His brother-in-law seemed to lose some of his naked antipathy at this news, as he stared at John in obvious surprise. 'Le Calve? Was he set upon in a robbery?'
The coroner described what had happened, holding back no detail of the macabre killing. All he held back was his vague suspicion that there might be a tenuous connection with other deaths, such as that of Thorgils and his men.
'But what has this to do with my father? He died sixteen years ago.'
De Wolfe had cause to remember that, as it had been a year after Sir Gervaise de Revelle had agreed with his own father to the disastrous marriage between his daughter Matilda and the dashing young warrior John de Wolfe.
'I have been told that Peter le Calve's father was previously a close friend of your own father. I am trying to find any clue in Peter's past which might explain why he was murdered in such a bizarre manner. I have asked Matilda, but she says she was too young to have any useful recollection of the elder le Calve.'
Richard was so relieved that the visit of the coroner was unconnected with his own past that he abandoned the hostile antagonism with which he had come prepared to meet de Wolfe. His brow wrinkled in thought as he pirouetted on a foot before the fire.
'I remember Arnulf, Peter's father. He was of Gervaise's generation and they campaigned together a number of times.'
'Including in Outremer, I understand,' prompted John.
'Yes, as a child and a younger man, I heard endless boring tales of those battles. But what in God's name can any of that have to do with Peter le Calve?'
De Wolfe sighed. 'I will be frank, Richard, I am grasping at straws. A Norman knight has been murdered in a terrible fashion and a cathedral desecrated in a most sacrilegious way. I have not the slightest notion of who did this, nor why it was carried out in such a weird fashion, which seems to have some ritual significance.'
The appeal to his indignation at this assault upon Norman nobility struck a chord in Richard's aristocratic sensibilities, which were equally as snobbish as his sister's. 'It is certainly an outrage both to our class and to the Church!' he agreed. 'But I fail to see how his friendship with my father can enlighten you.'
John's fingers restlessly tapped the arm of his chair.
'Peter le Calve seems a highly unlikely candidate for some revenge killing. I fail to see how he could have engendered such hatred that he was sought out, crucified and beheaded. So I wonder whether he paid the price for some sin of his father?'
Richard looked uneasy at this. 'It is a theory with little substance, John. On that basis, given that my father and Arnulf le Calve shared so many campaigns together, then perhaps I am vulnerable as well!' He said this with an air of flippant bravado, but John detected an underlying concern in his voice. Richard de Revelle was not known for his personal bravery, and his ambitions had always been political, rather than military. He gave up his posing by the hearth and sat down opposite John, his elbow on the table and his fingers playing nervously with his small beard.
'The stories they told at the dining table and with wine cups around the fire were of many escapades in Ireland, France and especially the Holy Land,' he said.
'Any particular battles or sieges there?' demanded John.
'Damascus was the favourite, I seem to remember. They were both there in 'forty-eight.'
John grunted, contempt evident in his manner. 'The Second Crusade! The greatest fiasco this century. So they were at the siege, were they?'
Richard nodded, his anger at John's presence apparently submerged by this latest news, which, however faintly, might presage some danger for himself. 'And so were many others, both knights and men-at-arms. As far as I understand it, it was a military failure, but to hear those two older men talking, one would have thought it was a great victory. '
'But you heard nothing specific about the part your father or Gervaise played in it?' persisted John, worrying away at the problem like a terrier with a rat.
De Revelle shrugged his narrow shoulders under the elegant tunic of fine green wool. 'I can't recall all those tales spun on winters' nights. I was either a boy or a young man, more concerned with my own affairs. But no, there was nothing special over and above two old men boasting over a flagon of wine.'
The coroner could get nothing further from his brother-in-law after several more minutes of probing, and he sighed in acknowledgement of a wasted journey across more than half a county. Richard sensed this and, perhaps anxious to draw the meeting to an end before John could move on to more sensitive matters, he stood up and moved to the door.
'We will go to table in an hour, John. No doubt Matilda will then tell you herself, but she has decided to stay here for a few days. I will see that she is escorted back to Exeter in due course. Meanwhile, I trust that your business will not detain you and that you will be ready to leave first thing in the morning.'
With that abrupt dismissal, he went out and, in spite of the previous marked softening of his attitude towards John, slammed the door behind him with unnecessary force.
When Alexander of Leith and his dumb henchman Jan returned to the derelict castle with their French guide, they found that the missing men had returned. After they had taken their horses to the stable at the foot of the castle mound, they went to the next hut, which served as their kitchen and refectory. Raymond de Blois marched in and stopped just inside the rickety door.
'You're back, are you?' he exclaimed. 'Where the devil have you been for the past few days?
The Scotsman peered around the tall Frenchman's elbow and saw three men squatting cross-legged on the dried bracken in front of the fire-pit. Two were tall, wiry looking men of Moorish appearance with lean, dark faces and hooked noses over drooping black moustaches. They wore long shapeless habits of a thin white cloth unfamiliar to Alexander, belted with cords from which dangled the sheaths of vicious broad daggers. Around their heads were wound lengths of striped cloth, the loose ends hanging down their backs.
The other man was older, probably well over fifty, but powerfully built, with a thick neck and large hands. His features were also those of a Saracen, with leathery tanned skin, deep-set eyes and a rim of black beard around his chin. He wore a more elaborate green turban, but his dress was similar to the others', except that around his neck hung a gold crescent moon on a heavy gold chain. The three men stared up at the newcomers impassively, but made no reply.
Raymond walked over to them and beckoned the alchemist to follow him.
'This is Alexander, with whom you will work,' he said to the seated men in carefully precise French. 'I trust now that you have returned to the duties for which you are being so handsomely paid, you will start your work without more delay!'
He turned to the Scotsman and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'This man with the green headdress is Nizam alDin, a learned alchemist from the East, I'm not sure from where. He is the man that Prince John told you of when you were in Gloucester, being sent by the King of France. I hope you will work harmoniously together, for he speaks passable French.'
Nizam gave a perfunctory nod of greeting to his fellow wizard and curtly introduced the other two men.
'These are my servants, Abdul Latif and Malik Shah. They speak almost nothing of your language.' His own French was heavily accented and grammatically incorrect, but his meaning could be understood.
Alexander muttered some words of greeting, resolving never to trust these men and to be wary of ever turning his back on them. His main concern was to discover whether they had any new knowledge about the transmutation of metals, which had been his life's labour, along with the search for the related Elixir of Life.