The Sanctuary Seeker by Bernard Knight Page B

keeping up, Thomas nodded. ‘Cenwulf, the sergeant said - a master-mason of Lincoln.’
    They came to a halt at the foot of the tower, where a dozen men were working. Some were operating a pulley hoist to the dizzy heights of the parapet, taking blocks of stone to masons working a hundred and forty feet above them. On the ground, others were manhandling new unfinished stones from an ox-cart while yet others shaped blocks in various stages of completion. A few old men stood watching, but as the building process had been going on for most of the century - since 1114, when Bishop William Warelwast began replacing the previous Saxon church - there was little that was new to watch.
    John approached the nearest man. ‘Where would I find Cenwulf of Lincoln?’ he demanded.
    The craftsman rocked back on to his heels, resting his iron chisel and heavy mallet on the ground. A thick leather apron, scarred by tools and chippings, covered him from neck to knees. ‘Who wants to know?’ He was a middle-aged fellow, his face almost as leathery as his apron but relieved by a pair of bright blue eyes.
    ‘The King’s coroner,’ said John bluntly.
    The mason dropped his tools and rose slowly to his feet. Master masons were never a servile breed, they were sought-after craftsmen, well paid, with a strong guild behind them. But the mention of the King triggered respect and attentiveness.
    ‘Look no further, Crowner, I’m Cenwulf … and I know what business you have with me.’
    John liked his directness, sensing an honesty and a desire to assist that was absent in most folk, who would do all they could to evade any contact with the law. ‘Then tell me what you know of this man who lies dead now in Witdecombe,’ he said, settled his backside against a large untrimmed stone block and folded his arms, ready to listen.
    ‘It’s little enough, sir. But I heard the town crier’s messages this morning, when he paraded the close, wanting news of many things, including a man slain near Widecombe. It may have been the same fellow that I met just twelve days ago at Honiton.’
    The coroner nodded encouragingly, his long hair swirling over the neckband of his grey tunic. ‘Why do you think he was that man, mason?’
    ‘Fair, and about the same age as claimed by the crier, but that is little enough. Yet he had a tanned skin and wore a Mussulman’s sword in a curved sheath on his belt.’
    ‘What was he wearing?’
    ‘When I saw him, a moleskin rain-cloak, but under that, a green tunic or a surcoat - I couldn’t swear to which. And a red cloth capuchin on his head. He had curious high riding boots, too.’
    Thomas, lurking behind his master, whispered in his ear, ‘Certainly sounds like our cadaver.’
    Ignoring him, John continued, ‘Where, then, did you see him?’
    ‘We had harsh words, that fellow and me, a wonder we didn’t come to blows.’
    John’s interest quickened. Was this another possible suspect, he wondered. Though it seemed odd that he volunteered in his first few words that there had been bad blood between them, considering that the other man had come to a violent end.
    i came by my pony from Salisbury, where my contract on the cathedral there had finished and I had arranged for three months’ work here. On the last morning of the journey, I stopped for ale and meat at an inn in Honiton, some fifteen miles on the east road from Exeter. While I was taking my ease on the benches outside, eating and drinking, this man led his horse from the stable and then mounted. The innkeeper stood out to bid him a good journey, so no doubt he had stayed the night there.’
    John scratched the stubble on his dark chin. ‘Why did you dispute with him?’
    The mason traced a finger almost lovingly along the huge stone touching the material that was his life’s work. ‘He got up on his steed and prodded its belly with a spur. The beast lunged forwards like an arrow from a bow and raced past me, splashing mud and horse-shit from the yard