John nodded gloomily. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a lot of people he could rely on. Thank God his mother, sensible woman, keeps her own stern eye on him while our king is locked up abroad.’
‘We may be sharpening our swords again before long if King Richard doesn’t come home soon,’ said the castellan.
‘Or even if he does!’ added John. ‘If the prince persists in defying his brother and starting an insurrection, Richard will have to crush him. The danger is that John is cultivating his alliance with Philip of France, who has greedy eyes not only on Normandy, but England itself.’
The talk turned to more immediate matters.
‘What can be done to find the killers of this Roger Smale?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘With no effective sheriff, no one seems to care about the king’s peace any longer.’
‘I can see your brother-in-law eventually being elected as acting sheriff by the prince, in the absence of anyone else,’ declared Ralph. ‘God help us, he’s only good for a tax-collector, I doubt his sword has been out of its scabbard these past ten years. You should be given the job, John, but the prince knows you are a staunch king’s man.’
‘No chance of that, Ralph. But Gwyn and I are going to try to learn something about Smale’s last days, if only to satisfy ourselves.’
When he left the castle, he went down to find the lawyer in North Street and discuss the vacant house with him. The advocate, a middle-aged fellow who seemed quite sensible and cooperative, told him that the owner, now fragile in mind and body, was willing to dispose of the house on a ten-year lease for twenty-five pounds. He gave John a large key and said he was welcome to take his wife to inspect the dwelling at any time, so John’s next stop was Fore Street, where he managed to attract Matilda’s attention away from the heavily pregnant niece for long enough to tell her about the house in St Martin’s Lane. She still seemed moderately interested and John arranged to walk up with her that evening to inspect it.
Back at the Bush, he ate a midday meal provided by Nesta and her new cook, a bowl of mutton potage followed by grilled sea bream with beans and cabbage. Fresh bread and cheese followed and after the privations of the past few months, John felt that he had entered a culinary heaven. Afterwards, Nesta came to sit with him and he told her about the house in St Martin’s Lane.
‘Why don’t you walk up with me now and have a look?’ he asked, when he saw how interested she was in seeing inside a town house.
‘Won’t your wife be annoyed at you taking a strange woman there, even before she’s seen it herself?’ asked Nesta, anxiously.
He couldn’t resist slipping an arm around her waist and briefly squeezing her. ‘You’re not a strange woman, you’re my landlady! And she will never know, anyway, Matilda is too besotted with the prospect of soon having a new baby to croon over.’
Nesta pulled a light hooded cloak over her kirtle and walked with him to Southgate Street and across into one of the entrances to the cathedral precinct. As they crossed the rugged ground, he pointed out the new grave mound of Roger Smale.
‘I’m going out with Gwyn tomorrow to see if we can find some trace of the poor fellow in the days before he was so foully killed. I promised the Justiciar that I would try to discover if any active plot was being hatched by Prince John down here in the west.’
The Welshwoman looked at him in concern. ‘Be careful, John, I’ve heard that he and his men can be ruthless. We don’t want you coming to any harm, after surviving all you’ve gone through these past few years.’
He warmed to her worrying about him, so different to Matilda’s usual indifference. ‘I’ll manage, dear Nesta. Compared to Saladin’s army, I doubt the Count of Mortain’s rabble will prove much of a challenge.’
She still looked uneasy, but in a couple of minutes they were outside the heavy door of the house in St Martin’s Lane. De Wolfe produced the key and with a squeak of rusty metal, turned it and shoved the door open. They found themselves in a narrow vestibule partitioned off from the main room. It was bare apart from a bench against the opposite wall, under which were a few old shoes. Above it was a row of wooden clothes pegs stuck into the wall. On the right was a door leading into the main hall and on the left, an opening leading to a covered passage that ran along the side of the house to reach the backyard.
‘A bit grim, but nothing wrong so far,’ observed Nesta. ‘Let’s see the hall.’
She went to the inner door and pushed it open to reveal panelled draught screens just inside. Beyond these was the only room in the house, apart from the vestibule. They stood by the screens and gazed around. It was very high but spacious, in spite of the narrow frontage.
‘That roof must be twenty feet high!’ said John, craning his neck to look up at the dusty beams far above, supporting the rafters that carried the wooden tiles. Here and there, they could see daylight where some were missing and a couple of small birds fluttered out, disturbed by these rare visitors.
At ground level, the floor was of beaten earth, rock hard from a century of treading feet. A thin scattering of mouldy rushes covered it, apart from the central firepit, which was ringed with stones. An iron trivet and a pair of roasting dogs sat forlornly over the long-dead ashes. The walls were all timber, the inner side of the frame-and-cob walls being planked for warmth A few faded tapestries hung on them in an effort to relieve the spartan appearance of the chamber.
‘I’ve seen more cheerful barrack rooms than this,’ grunted John. ‘But it seems sound enough in its structure.’
Nesta had at first been disappointed by the bare, gloomy dwelling, but she could imagine what could be done to improve it. ‘Given time and money, John, it could be made into a fine house. Of course, it will depend on what your wife thinks of it.’ There was a tinge of jealousy in her voice as she felt herself excluded from the domesticity that she had lost with Meredydd’s death.
