6 - The Grim Reaper by Bernard Knight

Author:Bernard Knight [Knight, Bernard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780671029678
Google: l6DrrGfd9KMC
Amazon: 0671029673
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2002-07-02T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In which Crowner John goes to church

That Saturday evening was surprisingly peaceful for de Wolfe, as Matilda was again visiting her cousin in the town – more from a desire to ignore him, he suspected, than from any feeling of familial affection. He spent his time in the Bush, some of it eating, drinking and yarning with some of the locals – the rest upstairs in Nesta’s closet. He was tempted to risk spending the whole night there but caution got the better of him and by midnight he wound his way unsteadily back to Martin’s Lane. He undressed in the dark and crept on to his side of the wide palliasse, thankful that the loud snores from his wife removed the need for attempted explanations and the inevitable recriminations.

In the morning, he was not so fortunate: when he awoke, Matilda was sitting bolt upright. Her head was swathed in a cloth that concealed wooden pegs put there by the rabbit-toothed Lucille, intended to torture her hair into the ringlets alleged to be the latest fashion in France. Her husband was reminded of a turbaned Saracen warrior, the impression reinforced by the fierce look on her face.

However, after the usual sarcastic jousting, her manner moderated a little and John, reading the signs from years of practice, knew she wanted news of his meeting with the Bishop, who to Matilda was only a finger’s breadth below the Almighty Himself.

He avoided any reference to Thomas de Peyne, whom she hated like hemlock, because he was, as she thought, a renegade and perverted priest. However, he unwisely forgot also to censor the reference to Julian Fulk as one of the suspects. To his wife, the priest of St Olave’s was but a shade less saintly than the Bishop and she took umbrage at the slur on his character. De Wolfe lay patiently under the sheepskins, waiting for this latest squall to blow over. It subsided quite rapidly and he correctly guessed the reason.

‘When you were at the Bishop’s Palace, did you learn anything of the festivities laid on for the royal Justices this week?’ she demanded.

‘There will be a feast on Tuesday, given by Henry Marshal in their honour.’

‘We will be invited, of course?’ It was an aggressive statement rather than a question.

‘I have little doubt of that, wife, though I am not in the Bishop’s best favour, these days.’

‘That’s because you’re a fool, John de Wolfe. Why you antagonise persons of stature and influence, I cannot imagine.’

Her condemnation was of necessity muted: she knew that Henry Marshal trod the same dangerous political path as her brother, whose reputation, and possibly his neck, depended upon her husband’s forbearance in proclaiming his treachery. ‘And what of the burgesses – and the castle? What are they putting on?’

‘The Portreeves are entertaining them next Thursday – and your brother will have them at Rougemont on the following Saturday. No doubt we will be there, as your dear brother could hardly disappoint you,’ he added sarcastically.

The

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