He described how they fought for one city alongside Brabantian and Provencal mercenaries against some other German princedom. ‘After ten weeks, we had collected enough loot to slip away and walk west again, eventually reaching the Low Countries.’
‘How did you get home from there?’ queried Gabriel.
‘I knew from the business we have with Hugh de Relaga that Thorgils the Boatman regularly came to Antwerp with wool. We waited almost a month there until he showed up, then came home to Topsham with a cargo of finished cloth. We only arrived on this morning’s tide.’
After his elaboration on the story had finished, John asked what had been happening here at home.
Ralph rolled up his eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘The West Country has gone to the dogs under that bastard Prince John!’ he declared. ‘I fear we are in for civil war unless someone can bring him to heel.’
Gabriel shook his head in gloomy agreement. John knew that after his coronation in 1189, the Lionheart had rashly – and in many people’s opinion, foolishly – given his younger brother six counties, including Devon and Cornwall, as his own property. Their father, Henry II, had wisely kept his feckless son short of possessions, so that he was known contemptuously as ‘John Lackland’. The overgenerous Richard more than made up for this and as virtual king over a large area of England, John kept all the taxes and ran the administration personally. There were no sheriffs, as nominally he himself held the shrievalties.
‘So who’s in there now?’ he asked, jerking a thumb at the door of the first chamber on the side wall. ‘William Brewer was the sheriff before I left.’
The constable’s face darkened. ‘No, he’s gone on to higher things in Winchester and London. He’s a royal justice and one of the King’s Justiciars. At the moment, I hear he is in Germany negotiating for Hubert Walter over Richard’s ransom. So guess who our dear Count of Mortain has put in as his locum sheriff?’
De Wolfe stared at his friend blankly. ‘Old Henry de Furnellis, perhaps?’ he suggested.
Ralph laughed scornfully. ‘No, it’s your damned brother-in-law, Richard de Revelle!’
John was aghast. ‘God’s blood! I think I’ll turn around and go back to being a mercenary in Germany! Why would the prince want to do that? De Revelle will bleed the county dry to his own advantage.’
Though it was his own domain, Morin looked over his shoulder in an almost furtive way. ‘There’s treason afoot, in my opinion. With our king away for years and now locked up in Germany, Prince John sees an opportunity to seize the crown for himself. Many thought that the Lionheart would be killed in battle or die of a fever; when he didn’t, John began to think of overthrowing him by force, which is why he’s been seeking an alliance with Philip of France and plotting with others at home.’
‘What others?’ demanded John, concerned at this confirmation of the fears the Lionheart expressed on the journey from Palestine.
‘The rumour is that Hugh Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, is his main supporter, along with other senior churchmen, including some of the senior canons of Exeter.’
De Wolfe digested this worrying information with a scowl. ‘And you reckon my dear brother-in-law may also be a traitor, if he is thick enough with the prince for him to be given this chance to milk the county revenues?’
The burly constable shrugged. ‘We all know what a shifty, devious character de Revelle is, John. I’d not trust him an inch, which is why I’m not letting him nibble away at my royal authority over this castle.’
Gabriel leaned forward. ‘I recall that when the king ill-advisedly gave the prince these six counties and a lot more besides, he forbade him to set foot in England for the next three years, as a safeguard while he was on Crusade. But their mother, the old queen, talked Richard out of it, so John has been here most of the time, making trouble from his bases in Gloucester and Bristol.’
De Wolfe jerked his head towards the closed door of the sheriff’s chamber. ‘Is de Revelle in there now? I suppose I had better tell the bastard that I’m home again. That’ll spoil his day, no doubt!’
‘He’s not there, he’s gone to his manor in Revelstoke, probably to count all his money,’ replied Ralph, sarcastically.
John hauled himself to his feet. ‘That’s something I must do myself, go to my manor. I’ve not seen my family for three years, so I’ll be off to Stoke-in-Teignhead first thing in the morning.’
When they heard he would be staying in the Bush until he could find a town house, Gabriel and Morin expressed their concern at the death of the landlord, whom they had both known as a fellow soldier.
