The augmented column set off for London Bridge, the crowds now shouting more enthusiastically as the leaders of their own community were seen in a favoured position in the procession.
They crossed the bridge, the weight of the rhythmically tramping horses creating tremors in the old wooden structure built by Peter de Colechurch twenty-three years earlier, and causing several nervous priests to cross themselves and commend their souls to God. Other more hardy men looked over the side at the nineteen new piers for the stone bridge that de Colechurch had started.
Passing through Southwark on the south side of the Thames, the cavalcade crossed the flat, marshy ground to enter farmland and then patchy woodland, as the land rose and the main track to the south-west aimed itself towards Kingston.
A scout had been sent ahead on a fast rounsey to warn of the arrival of the queen’s party and in mid-morning he came galloping back with the news that there was now only a couple of miles between them. After a consultation with the marshals, Hubert Walter held up a gloved hand and the cavalcade came to a halt in a large clearing with trees on either side, near the village of Clapham.
They waited, all mounted on their steeds, some of which were pawing the ground, shaking their heads, neighing and snorting with impatience.
Soon there was a distant braying of trumpets and horns, which rapidly came nearer until the Deputy Marshal gave the order for his own trumpeters to reply. These discordant blasts continued until the head of the approaching cavalcade appeared through the trees, a dozen soldiers with banners flying. John recognised the arms of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and then the large banner of Eleanor of Aquitaine, a single golden lion on a scarlet ground.
As they came into the clearing, they saw at last two stiffly erect forms riding side-by-side at the head of a short column of riders, which included several ladies and priests, more soldiers bringing up the rear, with outriders guarding the flanks.
They slowed their trotting steeds to a walk and spread out to face the reception party, the two main figures opposite Hubert Walter. One was a tall, stern-faced man wearing half-armour, a short chain-mail hauberk and a round helmet with a nasal guard. A large sword hung from his saddle, with a spiked mace on the other side, emphasising William Marshal’s role as guardian of the queen.
Eleanor also sat as straight as a poker; her handsome face still reflected the beauty she had been in her younger days, though she was now seventy-four. The trumpets ceased and the Justiciar slid from his horse and advanced to her stirrup, going down briefly on one knee, then rising and kissing the hand that she held down to him. They were well-aquainted and spoke together for several minutes, though John was too far down the line to catch anything that was said.
Then Hubert moved across to William Marshal, who dismounted and clasped his arm. Warrior and archbishop, they were old comrades from Palestine and two of the king’s most trusted servants. They moved to each side of Eleanor’s white mare and took her bridle to lead her to the end of the long row of welcoming dignitaries from Westminster. This was a signal for all to slide from their saddles and stand by their horses’ heads as Hubert and William led the queen slowly down the line. As she passed each one, they dropped to a knee and bowed their heads as Eleanor nodded in recognition when Walter murmured their names to her. Many she already knew well, either from her years as Henry’s queen or the sixteen years as his prisoner in various places in England. It was William Marshal who was sent by Richard to effect her release when Henry died.
She did not know John de Wolfe, but had heard something of him and gave him a friendly smile when he rose from his obeisance to her, before moving on to the end of the line. Then the trumpets sounded again and everyone climbed back into their saddles, the procession soon working up into a trot and covering the few miles back to the city in good time.
At Westminster, the old queen was handed down from her horse with dignified gravity and conducted by Hubert and William Marshal to the main entrance and amidst a flurry of her ladies she went up to the royal apartments, no doubt grateful for a well-earned rest.
John made his way up to his chamber to join his officer and clerk and to wash the dust from his now-healed throat with a quart of ale. He regaled Gwyn and Thomas with a description of the journey and told them that they were invited to the great feast on the following evening, as almost everyone was included in the occasion to welcome the Queen Mother back to England. She was a popular figure, both for her proud and regal appearance, her colourful past and for being a bastion of stability in an uncertain world.
