Gwyn had been listening in the background and now his smutted red face was crinkled in thought. ‘What did that whoreson priest mean when he said that “at least one has suffered her just deserts”? Who was the other one, then?’
Ralph and John stared at each other for a moment. ‘The man’s right, what did he mean?’ asked the constable.
John rubbed his cheeks, the soot on top of the stubble giving added weight to his nickname of ‘Black John’. ‘Lucy warned me several times, in her odd fashion, that Nesta was at risk, as she dabbles a little in herbs and remedies.’
The fleeting memory of the woman with the wry neck came back to him and he slammed a fist into his palm. ‘That damned woman, what was her name, Heloise! Last week, she came to see Nesta on some pretext or other. I saw her again here, among the mob in the lane!’
‘What about her?’ asked Morin, mystified.
‘She was sister to a doxy of the sheriff,’ explained Gwyn.
‘I’ll swear he arranged that, just to get false testimony against her, the same as happened with Jolenta of Ide and Alice Ailward,’ fumed John. ‘If it’s true, then breaking the bastard will not only be a duty, but a great pleasure!’
Gwyn was still worried. ‘If it is true, then Nesta is still in danger. That bloody canon could still get the woman to come forward and denounce Nesta, the same as with the others.’
Morin nodded his big head. ‘If I were you, John, I’d get her away from here for a time, until things settle down. With the Bush burned to the ground, there’s nowhere for her to stay, nor anything for her to do in Exeter.’
With a new worry to burden him, de Wolfe paced up and down for a moment, until he came to a decision. ‘You’re right, the risk is too great, until I’ve had a chance to deal with those swine. I’ll take her to my mother in Stoke-in-Teignhead. She’ll be safe there and well looked after.’
Morin agreed, but added a caution. ‘Try to keep it secret, John, in case those persistent devils try to find her. I’m sure you and Gwyn can find a way.’
The coroner resumed his pacing, deep in thought. Then he came back and gave Gwyn a broad smile. ‘I have a feeling that this afternoon, we will be called out down Sidmouth way to see a dead body. Make sure that Thomas turns out with that mangy pony and that ridiculous side-saddle, fit only for women!’
It would take more than a day for the ruins of the tavern to cool sufficiently for a search to be made for any remnants of Lucy’s poor body and there was nothing to be done about the place until then. Later that morning, de Wolfe and Nesta stood at the door of the kitchen, which thankfully, like the other outbuildings, was undamaged. They sadly surveyed the wreckage, which had stopped flaming and was now a sullen, smoking heap of charred wood and thatch. He thought of the comfortable French bed that he had bought for his mistress and vowed to get another as soon as the place was rebuilt. John solemnly promised Nesta that he would personally pay for the rebuilding out of his considerable profits from the wool-exporting business that he shared with his friend Hugh de Relaga. She agreed, on condition that it was to be a loan, repaid out of the future profits of the inn. This had happened once before, when she was left almost destitute on the death of her husband. The tavern had done so well under her enthusiastic management, with her excellent cooking and superb brewing skills, that she had given him back his money within a year.
With Gwyn’s help, he arranged the covert escape of Nesta from the city and went home briefly to see whether Matilda had come back from her cousin’s house. There was no sign of her, and John confided in Mary the details of the plan, telling her to let it be known when the mistress returned home that he had been called to a suspicious death near Sidmouth. This was in the opposite direction from Stoke-in-Teignhead, though he doubted that Matilda would be fooled for long by his subterfuge.
About noon, Nesta set off with one of her serving maids, allegedly going to stay with the girl’s cousin in the village of Wonford, just south of the city. She dressed in dull, inconspicuous clothes borrowed from her other maid, who lived in Rack Lane, and carefully hid her red hair under a cover-chief. They mingled with a group of pilgrims as they went out through the South Gate and walked a couple of miles down the Topsham road into open country. Here, they met up with the three members of the coroner’s team, waiting with their horses in the shelter of a wood at the side of the road. Thomas de Peyne was almost in tears of relief as he greeted Nesta, safe and sound. He had a dog-like devotion for the Welsh woman, who was always kind and concerned for the poor waif’s well-being. He gladly handed over his side-saddled pony to her and brushed off her apologies for making him walk back to Exeter. He would willingly have crawled back on his hands and knees, if it would help her in any way. Nesta hoisted herself into the saddle and with John and his officer flanking her on either side, set off for Topsham, another couple of miles away, while Thomas and the maid began trudging back to the city.
At the little port of Topsham, where the Exe widened out into its estuary, they crossed the river on the ferry and made for the line of low hills that ran down to the sea at Dawlish. Here Nesta grinned secretly to herself, in spite of her sadness, as she saw de Wolfe, with exaggerated nonchalance, look neither right nor left as they passed through the seaside village. She was well aware that Thorgils’ wife, the delectable blonde Hilda, was an old flame and still an occasional lover of his, but she was now confident enough of his true affection to realise that Hilda was no threat to her.
By early evening they had forded the Teign near where it flowed into the sea, having to wait an hour for the tide to drop sufficiently. Less than another hour later they were in the small village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, where John had been born. It was in a small valley, neat strip fields and some common pasture sweeping up to the trees that surrounded it on all sides. Nesta had been here once before and again received a warm welcome at the small manor house at the far end of the village. John’s widowed mother, Enyd de Wolfe, was a small, sprightly woman with red hair only slightly sprinkled with grey. Her mother had been Cornish and her father was from Gwent, the same Welsh princedom as Nesta herself, so they had much in common, as well as a common language. John’s sister Evelyn was also happy to see Nesta, who was only a few years younger than herself. She was a plump, homely lady and, like her mother, preferred John’s mistress to his wife, who had always treated them with a supercilious disdain, thinking them country yokels and Celtic barbarians. Although Matilda had been born in Devon and and had spent only a month of her life with distant relatives in Normandy, she always considered herself one of that superior race of conquerors.
John’s elder brother William, who ran the two manors to John’s financial benefit, was as usual out supervising the business of the estate, this time at Holcombe, their other manor north of the Teign. Gwyn was hustled off to the kitchens, where eager serving maids made his life complete by plying him with food and drink until he was fit to burst, while the women took John and Nesta into their comfortable hall and sat them down with refreshments, to hear all their news of the big city. They listened with fascinated horror to the tale of woe that their visitors related, especially the burning of the Bush tavern.
‘But it will be rebuilt — and very soon!’ vowed John. ‘The stone shell is still sound and all the outbuildings are intact, so all it needs is a new floor and a roof.’
Nesta looked at him with a mixture of affection and doubt. ‘That will cost a great deal of money, John. And how am I to live until then?’