The Awful Secret by Bernard Knight

relief, Gwyn opened the door wide and stood to one side. ‘Sir Gilbert de Ridefort, Crowner!’ he announced.
    De Wolfe got up and went to welcome the visitor, nodding to Gwyn to escape to Mary’s kitchen for some food. ‘And tell her to take word to the mistress that our guest has arrived,’ he added.
    Turning to the newcomer, he gripped his arm in greeting and waved him towards the fire. ‘So it was you who was haunting me these past few days, de Ridefort!’ he said. ‘Now that I know your name, I recognise you, but until then your lack of a beard and moustache was a perfect disguise.’
    ‘Pray God it remains so!’ said de Ridefort fervently. ‘Maybe if it fooled you, it will be equally effective with others.’
    John sat him on a high-backed settle near the fire and dropped back into his own chair opposite. The knight declined the offer of food, but accepted some wine, which John poured from the jug into one of Matilda’s best chalices, taken from a shelf on the wall.
    As they drank to old times, the coroner surveyed his guest, wondering whether his visit would mean trouble. He saw a man almost as tall as himself, with an erect bearing, broad shoulders and a slim waist. With his pilgrim’s hat removed, he had wavy brown hair down to the collar of his dark green mantle, another sign that something was amiss: Templars, though their faces were never shaven, were required to keep their hair short.
    Gilbert had a rather long, aristocratic face with a straight nose set between large hazel eyes. His chin was square, below a firm mouth, now set in a rather sad smile. As John had guessed, he was on the right side of forty, a year or two younger than himself. A handsome fellow, thought the coroner, one who could easily turn a woman’s head, though celibacy was strictly enforced by the Rule of the Temple – they were not allowed to kiss a female, even a mother or sister.
    De Wolfe came directly to the point. ‘What’s all this mystery about, Gilbert? Why are you not dressed like a Templar and what happened to your beard?’
    De Ridefort sighed and bent forward, his hands grasping the cup resting on his knees. ‘I take you for an honest man, de Wolfe – and one who I have heard will not suffer injustice.’
    John grunted: he could think of no better response.
    ‘But I also know you are King Richard’s man – you were often at his side in Outremer and you were with him when he was captured near Vienna.’
    ‘I claim no credit for that,’ snapped the coroner. He still blamed himself for failing to prevent the kidnap of his sovereign when they were trying to pass through Austria in disguise, after being shipwrecked on the way back from Palestine.
    ‘I mention the king because he is so partial to the Order of the Temple – and I wondered if your sympathies were equally strong.’
    Puzzled, de Wolfe replied, in a noncommittal fashion, ‘I have nothing against you Templars – you were undoubtedly the best fighting men in the Holy Land.’
    Gilbert took a sip of his wine and looked uneasily at John, as if undecided whether or not to confide in him. ‘I am no longer a Templar. In fact, I am a fugitive from them.’
    This remarkable admission left the coroner staring at his guest. ‘But a Templar is for life – I’ve heard that they never allow abdication, except into an even stricter monastic order.’
    The other man nodded sadly. ‘They do not believe that I have left them. In fact, they are searching for me, to take me back into the Order – in chains, if needs be, or even a shroud.’
    The coroner leaned over with the wine jug and filled de Ridefort’s cup. ‘You’d better tell me the whole story,’ he said.
    The handsome man opposite shook his head. ‘Not yet – not the whole story.’
    John bristled. ‘Do you not trust me, then?’
    ‘It’s not that at all. I have no wish to embroil you in my troubles – certainly not until I know if you have any sympathy with my cause. And I need advice, as