The feast next day was a triumph of organisation on the part of the Steward and Keeper and their army of servants. Tables had been set across the dais at the top of the Great Hall, where the Court of the King’s Bench normally sat. These were for the high and mighty guests and were covered with linen cloths. Down the length of the hall, two long rows of bare tables accommodated the several hundred less eminent diners and in the side alcoves behind the pillars other trestles were set for the lowest orders.
When the crowd below had entered and settled in a pecking order that was checked and adjusted by the Keeper’s men, who paraded up and down the lines of tables, a fanfare of trumpets from a gallery above heralded the approach of the queen. Everyone stood as the notables entered from within the palace entrance behind the dais. The chief guests came in, many splendidly dressed, and found their places around the top table, before Hubert Walter courteously escorted Eleanor to the large chair in the centre of the table, looking down the huge hall.
Still more elegant than most women half her age, she wore a gown of blue silk with heavy embroidery around the neck and a light mantle of silver brocade. Her white silk cover-chief was secured with a narrow gold crown and the dangling cuffs of her long sleeves were ornamented with gold tassels, as was the cord around her waist.
There was a roar of spontaneous cheering until the Justiciar held up his hands for silence, when William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, gave a long Latin grace and blessing to the assembly, who stood with bowed heads.
Then with a rumble of benches on the hard earthen floor, they all sat and the eating began. Immediately, a legion of servants appeared from the side doors, bearing trays of dishes and jugs of wine, ale and cider which were rapidly placed on the tables. The trenchers were already in place, though on the top tables, silver and pewter plates lay before the diners, as well as glass and pewter goblets. Two ladies stood behind Eleanor to attend to her every want, but the doughty old lady had little need of them, being well able to fend for herself. As a courtesy – and Eleanor of Aquitaine was the queen and main inventor of courtly behaviour in Europe – Hubert and William Marshal went through the motions of helping her to the choicest morsels of the extravagant food placed before them and pouring her wine.
Compared with the usual fare in the Lesser Hall, de Wolfe decided that this was indeed a memorable feast. The top table had a surfeit of delicacies, from a roast swan which had been re-dressed in its original feathers, to several suckling pigs swimming in platters of wine-rich gravy. There were whole salmon, joints of beef and pork, numerous types of poultry and a range of puddings and sweets to follow, all washed down with the best wine that could be imported into England.
The rest of the hall also did well, if not on such a lavish scale, but no one went away unless sated with many kinds of meat, fish and sweetmeats. There were rivers of ale, cider, mead and wine, more than sufficient to send many diners reeling out of the hall at the end – or even being carried out unconscious by their friends.
John was placed a little way down one of the long trestles, as even the court’s coroner had no chance of getting on to a top table filled with members of the Curia, bishops, earls and barons. He noticed, however, that Renaud de Seigneur and Hawise were seated not far from the queen, perhaps as the lady from Blois was almost the only woman present, apart from Eleanor and her ladies-in-waiting. Even amid the heady company she was with, Hawise still managed to send John a few burning g
lances, as he had deliberately avoided going to the Lesser Hall for the past few evenings. John saw Archdeacon Bernard a little further down the table and the two under-marshals Ranulf and William were on the next row. Thomas, as coroner’s clerk, managed to slip on to a bench at the extreme bottom of the other limb of tables, but Gwyn was quite happy on a table hidden behind a pillar, together with some of his soldier friends. As long as there was ample food and drink, he did not care a toss for pomp and ceremony.
Five musicians on various instruments had been playing away manfully in the gallery. It appeared a thankless task, as no one seemed to be listening to them, even when they could be heard above the hubbub of voices. After a great deal of food had been consumed, with many a gallon of ale and wine, they were interrupted by another discordant blast of trumpets, as Hubert Walter rose to his feet and waited until more trumpeting and rapping of dagger-hilts on tables managed to bring relative silence.
