them to himself.
In the Bush that evening, John de Wolfe sat at his usual table by the firepit, which on such a bleak night was full of glowing logs. He had his arm around his auburn-haired mistress, and on the other side of the table Gwyn sat huddled in his frayed leather jerkin, with a quart of ale and a large meat pie.
‘So what help did we get today from that coven of priests, Crowner?’ grumbled the big Cornishman. ‘Didn’t get us any nearer discovering who belted that proctor over the head.’
John had already told Nesta the story of the Black Book of Brân and as a strongly religious Celt herself, with a reputation for being somewhat fey in matters of magic, she was intensely interested.
‘Whether or not it helped you, it is a miraculous find,’ she said. ‘I only wish that I could read, for there must be things of great importance written there.’
‘It may be the work of the devil, not the angels!’ grunted Gwyn, himself a superstitious Celt. ‘But what use is it to us in finding a killer?’
Nesta contributed some of her usual common sense. ‘Stealing such a book means that it was a person who could read Latin. Otherwise, the thief could not even see that treasure was mentioned in one of these strange verses.’
John squeezed her closer, proud that his mistress had such a sharp mind. ‘It also means that it could not have been some rough villain sent by a more learned rascal, for as you say he would not be able to find useful documents unless he could decipher them.’
‘So are we looking for some priest?’ asked Gwyn before swilling down the rest of his ale.
‘A clerk, certainly, but not necessarily a priest. Almost no one, except a few rich barons and knights who have been to a school, have the gift of reading and writing, apart from those in holy orders.’
Ordained priests and deacons were far outnumbered by a whole range of lesser clerics, ranging from sub-deacons and lectors down to mere doorkeepers. Many clerks worked not in the Church but in the courts and commerce, as they formed the elite five per cent of the population who were literate.
‘I suppose it narrows it down,’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘But that leaves us with a few hundred clerks in the city alone – and God knows how many elsewhere in Devon!’
Nesta looked up at her lover’s stern face, the jaws darkened by black stubble, as it was some days since his last weekly shave.
‘John, how are you going to pursue this killer?’ she asked, her big hazel eyes full of concern. ‘As Gwyn says, you have so many possible culprits, but no clue as to where to start.’
De Wolfe tapped the fingers of his free hand on the edge of the rough boards of the table, his frown indicating deep thought. ‘Something the sheriff said today gives me an idea,’ he said at last. ‘If you can’t catch a rabbit by running after it, you must set a trap!’
It might be an exaggeration to say that Thomas de Peyne was ecstatic, but he was certainly blissfully content at being both back in the bosom of his beloved Church after his time in the wilderness – and with a literary problem before him. He was crouched over his desk in the cathedral library, reading by the light of a solitary candle, oblivious for once of the biting cold.
The whole Chapter House was deserted at this eighth hour of the evening, and normally the timid little clerk would have been nervous at being alone in a cavernous chamber where a man had been done to death not many hours before. But his absorption in the pages of the Black Book left no room for fear, as he avidly read through the pages of vellum which bore the strange verses.
Further discussion with Brother Rufus and Canon Jordan earlier that day had brought them to the conclusion that the book had probably been brought to Exeter in the early years following the Norman invasion of Ireland, which began in 1170.
‘We were not all honourable men in that campaign,’ the chaplain of Rougemont had boomed. ‘There was a
In the Bush that evening, John de Wolfe sat at his usual table by the firepit, which on such a bleak night was full of glowing logs. He had his arm around his auburn-haired mistress, and on the other side of the table Gwyn sat huddled in his frayed leather jerkin, with a quart of ale and a large meat pie.
‘So what help did we get today from that coven of priests, Crowner?’ grumbled the big Cornishman. ‘Didn’t get us any nearer discovering who belted that proctor over the head.’
John had already told Nesta the story of the Black Book of Brân and as a strongly religious Celt herself, with a reputation for being somewhat fey in matters of magic, she was intensely interested.
‘Whether or not it helped you, it is a miraculous find,’ she said. ‘I only wish that I could read, for there must be things of great importance written there.’
‘It may be the work of the devil, not the angels!’ grunted Gwyn, himself a superstitious Celt. ‘But what use is it to us in finding a killer?’
Nesta contributed some of her usual common sense. ‘Stealing such a book means that it was a person who could read Latin. Otherwise, the thief could not even see that treasure was mentioned in one of these strange verses.’
John squeezed her closer, proud that his mistress had such a sharp mind. ‘It also means that it could not have been some rough villain sent by a more learned rascal, for as you say he would not be able to find useful documents unless he could decipher them.’
‘So are we looking for some priest?’ asked Gwyn before swilling down the rest of his ale.
‘A clerk, certainly, but not necessarily a priest. Almost no one, except a few rich barons and knights who have been to a school, have the gift of reading and writing, apart from those in holy orders.’
Ordained priests and deacons were far outnumbered by a whole range of lesser clerics, ranging from sub-deacons and lectors down to mere doorkeepers. Many clerks worked not in the Church but in the courts and commerce, as they formed the elite five per cent of the population who were literate.
‘I suppose it narrows it down,’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘But that leaves us with a few hundred clerks in the city alone – and God knows how many elsewhere in Devon!’
Nesta looked up at her lover’s stern face, the jaws darkened by black stubble, as it was some days since his last weekly shave.
‘John, how are you going to pursue this killer?’ she asked, her big hazel eyes full of concern. ‘As Gwyn says, you have so many possible culprits, but no clue as to where to start.’
De Wolfe tapped the fingers of his free hand on the edge of the rough boards of the table, his frown indicating deep thought. ‘Something the sheriff said today gives me an idea,’ he said at last. ‘If you can’t catch a rabbit by running after it, you must set a trap!’
It might be an exaggeration to say that Thomas de Peyne was ecstatic, but he was certainly blissfully content at being both back in the bosom of his beloved Church after his time in the wilderness – and with a literary problem before him. He was crouched over his desk in the cathedral library, reading by the light of a solitary candle, oblivious for once of the biting cold.
The whole Chapter House was deserted at this eighth hour of the evening, and normally the timid little clerk would have been nervous at being alone in a cavernous chamber where a man had been done to death not many hours before. But his absorption in the pages of the Black Book left no room for fear, as he avidly read through the pages of vellum which bore the strange verses.
Further discussion with Brother Rufus and Canon Jordan earlier that day had brought them to the conclusion that the book had probably been brought to Exeter in the early years following the Norman invasion of Ireland, which began in 1170.
‘We were not all honourable men in that campaign,’ the chaplain of Rougemont had boomed. ‘There was a
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