Nodding to the guard, John pushed open the door and walked into the sheriff’s office. De Revelle’s private rooms were behind it, but this was his official chamber, where he conducted the business of being the king’s representative for the county of Devon – which job that he was currently hanging on to by the skin of his teeth, since his recent exposure by de Wolfe as having been involved in the abortive rebellion by Prince John against King Richard.
Richard de Revelle raised his eyes from the parchments on his table and scowled when he saw who had entered. A slight, neat, rather dandified man, he was in no position to antagonize his brother-in-law who, together with the powerful loyalist faction in the county, was keeping a close eye on him. After a muttered greeting, which failed to include any enquiry as to the state of de Wolfe’s leg, the sheriff threw a curled piece of vellum across the trestle towards him. ‘What do you think of that, Crowner?’ he snapped, his small pointed beard jutting forwards pugnaciously.
De Wolfe knew that the other had not the slightest interest in his opinion on the document and that he was merely trying to score a petty advantage: the sheriff could read and write fluently, whilst the soldier-coroner had never been to school. But for the first time, he was able to turn the tables on his unpleasant brother-in-law. He picked up the parchment with studied nonchalance and scanned it. Though half guessing, he was soon able to throw down the sheet and turn his deep-set dark eyes to the other man’s face. ‘Nothing new in that! They’ve tried before to take possession of the island, but were repulsed. No one can get a foothold there without an army, not even the Templars.’
The sheriff scowled again, his narrow face growing rather pink above his thin moustache. ‘Well done, John! I had heard you were having lessons from the cathedral canons,’ he said patronizingly.
De Wolfe grinned. ‘Being housebound for nearly two months gave my clerk the chance he’d been waiting for – daily lessons in reading and writing.’
De Revelle jabbed a ringed finger towards the parchment. ‘You must have known these Knights of the Temple better than most when you were in Outremer. Are they going to let William de Marisco thumb his nose at them for ever? They’ve been granted Lundy for years, but the bastard repels them every time they try to land.’
The coroner sat on the edge of the sheriff’s table, to take the weight off his leg. ‘They’re a mixed bunch, the Templars. Many are obsessional fighters, like the Lionheart himself, which is why he respects them so much. A few are mad, I think. They can be reckless to the point of insanity, just like some of the Muhammadans they admire, even though we’re enemies.’
He shifted his stick on the flags, his mind far away in the dust of the Holy Land. ‘I have seen them act as if they actually sought a glorious death, in suicidal attacks, sometimes unnecessary. Yet more and more of the Templars have become soft, especially those who remain in Europe and never venture to the Levant.’
On safe ground, away from the sensitive topic of Prince John, the sheriff nodded sagely. ‘They’ve moved a long way from their origins as Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. Now they’re the richest Order in Christendom, with huge estates and able to lend money to kings.’
De Wolfe shrugged, a favourite response: he was the most taciturn of men.
His brother-in-law picked up the document and read it again gloomily. ‘I hope they don’t expect me to do anything about this. I don’t fancy sending a few men in small boats to try to winkle de Marisco from his rock.’
‘Let the bloody Templars do their own dirty work,’ advised the coroner gruffly. ‘If the king has granted them Lundy, it’s up to them to install themselves.’ He cleared his throat, another mannerism, which heralded a change of subject. ‘I need another chamber, Richard, for my official business. I can’t get up to the top of that cursed gatehouse until my leg improves even more. You must have space somewhere lower down.’
It took five minutes of arguing and demanding before the reluctant sheriff, pleading shortage of accommodation in the crowded garrison, conceded him a small storeroom in the undercroft, on condition it was strictly a temporary lease. The coroner’s original room in the gatehouse had been as inconvenient as de Revelle could make it, a token of his disapproval of the introduction of de Wolfe’s appointment six months before. Previously, he had had absolute authority over every aspect of the law in Devon, which had given him ample opportunity for dishonesty and corruption. Like most of his fellow sheriffs, he strongly resented having another senior law officer poking his nose into his business and taking away both part of his power and the financial pickings that went with it. But the coroners had been appointed on behalf of the Lionheart by his wily Chief Justiciar, Hubert Walter, for the very purpose of collecting every penny for the royal treasury, impoverished by Richard’s costly wars. Much of this money-gathering was to be achieved by combating the rapacity of the sheriffs and de Revelle had had no choice but to accept the royal command. He had supported the appointment of his sister’s husband, partly because of her nagging but also because he thought that he would be able to keep his relative-by-marriage under his thumb – a hope that proved very much in error.
De Wolfe hauled himself from the table and tapped his way to the door. ‘I’ll go down to inspect this closet you’ve so graciously offered me,’ he grunted sarcastically. ‘Gwyn and Gabriel can move my table and stool down there. It’s all the furniture the King’s coroner possesses for his duties!’
With that parting sally, he limped out of the chamber, leaving the sheriff smarting with annoyance, but impotent to protest, in his present fragile state of probation.
After telling the hairy Cornishman to get their chattels and documents moved to the miserable cell under the keep, John remounted Odin and walked him down through the town again. It was not yet mid-morning and the meal that Mary was preparing would not be ready for a couple of hours.
He decided to amble down to the Bush tavern and have a quart of ale with Nesta, his mistress and landlady of the inn. He knew that Matilda would be busy with her devotions for the rest of the morning at the little church of St Olave’s in Fore Street. He suspected – almost hoped – that she was enamoured of the parish priest there, a fat pompous cleric. She visited there several times a week for various obscure Masses and this gave de Wolfe the opportunity for daytime visits to his Welsh lover.
The Bush was not far from St Olave’s and, though it was unlikely that his wife would come out of the church during the service, he was cautious enough to work his way through the cathedral Close and then take the back lanes of the lower town to reach the tavern. As he came out of the Close through the Bear Gate and skirted the Shambles, where sheep, pigs and cattle were being slaughtered amid blood and screams, he again had the feeling of being watched. Perhaps sensitive to the proximity of his wife, he looked down from his stallion’s back at the crowded street and, from the corner of his eye, momentarily saw a man staring at him from the end of a booth that sold hot pies. A second later he had disappeared amongst the crowd, but de Wolfe knew that it had been the face he had seen twice before, once yesterday and again an hour ago, when he went up to Rougemont.