The Awful Secret by Bernard Knight Page A

well as help, if you are willing to give it. Yet the devil of it is that at present I cannot explain everything to you. Some you must take on trust.’
    The coroner took a deep drink and thought quickly. This man smelt of trouble – he had an aura of doom about him. Though de Wolfe had nothing against him, their depth of friendship was not great. He had met him across a table a few times at Gisors, and again in Palestine, either during troop marches or yarning around an evening camp-fire. He was not a bosom companion for whom he would lay down his life – though, de Wolfe’s nature being what it was, he would never stand by and see injustice done. ‘Why were you so reluctant to make yourself known to me?’ he asked. ‘All that furtive peeping around corners – you’re lucky my man Gwyn didn’t throw a spear at you, as I’m not short of enemies, even in Devon.’
    De Ridefort smiled. For the first time his worried face had relaxed and again John saw that here was a man who could bowl over the ladies with no effort whatsoever. ‘I’m sorry for the skulking in alleyways, John, but I was anxious to see what sort of man you had become, since being elevated to your new judicial state – whatever a coroner is. I’m not at all clear on that.’
    De Wolfe gave one of his throaty grunts. ‘It’s no great honour, I can tell you. You needn’t stand in awe of my great power. Now, are you going to tell me what you want with me?’
    The revelations were interrupted again as the door opened and Matilda came in. She was resplendent in her best kirtle of green silk, tied around her thick waist with several turns of a silver cord whose tassels swept the floor. Her sleeves were almost as long, the bell-shaped cuffs knotted into tippets to keep them off the ground. Her hair was now gathered into two coils above each ear, held in place by silver net crespines. She had obviously goaded Lucille into extra efforts to make her look her best for the visitor.
    Gilbert de Ridefort rose to his feet as John introduced his wife. He bowed over her hand and led her courteously to his own chair before the hearth, before sitting between them on a hard stool.
    ‘Sir Gilbert was just about to tell me of his reason for visiting Exeter,’ grated de Wolfe, determined to manoeuvre his guest into some better explanation than he had so far offered.
    ‘I’m not sure your charming lady wishes to be bothered with such matters,’ said Gilbert smoothly. The coroner could not decide whether he meant this or was using it as another excuse to delay revealing his true reason for seeking him out. Then his eye strayed to Matilda and he saw that his wife was undoubtedly captivated by the errant Templar. Her eyes were fixed on his face and, though a stocky woman of forty-six can hardly simper, he saw that the expression on her face was unlike any she had ever bestowed on him. Far from being jealous, he felt annoyed that such an unattractive middle-aged woman should be so foolish as to display her instant infatuation.
    It was all the more ridiculous as she knew he had taken the strictest monkish vows of chastity and, for a moment, he wondered if de Ridefort was on the run because he had committed some amorous or lecherous indiscretion. It would not be the first time that a Templar had gone astray, though the harsh regime of their Order prescribed dire punishments or ignominious expulsion for offenders who were stripped of all knightly honours.
    For once, Matilda unwittingly supported her husband in his thirst for explanation. She almost cooed as she denied that de Ridefort’s story would tire her.
    ‘Very well. You must both know that I have been these past two years in the Commandery of our Order in Paris – the main centre of our activities outside Palestine. I was a fairly senior member of the Chapter, under our Master, who in turn was responsible only to the Grand Master in Acre.’ He stared into the fire, with an expression that suggested he saw the