Read Online The Poisoned Chalice by Bernard Knight - Free Book Online Page A

Norman squire, John had bedded her a few times in the past. They were genuinely fond of each other, but these days she kept him at arm’s length, as she suspected that her arch-enemy Lucille was trying to betray her to John’s wife. ‘The mistress is out – she’s gone down to St Olave’s to some special Mass. There’s nothing ready cooked, but I can get together some bread and cold meat for you.’
    John sighed. ‘No matter, Mary. My wife’s soul must be more important to her than my stomach. She spends more time in that damned church than I do in taverns.’
    Mary grinned at his self-pity and risked giving him a swift kiss on the cheek, with one eye on the open door in case Lucille was spying. Matilda’s maid, a French refugee from the Vexin north of Paris, lived in a small shed under the outside staircase that went up from the yard to the solar. This was a room built out on timbers from the upper part of the hall, where John and his wife slept and where Matilda spent much of her time.
    â€˜I think I’ll go down to the Bush for a bite to eat and ajar of ale,’ he said.
    Mary prodded him in the chest with a strong finger. ‘Make sure that’s all you get from Nesta tonight! The mistress is working up for one of her moods so be on your best behaviour when you get back.’
    â€˜Tell her I’ve had to go to the castle to see her damned brother, will you?’
    As he retreated down the passage, she murmured under her breath, ‘You’re treading on very thin ice, Master John. One day you’ll fall right through.’
    Two quarts of beer and a leg of mutton later, John felt more at peace with the world. Having spent half his life on the back of a horse, the twenty-two miles back from Torre that day were soon forgotten as he sprawled in front of the roaring logs in the large room of the Bush. His long, hawkish face with the big hooked nose was relaxed for once and the arm that was not holding the big pot of ale was comfortably around the shoulders of the innkeeper.
    Nesta was a vivacious Welsh woman, with red hair quite a few shades darker than Gwyn’s violently ginger thatch. Twenty-eight years old, she was the widow of a soldier from southern Wales, who had settled in Exeter to run a tavern, then prematurely died. Her round face, high forehead and snub nose were attractive enough, but a tiny waist and spectacular bosom made her the object of secret fantasies for half the men in Exeter. John had known her husband at the wars and had been a patron of the inn before he died. Afterwards, he had covertly given her money to help her continue the business. Her hard work and steely determination had made such a success of the venture that after four years it was the most popular tavern in the city.
    It was an open secret that she was John de Wolfe’s mistress, know to all including his wife, who used it to scold him during their frequent dog-fights.
    This winter evening, with the unremitting wind still whistling outside, the inn was less busy than usual and only a few regulars were drinking in the big low room that filled the whole ground floor. Nesta had time to sit with him without interruption and he told her the story of his trip to Torbay. She always listened attentively, and made intelligent and often useful suggestions. More than once, her innate common sense had helped him to arrive at some decision.
    â€˜So you’ve got to ride back there for an inquest?’ she asked, at the end of his tale.
    â€˜Joseph of Topsham, and maybe Eric Picot, will have to go down tomorrow to identify the bodies, the wreckage and the cargo. Then I’ll return there on Thursday to hold the inquisition, and take with me some of the sheriffs men to arrest that murderous reeve and a couple of his cronies.’
    Old Edwin, the one-eyed potman, shuffled across on his stiff leg, lamed at the battle of Wexford. He held out his pitcher of ale and refilled