They discussed more details of this pre-emptive raid, and after emptying the wine jug de Wolfe went on his way, now more content that he at least had some sort of plan of campaign about the Axmouth problem.
He was less sure about a plan of campaign in relation to his tangled personal affairs, but philosophically decided to allow fate to take its course.
That evening John was at his customary place in the Bush with Gwyn sitting across the table, each enjoying a restful quart of Nesta's best ale. As usual, Thomas was off at his literary tasks in the scriptorium of the cathedral. Nesta had been seeing to some kitchen crisis but was now sitting alongside John to hear his story about the murdered Keeper of the Peace and the outlaws' ambush on the Honiton road. Once again, he had decided to keep the news about Matilda to himself until he had a better idea of her intentions.
'A Welshman, you say?' she asked, when he related the tale of the stonemason's wound. 'Then he's almost a neighbour to my family, if he's from Cas-Gwent!' This was the Welsh name for Chepstow, a Saxon title meaning a market town, though the Norman owners now called it Striguil.
'He's now under the tender care of Brother Saulf in St John's,' said de Wolfe. This was a small priory just inside the East Gate, which had a few sick beds that were all Exeter could offer in the way of a hospital. 'He says that the spear wound is not deep arid hasn't damaged anything vital, as long as the flesh doesn't turn rotten.'
Nesta, ever sympathetic to people's misfortunes, especially if they were Welsh, began worrying about the man even though she had never met him nor even heard of him until ten minutes earlier.
'So far from home and no doubt concerned about his livelihood, if that's his working arm,' she fretted. 'How long will he be in St John's?'
'If he does well, no more than a few days, according to the monk,' said Gwyn. 'I'll call in tomorrow and see him. He may like to hear a word of his own language, though he speaks English well enough, after working so much in Gloucester.'
The landlady nodded her auburn head. 'I'll slip up there, too. He may not understand your uncouth Cornish accent!' she teased. 'I'll take him something decent to eat, too.'
The conversation drifted to other matters, and John related how he had been to see the sheriff earlier that day, to tell him of the death of Luke de Casewold, who was one of de Furnellis's law officers, though even Henry seemed vague about what the functions of these peacekeepers were supposed to be.
'I told him that he must report this killing as soon as he can to Winchester or London. The Chief Justiciar appointed these men, so he must be told that one has been slain, even if only to replace him.'
'And seek out those who did it,' grunted Gwyn. 'Otherwise the swine will think they can get away with anything.'
'What's this all about, anyway?' demanded Nesta. 'Is it connected with these misdoings in Axmouth?'
John nodded, waving his pot at Edwin for a refill.
'I'm sure it is. There's organised corruption going on from that port, but so far it's been impossible to get any proof. Everyone clams up like a limpet when you try to talk to them. I sometimes think the whole village is part of a big conspiracy.'
'Is this bailiff at the root of it, d'you think?'
John shrugged. 'He's a nasty, overbearing bully, but I can't bring him back in chains for that. There's nothing to show he had anything to do with the Keeper's death — neither is there for the portreeve, Elias Palmer, though he's such a poor apology for a man that I can't see him slaying so much as a cat, let alone killing de Casewold.'
'So what do we do next, Crowner? ' asked Gwyn in his slow Cornish voice.
John sighed and held up his palms. 'The sheriff is all for sending us down there with Ralph Morin, Gabriel and a bunch of their men-at-arms. We are to shake the place up and see what falls out, but I suspect that those bastards are too clever to leave any loose ends.'
'And if that doesn't work?' asked Nesta.
'Then all I can think of is acting like a mole-catcher.
If you can't see anything on the surface, you set a trap!'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Soon after dawn next day, John borrowed a rounsey from the livery stables opposite, not wanting to saddle up his big destrier Odin for such a brief journey. On the lighter horse, he covered the mile or two to Polsloe in a short time and soon arrived at the small gatehouse in the long wall that enclosed the compound. The porter emerged from his hut at the side and grudgingly agreed to inform the prioress of his desire to speak to her. John had been here several times before and accepted that casual male callers were not easily admitted to this nest of women. He waited just inside the gate, allowing his horse to crop the grass that extended around the wide compound, the priory itself being little more than a few stone buildings set in the centre.
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.