While Chagford was thrown into consternation by the disappearance of one of its most prominent townsmen, the King’s coroner was carrying out his promise to his clerk. In the endless round of devotions that were the life-blood of cathedrals, the quietest period was in the late afternoon when the service of Compline, the last of the canonical hours, had ended, and there were a few hours for eating and sleeping before Matins at midnight. These Offices meant little to de Wolfe, but he chose a time when his friend John of Alençon would most likely be free.
There were four archdeacons for the different areas of the diocese and John of Alençon was responsible for Exeter itself, as Bishop Henry Marshal’s senior assistant for the city. Like most of the twenty-four canons, he lived in the cathedral precinct and had the second house in Canons’ Row, the road that formed the northern boundary of the Close, a continuation of Martin’s Lane.
Some of his fellow prebendaries lived in considerable style, with many servants, good stables and well-furnished accommodation, but John of Alençon was of a spartan nature and lived the ascetic life. Exeter was a secular establishment, not monastic like some other cathedrals, and its priests were not monks. However, though standards had slipped in recent years, allowing many priests to indulge in a life of luxury, some of the canons, especially John, still clung to the old Rule of St Chrodegang, a strict code of conduct laid down by Bishop Leofric more than a century earlier.
When de Wolfe was shown into the Archdeacon’s living chamber by a servant, he found his friend sitting on a hard stool at a bare oak table, reading a leatherbound book before a large wooden crucifix hanging on the wall. There was no other furniture and the coroner knew from past visits that the priest slept on a simple palliasse on the floor of an adjacent room.
‘Am I disturbing you at your devotions, John?’
The thin face, with cheekbones of almost skull-like prominence, broke into a charming smile. Wiry grey hair complemented grey-blue eyes that smiled with the rest of his face, and all who saw him were convinced that here was a good man in every sense of the word.
His spare frame was clothed in a long plain cassock; the chasuble and alb were reserved for saying the Offices in the cathedral across the way. He assured his friend that he was not interrupting any great religious study and, in fact, looked slightly guilty. ‘To tell the truth, I am reading a most secular book, John.’ He laid a hand on the now closed volume on the table. ‘It’s Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain. I am still trying to decide if the man was a genius, a charlatan — or just plain mad.’
De Wolfe had heard of the volume — it had created a sensation when it was written half a century earlier — but his illiteracy prevented him from enjoying it. For some months, he had been covertly taking instruction in reading and writing, and could sign his name and stumble slowly through some of the coroner’s rolls that Thomas prepared, but in recent weeks he had been too busy to persevere and already what he had learned was slipping away.
The archdeacon signalled to his servant, who hovered at the door, and ordered some wine. His asceticism did not extend to eschewing the juice of the grape, as long as it was a good vintage. His family came from Alençon in Normandy, and there drinking fine wine was as natural as breathing.
‘Is this a welcome social visit, John? Or have you some special purpose?’
Over two cups of wine, John de Wolfe explained the problem concerning Thomas de Peyne. ‘The man’s becoming more morose with every new day,’ he explained. ‘He was born to be a priest, and he says life outside your cosy community of God is not worth living.’
The archdeacon was well used to his friend’s marginally sacrilegious way of speech and smiled gently at him. ‘I can well understand his anguish, poor lad. If I were to be cast out, I doubt if I would have the will to continue living.’
‘He claims he was innocent of the crime alleged,’ commented de Wolfe, ‘which makes it so much worse. I tend to believe him — he is too devout to be a good liar.’
They discussed the problem for a time, but de Alençon was doubtful of any prospect of successful reinstatement. ‘Any appeal to a Consistory Court would have to be in Winchester, where he was ejected, not here in Exeter. Robust testimonials would have to be produced from senior ecclesiastical figures concerning his behaviour and character during the time since he was unfrocked, and I would certainly provide a good character for him. But there are political factors to be taken into account, John.’
The coroner looked questioningly at the Archdeacon over the rim of his wine cup. ‘Political factors?’
‘It is well known in this precinct — and in the city outside — that you and I are good friends and of like mind, especially in our avowed loyalty to the King. Any glowing testimonial from me about your clerk, especially as he is related to me, would be seen as favouritism, especially by those who have been opposed to us — and, indeed, humiliated by us in the recent past.’
De Wolfe looked glumly at his friend. ‘You mean those inclined to Prince John — men like Thomas de Boterellis?’ He named the precentor, the canon responsible for organising the services and the chanting, who had supported the abortive rebellion a few months back.
The priest nodded. ‘And perhaps, even more importantly, Henry Marshal himself.’
It was well known that the Bishop was also a Prince’s man and had openly declared himself when he was bishop-elect the previous year.
However, after more discussion, de Alençon agreed to sound out some other canons discreetly to see if there was any realistic prospect of launching a petition to Winchester on Thomas’s behalf, but again he sounded pessimistic. With that de Wolfe had to be content, realising that the fate of some obscure clerk would never arouse much interest amongst the ecclesiastical community.
When he left his friend, de Wolfe went slowly across the Close, his feet taking him along the familiar route to the inn in Idle Lane. The morning’s storm had passed, but a leaden sky made the approaching dusk all the gloomier, to suit his own mood. He walked almost reluctantly, although he knew that he must make the journey. Since he had surprised Nesta with the new man in the brew-house, his mood had swung between sad resignation and cold anger. At one moment, he would decide to draw a line under his affair with the delectable Welsh woman and let her go her own way, if that was what she wanted, but at the next, he was all for storming down to the Bush and throwing Alan out into the road, before carrying Nesta up to her room and making violent love to her.
As his feet carried him across Southgate Street, he dithered between the two extremes, but by the time he reached the tavern his determination had settled into a middle path. He would act normally, talk to her rationally and see what she wanted to do about this twist in their relationship.
However, this sober, sensible plan was doomed as soon as he stepped inside the smoky cavern of the ale-house. Nesta was seated at his usual table, tucking into a trencher laden with a knuckle of pork surrounded by boiled turnips. There was quite a crowd of customers and Alan of Lyme was going from table to table and bench to bench, cracking jokes and slapping favoured men on the back, as if he was the jovial landlord.
De Wolfe scowled, but the younger man waved at him airily, then turned away to gossip to another group of regulars. Almost everyone in the inn knew of the coroner’s long-standing affair with Nesta, and some looked slightly embarrassed at his presence, given that they were also aware of the landlady’s partiality to her new barman.
John loped across the rush-strewn floor to the table near the hearth and stood looking down at the pretty woman. Usually, her rich red hair was coiled under a close-fitting linen cap, but today it cascaded over her shoulders, being worn like a young girl’s. Sourly, he wondered if this was for the new man’s benefit.