expected of everyone.'
The old steward, perhaps wiser in the ways of the world than the others, broke his silence with a more profound thought.
'Perhaps this sacrilege was aimed not at Sir Peter himself, but at the Holy Church in general — some gesture of hatred or contempt?'
The others mulled this over for a moment.
'Both he and his father Arnulf had been Crusaders,' said William. 'But that should raise his esteem in the eyes of the Church.'
'But not in the eyes of Saracens,' observed the steward. John's face swivelled to look at the old greybeard. 'Strange that you should say that, for it hovers temptingly close to certain ideas that I have had myself.'
Godfrey was scornful of this train of thought. 'Saracens! Crowner, this is Shillingford, about as unlikely a place to expect Turks and Mussulmen as anywhere in England.'
John was not prepared to share his scraps of information gleaned from the Justiciar, or his theory about the shape of the knife blade, so he let it pass, but he felt that the venerable steward might not be too short of the mark.
The denizens of the manor had no further information of any help, as no one had come forward to report any unusual happenings or the appearance of strangers in the village. Frustrated once again, the coroner set off for Exeter, arriving there in time to attend two Tuesday hangings, then go home for his dinner.
On Wednesday, John was determined to make some progress in investigating all these deaths. He resolved to revisit Ringmore and the banks of the Avon.
'We'll leave first thing in the morning,' he told Gwyn. 'Matilda will carp and gripe again at my absence for a few days, but to hell with her!'
Even at the Bush that evening, his announcement that he was riding off to the southern coast was received with raised eyebrows on the part of his mistress. He guessed straight away that she suspected that the part of that coastline might embrace Dawlish, so he made a point of emphasising that their path would lie through Buckfast and end at Ringmore, which seemed to dampen Nesta's hovering jealousy.
By midnight, he was sound asleep in his own bed, dreaming of shapely women, prancing horses and the sound of battles long past.
The hut that Alexander of Leith entered at the old castle at Bigbury was even worse inside than it appeared from the exterior. There was a fire-pit in the centre which was producing the smoke that he had seen lazily wreathing from under the thatch, but very little else. A rough table and a shelf on the wall held cooking pots and some dishes, as well as a few jars of ale and cider. Some piles of dried bracken in the corners appeared to be all there was in the way of sleeping accommodation. A bench and two milking stools completed the furnishings. The little Scot glared around in indignation.
'You don't expect us to live in this hovel?' he demanded, in his Gaelic-accented English. The target of his outrage was the man who had waved them into the bailey on their arrival. Raymond de Blois was a tough-looking Frenchman, with the appearance of a soldier but the manners of a gentleman. Of average height, he was lean and wiry, with a long clean-shaven face and short-cropped dark hair. He wore a calf-length tunic of good brown broadcloth, girdled with a heavy belt and diagonal baldric, from which hung a substantial sword and dagger. Alexander had met him before in France and at Prince John's court at Gloucester, and had been impressed by his courage and intelligence.
Now Raymond grinned at the diminutive alchemist and shook his head.
'Never fear, my friend, we've got better accommodation for you than this! A couple of loutish servants live in here — they are little better than outlaws. In fact, we encourage that notion, to keep off any curious peasants that may wander this way.'
He led Alexander outside again. 'I was just sheltering in there, to await your coming,' he explained. 'In fact, I have been waiting for three days, to be sure that I would intercept you, though in the event you were punctual to the dates we discussed in Paris.'
'What is this place?' asked Alexander, looking around at the overgrown courtyard and the moss-covered stones half hidden in long grass.
'I am told that it was one of the many castles that were hastily built some fifty years ago, during what the Normans called the 'Anarchy', and later destroyed by their second Henry when he came to the throne.'
The Scotsman nodded knowingly. Though also a foreigner in England, he had lived here for many years and his wide knowledge of many subjects included some history.
'I was born during those times, after the first Henry expired and left no male heir after his son died in the White Ship tragedy,' he expounded. 'They say that for almost twenty years the country was racked by civil war between his daughter Matilda and his nephew Stephen.'
De Blois shrugged — as a Frenchman, both Normans and the English were his enemies, which was why he was here now, to aid his own King Philip in unseating the present ruler of these islands.
'The lands hereabouts, including this ruin, belong to Prince John, Count of Mortain, which is why he is able to arrange for our activities to take place here.'