The Manor of Death (25 page)

A few moments later the stocky gatekeeper returned, shaking his head. 'The prioress says that the lady has left instructions that she does not want to see anyone, especially you!'

De Wolfe glared at him, almost speechless. 'What the hell d'you mean, man? She's my wife, for God's sake!'

With the smug expression of a man who knows he has the whip hand, the porter shrugged. 'I'm only passing on the message, sir. There's no point in waiting here.'

'I demand to speak to the prioress,' fumed John. 'Do you want me to go in there waving a sword?'

The servant began to look apprehensive, as this fearsome dark man, almost a foot taller than himself, looked as if he was quite capable of carrying out his threat. Thankfully, the tension was broken by the appearance of someone else on the front steps of the building as another tall dark figure hurried down the path towards them. It was Dame Madge, the most senior of the nine sisters, skilled in the ailments of women, who had helped the coroner several times in the past over matters of ravishment and miscarriage. She dismissed the gatekeeper with a flick of her hand as she came up to de Wolfe.

'Sir John, no doubt you have come to seek news of Matilda?' she asked.

'I was away at my duties and returned home to find her gone, with no explanation whatsoever.'

The gaunt Benedictine fixed him with her deep-set eyes. 'She is in a very disturbed state, sir. Your wife requires peace and tranquillity for a time, to restore her humours. She wishes to cut herself off from the turmoil of the world until she decides what she wishes to do with the remainder of her life.'

John always felt slightly intimidated by this formidable woman, and his anger evaporated quickly. 'But we went through all this last year, sister!' he pleaded. 'Matilda came here intending to take her vows but soon decided against it. Is this just another fit of pique, directed against me?'

Dame Madge looked at him sorrowfully. 'Not only against you, sir, but from my conversations with her it seems that this time her brother is also a major offender. I cannot tell you what she will eventually decide, but she is certainly greatly troubled in her spirit and soul. We cannot do other than to offer her sanctuary for a time.'

John knew that his wife was a generous benefactor to the religious establishments that she patronised - and having a significant personal income from rents and other interests bequeathed to her by her father, she was able to encourage places like Polsloe to give her shelter when required. He sighed as he accepted the delays that seemed inevitable in getting this matter settled. 'So what shall I do, ma'am? Just wait until she deigns to speak to me?'

'Perhaps she never will,' replied the dame dispassionately. 'In the mood she is in at present, she may never again show her face to the outside world.' She bowed her head and, with a final benediction for God to preserve him, wished him good morning, then walked slowly back to the priory.

John retrieved his horse and trotted away, once again weighing up the chances of this setting him free from seventeen years of loveless marriage. He soon covered the short distance along a tree-lined track to the village of St Sidwell's, just outside the East Gate, where Gwyn lived in a miserable rented hut with his wife and two children. Having just left one priory with a healing mission, he now made his way to the other, a small establishment of the Benedictine Black Monks, who catered for the sick poor of the city. It lay in a side lane behind the gate, a simple range of rooms, the 'hospital' being a single large chamber with whitewashed walls. A row of five straw-stuffed mattresses lay along each side of the room, with a few open window-slits high above. On the blank end wall hung a large wooden cross in full view of every patient, emphasising that the main healer here was the Almighty, aided a little by the devoted staff. The most senior of these was Brother Saulf, a tall Saxon whose fair hair was shaved into a circular tonsure. He had been an apothecary's apprentice in London before entering holy orders and, together with his fellow monks, dispensed simple medical care to those who could not afford to pay one of the three professional apothecaries in the city. As with Dame Madge, de Wolfe had built up a good working relationship with Brother Saulf, after a number of incidents when he had had to call upon his expertise.

Though perhaps the Welsh stone carver was not that impoverished, the urgency of the situation and the monks' inability ever to turn away the suffering allowed him to be cared for - and John would quietly ensure that a generous donation would be made to the priory funds from his own purse.

When he entered the sick chamber, he was surprised to see a group of figures hovering over the pallet where Owain ap Gronow lay. One was Saulf, but the others were Archdeacon John de Alençon, Gwyn and Nesta, the last with a basket over her arm. When he walked past the half-dozen other patients to reach them, he found the Welshman beaming up at him, apparently in good spirits. He had one arm swathed in linen, supported by a leather thong around his neck, but apart from one bloodshot eye and some bruises on his face and neck Owain seemed alert and lively.