The archbishop made a short, but eloquent speech of welcome to Queen Eleanor expressing delight at her return to England. When he had finished, there was more boisterous banging on tables and stamping of feet, with thunderous shouts of appreciation from the lower hall. This was a sign for more trumpets and with a radiant smile and wave at the assembled company, the Lionheart’s mother allowed herself to be handed from her chair by Hubert Walter. With her ladies fussing about her, she retired through the door behind, escorted by the Justiciar, the Marshal and a number of the senior bishops and barons, no doubt to take more wine privately in the royal apartments. John noticed that Hawise and her maid also slipped away through another door, leaving Renaud de Seigneur to enjoy the rest of the evening with the men. There was still plenty of food to pick at and the drink flowed endlessly from the jugs and pitchers ferried in by the servants, so the festive evening continued until late, though it was still light when even the most hardy drinkers staggered out of the Great Hall.
John joined the people who were milling around the tables and went over to talk for a while to Ranulf and William Aubrey, then went down to see how Gwyn and Thomas were faring. His clerk, who was no great tippler, was about to slip away to his bed in the abbey dorter, but professed that it had been a good meal and a privilege to be in the presence of the famous queen and the elite of English government, even at a distance. Suddenly weary, John wondered whether age was catching up with him, and together with Gwyn, who was like a shadow to him since the attack in St Stephen’s crypt, they went out into the summer dusk and made their way back to Long Ditch Lane.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In which Crowner John rides west
A court on the march was an impressive sight, even when the king himself was absent. A column a quarter of a mile long snaked through the countryside of Wiltshire, having left Newbury Castle that morning, aiming to reach Marlborough by evening, a distance of twenty miles.
A vanguard of mounted soldiers were drawn from the palace guard, augmented by troops supplied by several of the major barons who were members of the Royal Council. These provided both outriders along the length of the cavalcade and a strong rearguard at the tail. Behind the spearhead of men-at-arms came the most important people – Queen Eleanor herself, still riding stiffly erect on her white mare, with Hubert Walter, William Marshal, and the Treasurer, Richard fitz Nigel, in close attendance, her three ladies riding decorously behind. Following these was the whole column of riders of all ranks, flanked by people on foot. Colourful banners and pennants fluttered from poles and lances and when they passed a village the trumpets brayed a signal that nobility was on the march.
Unlike the journey from Portsmouth, this was a slow, trundling affair, the horses going only at walking pace, for towards the end of the procession, a baggage train of a dozen ox-carts laboured along, piled with luggage, beds, provisions and hundreds of different items needed to keep the court viable during the next few weeks. All the lower-class staff were walking alongside, though some washerwomen and scullery maids had hitched rides on the tailboards of the carts. There were several primitive coaches, little more than curtained litters on wheels, for those ladies of the queen’s entourage who preferred the bumpy ride of unsprung carriages being dragged along the rutted track.
As roads went this one was better than most, being the main highway out of London to the West Country, but it was still a rough track of pounded earth and stones, with occasional bridges of crude logs thrown across the streams. The weather had been good, so the usual quagmires of sticky mud had largely dried up, but the best the oxen could manage was about three miles an hour and often less when there was a gradient. Stops were frequent, to rest man and beast and to water and feed the horses and oxen. At midday, the whole column came to a halt for dinner and the servants hurried to the important travellers with meat and drink prepared at Newbury, whilst the rest had to cluster around the provision wagons to collect what they could.
The Coroner of the Verge was entitled to ride close behind the royal party, but John chose to stay well back with Gwyn and Thomas. Ranulf and William Aubrey were busy riding up and down the column in their role as marshals, organising matters and dealing with the endless hitches and emergencies that such a mass of men, horses and vehicles generated.
