In the afternoon, de Wolfe restlessly rode with Gwyn back to the canon’s house, where still no news of him had been received by the anxious servants. Getting a description of Simon’s horse — a grey mare with a white blaze on her forehead — the pair rode as far as the New Temple and made enquiries of the porter there. The man knew Canon Simon from previous visits, but was quite definite that he had not called in the past day or two.
From lack of any other inspiration, de Wolfe walked his horse around a number of byways, going up from the village of Charing to the high road which ran westward from Holbourn and then on to Tyburn, where he and his officer stopped for a few moments to look at the large elm trees that now competed with Smithfield as an execution ground. The first customer a couple of months ago had been the rebel William fitz Osbert, known as Longbeard, whose capture and hanging had brought Hubert Walter into such disfavour. But there was no sign anywhere of Simon Basset nor of his horse, so a dispirited de Wolfe followed a direct track across the marshes to where the great bulk of the abbey and palace stood up against the sultry sky.
Thankfully, that night during supper in the Lesser Hall there was no discussion about the canon, as for once, the palace gossip machine had failed to pick up the news. John was spared interrogation, but he suspected that the disappearance of someone so directly linked to the theft of the treasure would not remain a secret for long.
With a choice of boiled capon, salmon, pork ribs and a range of vegetables from leeks to parsnips, John was busy filling his stomach, but was obliged for courtesy’s sake to attend to Hawise as well. She had managed to sit opposite her husband, and next to John, her hip pressed against his as he gallantly sliced pieces of chicken to put on her trencher. The Lesser Hall sported tablecloths, instead of the usual scrubbed oak boards and the large bread trenchers were placed on oblongs of wood to spare the spoiling of the linen beneath.
They had each already finished a wooden bowl of potage, a soup of vegetables in stock, thickened with oatmeal, and Hawise was gaily protesting at the amount of food John was serving her.
‘You are intent upon making me fat, Sir John!’ she gushed. ‘I’ll need a stronger horse to carry me when we ride to Gloucester!’
The warmth of her thigh moving against his distracted him so much that he dropped a chicken leg and cursed as a large stain of gravy spread on the pristine cloth. The woman giggled and briefly touched his leg under the table.
‘You seem out of temper this evening, John! No doubt you’re missing that blonde Saxon who shared your bed recently!’ She failed to keep the jealous pique out of her voice.
The pert remark made John realize that he had not given much thought to Hilda these past few days, as the theft of the treasure and now Simon Basset’s vanishing trick had fully occupied his mind. He tried to think of a suitably cutting response to Hawise, who was now resting her fingers on his thigh, as she ate with her other hand. But her husband cut in with a return to the old topic.
‘Have you made any progress in finding the miscreant who stole the king’s gold?’ he asked in a semi-bantering tone. Archdeacon Bernard leaned forward from the other side of Ranulf, who was next to Hawise’s silent maidservant. ‘Give the man a chance, he’s only been at the task for two days! No doubt you suspect someone in the Great Tower itself?’
‘I certainly have a new path to pursue, but you will appreciate that I have to keep such matters strictly confidential,’ said de Wolfe. At least I’ve told the truth, he thought wryly — the fact that at present his new path led nowhere, need not be voiced to these inquisitive creatures. He was finding the touch of Hawise’s fingers quite pleasant, but almost reluctantly he slid his own hand under the edge of the tablecloth and gently replaced hers on her lap. As he did so, he briefly felt the warmth of her skin through the silken gown and a frisson of desire rippled through him. For her part, Lady de Seigneur gave a petulant pursing of her lips and once again John thought her husband must either be half-blind or uncaring about her flirting.
They finished the meal with a flagon of white wine from the Loire, accompanied by dried figs and apricots, then drifted out of the Lesser Hall. As Hawise was towed away by her husband towards the stairs to the guest quarters, she gave John a doleful look of longing to which he responded with a faint smile.
‘She’ll have the breeches off you yet, John!’ murmured Ranulf, as they went out into the evening light of the Palace Yard. John had arranged to meet Gwyn in the alehouse a little later, so to pass the time, he suggested to Ranulf that they took a walk along the riverbank. Passing the stables and all the less impressive parts of the back end of the palace, they went through the gate in the wall that formed the southern limit of the enclave and crossed the small bridge across the Tyburn. The marshy flats along the edge of the Thames had dried out in the recent hot weather and sheep and goats, tended by an occasional shepherd, were dotted about the wide, flat area. They walked towards the edge of the river, where a narrow path ran above the slope down to the high-water mark, now exposing a wide shelf of mud leading to the dark water.
‘Do you think she’s like that with all men?’ asked John ruminatively, taking up Ranulf’s earlier remark.
The marshal shook his head and grinned. ‘She’s not set her cap at me, has she?’ he countered. ‘It’s you that the Lady Hawise is inflamed about. I wish it was me, I’m more than a little jealous!’
The smile he gave took any rancour from his jibe.
‘Even if I was inclined to oblige her,’ said John. ‘There’s always that dumpy husband of hers to contend with.’
Ranulf stopped and stared at the sky, where thunderclouds still massed on the far horizon. ‘I get the feeling that Lord Renaud isn’t all that bothered about his wife’s fidelity,’ he murmured. ‘I’d be there like a shot if I had any encouragement.’
De Wolfe was dubious. ‘Why should he have that attitude?’ he asked. ‘She is an uncommonly attractive woman. You’d think a plain older man like him would keep her on a short rein.’
‘Unless they have hidden motives,’ suggested Ranulf darkly. John came to a sudden halt on the path and turned to face his friend. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.
The under-marshal looked left and right as if checking that he could not be overheard, though the nearest thing on legs was a sheep a hundred yards away.
‘We get to hear things at the stables, people coming and going on official business. There is a spy scare on at the moment, according to one of our men, who overheard some barons and earls he was escorting on a barge up to Windsor.’
‘Spying on what? And how can that concern me and a flighty dame who should know better?’
They began to walk slowly back to the abbey and palace that loomed before them, Ranulf continuing with his tale.
‘My gossip also tells me that one of the reasons for Queen Eleanor’s visit is for her to impress on the Royal Council the real threat of an invasion from France — and also to dissuade her errant son John from becoming involved again in support for Philip Augustus. Naturally, the French want to know what the official reaction is and to know if military precautions are being taken along the coast of Kent and Sussex.’
‘And how could that affect me? I am a coroner, I know nothing about politics or troop dispositions!’
‘You have the ear of the Justiciar — and are known to be a favourite of the king himself, after the good service you gave him at the Crusade. When a spy is short of contacts, he or she latches on to the best option — and you are a good target in that respect.’
De Wolfe stared at Ranulf in disbelief. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the de Seigneurs are covert agents of France?’
The marshal shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility. I know that warnings have been circulating for months that there are spies in England.’