‘The place has gone downhill badly since Meredydd died,’ bemoaned Gabriel. ‘Poor Nesta can’t keep it up alone and she’s become short of money.’
‘I heard that de Revelle wanted to buy the Bush, but offered her a paltry price,’ said Morin. ‘I expect if she gets even more desperate, he’ll get it for a pittance in the end.’
‘Over my dead body!’ muttered John. ‘The Bush is about to regain its former glory!’
TWELVE
It was early evening when John arrived back at the Bush and even after only a few hours, the atmosphere there had changed remarkably. Gwyn was there, heartily organizing a couple of men he had got in to clean up and change the rushes on the floor and throw out any broken benches.
Already, two new staff had arrived. Old Edwin was there, eager to earn twopence a day and all the ale he could drink, together with Molly, the girl from St Sidwell who Agnes had claimed was a good cook.
Nesta looked a different woman, with a linen coif over her red-gold hair, a clean apron and a bright-eyed eagerness in her face. John’s promise to help had rapidly transformed both her and the failing tavern and even some of the regular patrons were helping by killing rats and mice that ran from the dirty rushes as it was raked up.
‘Great to have you back, cap’n,’ quavered Edwin, who had served in Ireland years before and still gave John his rank as leader of their company of pikemen. He had a horrible dead eye from an injury during that campaign, the fish-white eyeball rolling up in the socket when he moved his other eye. In addition, he limped badly, as he had lost all the toes and half the foot in the same conflict.
‘Come and sit down for a while, good lady’ John said to the Welsh woman. ‘We must talk about how we restore your fortunes here.’
As they sat across a table while the bustle went on around them, he proposed his plan of action. ‘I’ll clear all your debts and lend you whatever is needed to get this fine inn back on its feet. For the time being, I’ll pay the wages of the three you have working here. I also think you should have a boy as ostler to look after horses in the yard behind, for it’s been a popular lodging for travellers, bringing in much business for you.’
Nesta laid a hand on his and whispered her thanks, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. ‘Why are you being so good to me, Sir John? I know Meredydd thought the world of you, but he’s gone, God rest him.’
De Wolfe squirmed a little with embarrassment. Emotion and especially a woman’s tears, struck fear into him as much as a dozen Saracen swords. ‘Your man was a good soldier and a good friend,’ he muttered. ‘That’s more than sufficient for me to salute his memory by caring for his wife.’
Gwyn ambled up at this moment, obviously enjoying this new challenge as a change from trekking across half the known world. ‘The brew-shed is mortally short of materials for making ale,’ he rumbled. ‘And the kitchen is equally bare. Can I go out tomorrow and buy enough to stock us up?’
For answer, John reached into the pouch on his belt and slid a leather bag across the table towards the landlady, part of the earnings he had received from Hugh de Relaga. ‘That’s to be getting on with, Nesta. Give Gwyn what he needs for the market tomorrow. Good food and clean mattresses will soon bring back the customers.’
‘And I’ll find a couple of men to start whiteliming the walls, inside and out – and get the thatch repaired,’ promised the big Cornishman, as he
stumped off again to supervise the cleaners.
Nesta laid a hand on the purse of silver, hesitant about accepting it. ‘How can I repay you, Sir John?’ she murmured.
He gave her one of his rare smiles, his dour face lightening and momentarily making him a youth again. ‘Forget the “Sir”, Nesta! I’ve had six months living like a common mercenary, it will take a while for me to feel like a knight again!’
She beamed at him and he suddenly realized what an attractive woman she was. John was a great admirer of the fair sex, but as she was the wife of an old friend, he had genuinely never had any amorous or lascivious thoughts about Nesta. However, he had always enjoyed her vivacious company in the inn, especially as he could speak to her in Welsh. He looked with new appreciation at her heart-shaped face, the pert snub nose and the big hazel eyes. She was a small woman, with a tiny waist but a full, curvaceous bosom. Her auburn hair was her crowning glory, though now half-hidden under her linen cap.