De Wolfe had kept behind partly to avoid Hawise and her husband, for he saw that the Lord of Freteval was fairly close to the queen and that Hawise, no horsewoman like Eleanor, had taken to one of the palanquin wagons. At Reading Abbey, the night before last, Hawise had sought him out after supper in the crowded guest hall, where the middle echelons had been fed. Though she had somehow managed to shake off her husband, John was so surrounded by other men that she was unable to separate him from them and had to be content with a few words and some suggestive glances, her maid standing by all the time.
Now Odin lumbered along happily, his great hairy feet rhythmically thumping the track. As a destrier, he could raise a brisk gallop over short distances on the battlefield or the tourney ground, but was not built for sustained speed. However, John knew from experience that at walking pace or even a trot, Odin could shift his half-ton of horseflesh all day without effort.
This was their fourth day on the road and with luck another two would see them at Bristol, where de Wolfe intended to tackle the Justiciar about a compassionate side-trip to Devon.
They reached Marlborough in the early evening and the cavalcade camped in the grounds of the castle, which was built on an ancient mound, in which Merlin was supposed to have been buried. Ironically, the castle had been given to Prince John by his father many years earlier, but after his treachery when Richard was imprisoned, it was removed from his grasp and reverted to a royal possession.
As before, the queen and the high officials of state were lodged in the private apartments. The other officers and clergy ate in the main hall, then slept on the floor on straw mattresses brought in from the carts. John ate a plain but adequate meal provided by the harassed servants and then decided to go for a walk to stretch his legs after a day in the saddle. Gwyn was eating in the outer bailey, where an ox was being roasted for the soldiers and the rest of the travellers, so John managed to avoid him, as he was beginning to tire of his officer’s insistence on protecting him against further attempts at assassination. He went out through a small postern gate in the inner ward and across a bridge over a dry moat to a wide area kept free of trees to give an open field of fire in case of attack. It was a time of peace this far inland and no one was likely to lay siege to Marlborough that night, so John walked on, savouring the serenity and quiet after the noisy journey all day on the high road.
The sun was low but still visible in a sky studded with woolly clouds as he entered the edge of the woods that had formed the hunting park for the lords of Marlborough. There was a stream tinkling over stones a few yards into the trees and he found a fallen log to sit on, while he watched the sparkling water. It dropped into a deep pool, where small fish made circles on the surface as they snapped at the midges that flitted by. Though John was no natu
re lover, it reminded him of his childhood in Stoke-in-Teignhead, the de Wolfe family manor, where he used to swim in such pools and try to catch trout with a pointed stick.
He sat staring into the stream, lulled by the quiet and the peacefulness after the crowds and clamour of London, wishing again that he could return to his native land of Devon. Maybe it was a sign of getting old, he thought pensively. Then he thought of Queen Eleanor, seventy-four and still as sharp as ever, perhaps good enough for another twenty years. But she had no need to wield a sword or a lance like a knight – and a slowing warrior was soon likely to be a dead warrior.
As if to put these thoughts to the test, a pair of hands were suddenly clapped across his eyes from behind. With a roar of shocked surprise at yet another unexpected attack, he threw himself sideways and grabbed desperately at his assailant, expecting to feel the thrust of a dagger between his ribs.
They both fell full-length to the long grass behind the tree-trunk, but instead of feeling homespun cloth or a leather jerkin under his hands, they slid around smooth silk – and instead of a muttered curse from coarse lips, there was a silvery laugh.
‘Why, Sir John, you seem very ardent, throwing a defenceless lady to the ground so quickly! And I thought your fondness for me had cooled!’
Shocked, but glad to be alive after his lapse of caution, he found himself lying on the soft ground, almost nose to nose with Hawise d’Ayncourt, his hands still grasping her around her slim waist.
‘Where in hell did you spring from, lady?’ he gasped with a distinct lack of courtesy.
For answer, she slid her arms around his neck and clamped her lips upon his in a long and passionate kiss. When he came up for air, he pulled his head away and stared at her beautiful face, only inches from his own. It was flushed with excitement, the tip of her pink tongue peeping from between her pearly teeth.
Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 27