'I came to see the poor fellow as I feel a little responsible for his condition,' said the archdeacon, his bright eyes twinkling under the wiry grey hair that surrounded his bald crown. 'After all, it was I who prevailed upon my fellow archdeacon in Gloucester to send us the best craftsman they had to work on some of the statues on the cathedral shrines.'

'And that I'll start doing as soon as I can use this arm, sir,' promised the mason, smiling up at the Good Samaritans who had rescued him. 'No doubt my return to health will be greatly hastened by the good food that this kind lady has brought!' He tapped Nesta's basket with his free hand and she smiled down at him and almost clucked like a hen with a lame chick.

The archdeacon soon took his leave and walked out accompanied by Brother Saulf, leaving the others to revert to speaking in the Celtic tongue, though Owain's English was excellent, albeit with a strong Gwent accent like Nesta's.

'Are you recovering-well, lad?' asked John, calling him that though Owain was probably thirty years of age. He was a good-looking fellow, with dark curly hair and a pleasant face, in spite of the battering it had received.

'I am, sir, and have to thank you for my life,' replied the craftsman humbly. 'I will always be indebted to you and Gwyn here for that - and for sending me this beautiful Welshwoman who comes from within five miles of my own home!'

A little warning bell sounded in John's head. Was this new fellow, though amiable and respectful, going to be another threat like the man last year who had seduced her while working in the Bush? Certainly, by the look on her pretty face she was hugely enjoying compliments from a good-looking fellow countryman who came from her own doorstep.

Gwyn, who was hardly a sensitive soul, missed any such nuances and stood grinning down at the stonemason, a jar of rough cider in his hand as his own gift to aid Owain's convelascence. 'Get this down you, boy, it will strengthen your arm when you have to chisel a new nose on to St Boniface!'

Nesta launched into some typically Welsh genealogical enquiries, discovering that her second cousin was married to a brother-in-law of Owain's uncle. When they had finished the first round of exploring their relations, John broke in to ask the injured man where he would be staying when he was discharged from the hospital.

'I had no plans, Sir John, not having been to Exeter before this,' replied Owain. 'If it had not been for this affair putting me on my back here, I suppose I would have just taken a bed in the first inn that I came upon.'

Inevitably, both Gwyn and Nesta hastened to recommend the Bush, somewhat to John's discomfiture.

'Perhaps the archdeacon has already somewhere arranged in the cathedral precinct,' he offered rather lamely, as John de Alençon had not mentioned anything of the sort.

'Nonsense, John, he must stay in Idle Lane!' said Nesta firmly. 'It is convenient for the cathedral, and I can offer Owain a comfortable mattress in the loft.'

The thought sprang into de Wolfe's mind that it should be laid as far as possible from her bedroom, then he chided himself for such uncharitable thoughts about a man who was probably a paragon of virtue and good behaviour.

'Best bed and board in Exeter - in all Devon, come to that!' boomed Gwyn. 'The cleanest tavern in the city and she brews better ale than they make in heaven!'

John gave up the unequal struggle but hoped that chiselling faces on the cathedral saints would not take very long and that Owain could soon ride off home to Wales. After a few more minutes of amiable conversation, he managed to prise Gwyn away, but Nesta stayed behind, deeply immersed in reminiscences about their part of Gwent and exploring innumerable distant relations.

'Seems a pleasant enough fellow, that Owain,' commented the Cornishman blithely as they strode away towards the castle, up the hill on the other side of High Street.

'Lucky he's not a dead pleasant fellow,' grunted John. 'If we hadn't come across them yesterday, those bastard outlaws would have slain the lot of them.' Something in his tone stirred a chord in Gwyn's usually insensitive mind, and it gradually dawned on him that his master was already wary of Nesta's obvious delight in finding such a kindred soul to assuage her
hiraeth
, a Welsh word meaning a longing for home. Wisely, he let the topic drop and reverted to their present problems. 'What did the sheriff say about the happenings over in the east of the county?'

As they climbed the short but steep slope through the outer bailey to the gatehouse, John related what Henry de Furnellis had suggested.