She felt him gazing at her and blushed slightly. ‘I miss my dear Meredydd so much, John – but life must go on. I am so lucky to have you as a good friend.’
He gave her another of his lopsided grins. ‘Then you can also have me as a customer, for I must find somewhere to live for a while, since my wife has barred her door to me!’
Nesta looked at him aghast, until he explained that there was no room for him in her cousin’s house. ‘Until she makes me spend a chestful of gold and silver on buying somewhere in the city, I will have to find lodgings. I hope you can find me a bag of straw up in your loft, dear lady?’
She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You would stay here, in a common alehouse?’
‘Indeed I would, it’s a palace compared to what I have endured these past few years. In fact, I would earnestly desire to collapse on to a mattress very shortly, for it’s been a long and strenuous day!’
Nesta sprang to her feet, bustling to take care of her tall, dark benefactor. ‘First you must eat, we’ll see what this new girl can provide for you. Then you’ll have no haybag upstairs, but a goose feather palliasse from my own room!’
Within minutes, a bowl of tasty rabbit stew was set before him, that Molly had been simmering in the cook shed, together with a wheaten loaf, cheese and a bowl of ripe plums. ‘We’ll do better than that tomorrow, when we have more notice,’ promised Nesta, standing with arms akimbo to watch him eat.
When he had finished, though it was still daylight, she led him up the wide ladder in the corner to the loft above. This extended right across the inn, a bare floor under the high roof, which was made of twisted hazel withies that supported the thatch. In one corner was a stout partition with a door, forming a small chamber for Nesta herself. Opposite were a few wattle screens forming open-ended cubicles for the better class of guest, who paid twopence a night for a blanket and a straw-filled sack to sleep on, plus food and drink. The common lodgers slept in the middle of the floor for a penny, with bread and ale.
Nesta fetched a blanket, a pillow and a soft mattress from her room, and settled John in one of the cubicles. ‘There’s no one else staying her tonight, so you’ll not be disturbed,’ she promised, as he sat gratefully on the edge of his bed to pull off his boots. ‘God bless you, John, may he keep you safe this night!’ she said fervently.
After sleeping like a log until dawn, de Wolfe had a breakfast of gruel, fried eggs, ham and coarse bread, before going up to the stables in St Martin’s Lane to fetch his hired horse. He had thought to call at Fore Street to tell Matilda that he would be away for a few days, visiting his family. Then he used the excuse to himself that she was still likely to be snoring at that early hour, as except when attending early church services, she was as fond of her bed as she was of food and drink.
The rounsey was a decent little horse and John felt quite at home on her as he rode down the steep approach to the West Gate. He waved to the porter on duty, who gave him a semi-military salute, another old soldier who recognized John de Wolfe. The news that Sir John was home from the Crusades had spread around Exeter within hours, and many people had acknowledged him as he rode through the streets, already bustling with townsfolk and merchants going about their daily business.
The marshy ground outside the walls, flooded when the river was in spate, looked much the same as he remembered it. The new stone bridge had been started in the year he left for Palestine, but the builder, Nicholas Gervase, had run out of money and only a few arches were completed. The old, shaky footbridge would not take a horse, so de Wolfe used the ford to cross the Exe, as the tide was low.
Once beyond the river, he carried on at a brisk trot, turning off a few miles further down the high road to Plymouth to take the southerly track that led to the coast, eight miles away. It was a pleasant summer morning, white clouds scudding high in a blue sky and he revelled in being back in a green country after years in the arid, dusty Levant. The road was narrow and rutted, but at least it was dry in this fine weather. The track ran down the western side of the Exe valley, past Powderham manor on the marshes of the estuary, with gentle hills to his right. He felt contented, but he missed the company of Gwyn jogging alongside him, as he had done for so many years. After a couple of hours’ riding, he stopped before reaching the sea at Dawlish, to let his mare drink at a stream and crop the grass amongst the bushes at the side of the road. He sat on a fallen tree to eat some of the bread and cheese that Nesta had given him for the journey, as he looked ahead to where he could see the houses of Dawlish in the distance. Also visible were a few tilted masts, belonging to ships that were beached there and these reminded him that Thorgils, the master of the cog that had brought him home, was probably already with his wife in the village.