'We are to take Ralph Morin and a troop of men-at-arms down to Axmouth and give the place a good going-over!' he said with some satisfaction in his voice. 'I doubt it will yield much, but at least it will show those crafty swine that we mean business and that we are keeping a close eye on them.'

His officer was delighted at the prospect of some action, as since John had given up campaigning abroad he missed the excitement of battle. Though the coroner's business had occasionally provoked an odd fight or two, he found life rather staid and the prospect of some violence cheered him considerably.

'When are we going down there?' he demanded, feeling the hilt of his old sword in anticipation.

'In a few days' time, but first I need to go down to Dawlish,' replied John.

Gwyn's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. 'Is Widow Thorgils in need of some help?' he asked, his face a mask of false innocence.

De Wolfe scowled at his old friend. 'Why should you think it was anything to do with Hilda?' he demanded. 'I have to see either Roger Watts or Angerus de Wile. We are going to Normandy very soon and I need to arrange a passage for us on one of their cogs.'

Gwyn's face lit up even more than with the prospect of a fracas in Axmouth. 'Normandy! That'll be like old times - but why?'

John explained that he needed to see the Chief Justiciar and possibly the king himself over the murder of the Keeper and the probability of piracy in the Channel.

'Are we taking the little runt?' asked Gwyn, referring to their erudite clerk Thomas.

John pondered for a moment as they reached the drawbridge and acknowledged the salute of the soldier on guard under the archway. 'I think we had better drag him along, though the poor devil will probably fare worse on a ship than on the back of a horse. But there may be documents to read or to be written - and he might be useful at the court, which is a nest of priests and clerks in holy orders.'

They made their way up the narrow staircase built into the thickness of the wall and found the said Thomas already busy at his parchments, where John gave him the news that he would soon be suffering a sea voyage. The clerk's apprehension at having to cross the Channel was tempered by the prospect of seeing the royal court and meeting the Archbishop of Canterbury - and even perhaps the king himself.

Twittering with excitement, he forced himself back to his pen and ink, while Gwyn and the coroner went in search of Ralph Morin, the castle constable, to confer with him about the form of their punitive expedition to Axmouth.

Before the planned foray upon the warehouses along the estuary of the Axe, John de Wolfe had one more journey to make in the opposite direction. This time he left Gwyn behind, partly to avoid the knowing grins that the ginger giant would undoubtedly give him when John sidled off into Dawlish's back street.

The morning after their visit to St John's Hospital, he rode alone down to the West Gate and across the ford, taking Odin down the sea road towards Kenton. It was a fine morning and he was in no hurry; so he let the big stallion set his own pace, a stately trot that he could keep up for hours. In this mostly open country, the flat moors that bordered the estuary gave little cover for trail-bastons, so the risk from attack was small, even though he was alone.

He had time to ruminate again on his personal problems, which seemed to be getting more complicated with each passing day. There had been no word from Polsloe, though as it was only yesterday that he was there, he hardly expected any news yet about Matilda. From past experience, he knew she was likely to let him stew for some time before letting him know whether or not she intended to stay in the priory or whether she was just making another gesture to upset him.

As to Nesta, he felt a niggle of anxiety both about her feelings and his own. She had been his mistress for two years now, and though at first he had continued his sporadic affairs with other women, gradually he had become more faithful as his feelings for her deepened. There had been Hilda, of course, his first true love, but even after her husband had been killed and he had no need to cuckold him, his attachment to Nesta had prevented him from bedding her, strong though the temptation had been. There had been yet another lady, a young widow from Sidmouth, but she had found a new husband and was now placed beyond his reach. As he trotted along on the destrier's back, he recalled the strains that had been put on his relationship with Nesta, not only when she became pregnant and lost the babe but also when she had succumbed to an affair with a bold young man who had come to work for her at the Bush. Now there was another bold young man in the offing, one moreover who had a strong emotional appeal for Nesta, both linguistically and geographically. Though John loved her in his own odd way and thought that she loved him, he knew they could never marry, even if he were free of Matilda. He was willing to take Nesta away and live with her as his leman, but he knew that she would never agree to it, feeling that the social gulf between them would still remain unbridgeable.