With a sigh, John knew that this destroyed any hope of his calling on the beautiful Hilda, his earliest love and one who still held a powerful attraction for him. Hilda was the daughter of the manor reeve at the de Wolfe’s second manor at Holcombe and as teenagers, they had both lost their virginity together in a hayloft there. She was half a decade younger than John and it would have been impossible to contemplate a marriage between a Norman knight and the daughter of a servant, even though her father had been freed from his former bondage and made the reeve, responsible for organizing the daily work of the manor.
John had been fighting abroad for most of his adult life and, during his absence, Hilda had married Thorgils, a relatively rich mariner and owner of three ships. However, when John was home and her husband away, they had had many passionate reunions and were still very fond of each other – or so John hoped, as this three-year absence in the Holy Land was the longest period they had ever been apart. For all he knew, she might have had a couple of children by now, though Thorgils was getting old, almost twice her age.
He climbed back into the saddle and carried on, passing slowly through the village street in the hope that he might catch a glimpse of Hilda at the market stalls, but there was no sign of her.
John trotted on, the road now following the coast and he soon passed Holcombe, with its pleasant memories. He could have called there had time permitted, as Hilda’s parents, though they guessed at the past relationship between the young people, were still both faithful manor servants to the de Wolfe family.
Soon he came to the River Teign, which flowed down from Dartmoor, the last few miles being a wide tidal channel. Though some hours earlier, it had been low at the Exeter crossing, the tide was now flooding into the sandy entrance to the estuary, so John took the ferry across to the other side. For a halfpenny, the boatman took him and the horse on to the flat-bottomed craft and poled it across, slanting against the strong current. On the other side, it was but a short distance to Stoke-in-Teignhead, a manor hidden away in a small valley amongst the trees beyond the western bank.
As he rode down the lane through the fringe of forest, he saw all the familiar sights of his youth, for he had been born and lived here until his father had sent him at ten years of age to be a page and then a squire to a nobleman in the north o
f the county. As the valley opened out into strip fields and cottages, the familiarity was almost overwhelming, even to an unimaginative man like John. There were a few people on the road and more working in the fields on either side – the children and younger lads staring curiously at this dark stranger, but older villagers soon began shouting and running towards him as they recognized him as their long-lost lord. His elder brother William was the actual lord of the manor and head of the family, a gentle fellow whose interests were in managing the estate, rather than John’s dependence on the sword. However, John had always been very popular, especially amongst the younger villagers, who admired his reputation as a warrior.
After reunion with his family in the manor house, the next hour was a bewildering confusion of welcome, praise and thanksgiving for his safe return, the sexton ringing the church bell in an endless paroxysm of rejoicing. Many had given up any hope of seeing him again, thinking that like the majority of the men who had sailed from Dartmouth three years before, he would have died of wounds, illness or drowning at sea.
His mother Enyd was one who never contemplated his death, resolutely believing that he would come home. Her conviction supported the others, especially his plump sister Evelyn, who had spent much of the last three years praying for him, as she was as religious as Matilda, having wanted to enter a nunnery in her youth. William had secretly feared that he would never see his brother again, but had kept up a firm pretence for the sake of his mother and sister – and was now heartily pleased to have been proved wrong.
What remained of the day was spent in talking, eating and drinking, as the family, the steward, the bailiff and the reeves all clustered around John in the hall of the manor house to hear his tales of the Holy Land and especially of the journey home. None of them had known that he had been part of the Lionheart’s bodyguard for the return from Acre and were prodigiously proud of him. When they heard that only John and Gwyn had been left with the king after all the others had been whittled away, they were astounded – and John’s sombre confession of his remorse at not being able to prevent the capture was dismissed by them as God’s will. Everyone in England knew that their king was in prison in Germany, but the details were scanty, except to the ministers and high officials.
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