‘Let’s have a look at the yard,’ suggested John and led them back through the vestibule and down the side passage. Here there was a fairly large area, bounded by the back of the houses in the Cathedral Close on one side and a high fence between them and a similar yard next door.
‘There are a lot of huts in here,’ said Nesta. ‘Looks like the back of the Bush. Best see what’s in them.’
Exploration revealed a privy, a wash house, a wood store, a pigsty and a large kitchen shed, which still had a mouldering mattress in the corner, where obviously the cookmaid had slept. A well had been dug in the centre of the muddy plot, too near to the pigsty for Nesta’s liking. They surveyed the scene and then looked back at the house, where a completely blank wall reached up to the roof.
‘Well, it’s all here, John, but needs a great deal of improvement.’
He readily agreed with her opinion. ‘Depends on how much the owner wants for it. The need for so much to be spent on the place should be a good lever to lower his price.’
They walked back to the Bush, John’s mind half on the house and half on Nesta walking sedately alongside him. He wondered how long it would be before Matilda accused him of lusting after a common alewife, as no doubt one of her church cronies would eventually hear of it and revel in telling her.
When he went back to St Martin’s Lane with his wife that evening, he took care to act as if he had never seen inside the place before. They paraded around for half an hour and almost reluctantly, Matilda agreed that, after a great deal of work, possibly it could be turned into a dwelling fit for the wife of a knight.
‘But where did they sleep?’ she demanded, when they were looking around the hall again.
John saw some discoloured lines in one corner, with old nails projecting. ‘I think there was a partition there, cutting off a small room. Perhaps that was it.’
Matilda sneered. ‘I’m not sleeping in some box, John! We would need a proper room for me to have a maid to help me dress and do my hair.’
De Wolfe looked at the dusty firepit and imagined the haze of smoke that would normally ascend from it to find its way out through the
eaves high above.
‘And I would like a fireplace with a chimney. I saw one in Brittany a few years ago, built in stone. We could combine that with a solar built on to the back of the house.’ He became almost enthusiastic and wondered if he had now reached an age where home comforts were more important than the thrill of jousting or the bloodlust of battle.
Having seen all they needed, he locked up and walked her back to Fore Street. ‘I’ll be away tomorrow, on the Archbishop’s business, but when I’m back I’ll see about making a bargain with the owner.’
He was careful to mention Hubert Walter, as he knew that dropping the name of the highest clergyman in the land would keep his wife content – as would the thought of living in a house within a stone’s throw of the cathedral.
The long day’s ride up the Exe valley and one of its tributaries turned out to be fruitless. De Wolfe and Gwyn rode north from Exeter through all the small villages and manor up the river. They called to enquire at many alehouses and spoke to manor reeves and bailiffs, all of whom denied any sighting of a man answering the description of Roger Smale. True, their description was very vague and the only useful detail was the unusual buckle, which John wore on his own belt. He displayed it time and time again, without getting any flicker of recognition.
Several of the people they questioned, especially the reeves and bailiffs, wanted to know what his interest was and what authority he had to ask such questions. John hedged his answers slightly, saying that he was on a commission from the King’s Justices, which was not all that far from the truth, given that Hubert Walter was the head of England’s legal system.
After riding as far as Crediton and Tiverton, the two men arrived back in Exeter as the sun was setting. As soon as they had stabled their horses, Gwyn went home to St Sidwells, while John walked down to the Bush, looking forward to some good ale, a good meal and Nesta’s company.
When all three were set before him, he tackled Molly’s boiled bacon, peas and leeks with appreciation and over a dish of plums and nuts, told the landlady about his disappointing expedition into the country.
‘Never mind, John, you did all you could,’ she said consolingly. ‘It’s three weeks since you found the body and from what you describe of him, he must have been dead for some time before that.’
Edwin, who had been hovering to listen to his tale, topped up his pot from a large jug. ‘Can’t win them all, cap’n,’ he observed sympathetically. ‘Maybe something will turn up one day to help you nail the swine who did it.’
John sat talking to Nesta for a long while, discussing the improvement in trade and income that was already apparent at the Bush.
‘Just knowing that you are involved seems to have brought old customers back, John,’ she said happily. ‘Everyone admired you before, but since you came back from the Crusade and especially as you were so close to the king, you are a hero to every man in Exeter!’
De Wolfe grunted to cover up his embarrassment, though coming from the lips of such a pretty, amiable woman, he secretly revelled in her praise. ‘There’s one man who doesn’t look on me with favour, and that’s my damned brother-in-law. This rumour that he might be made sheriff one day is enough to make me want to go back to Acre!’
‘But he can’t be sheriff while Prince John holds the county in his grasp,’ she objected. ‘Surely when King Richard is released, he will kick out his wayward brother – then the Lionheart ought to make you sheriff!’
John grinned at the thought of such an unlikely event. ‘Can you see me as a glorified tax-collector? Not that I’ll ever get the offer.’
He spent another night in the loft, conscious again of Nesta’s nearness in her little room until he fell asleep, oblivious to the snores of a fat merchant in the adjoining cubicle. Next morning was taken up with haggling with the lawyer over a price for a long lease on the house in St Martin’s Lane. John emphasized the poor condition and dragged the man down to the house to have all the faults pointed out. ‘It will cost me as much as I’m willing to give you, just to pay for the repairs and alterations!’ he claimed.
With an offer of twenty pounds, which was about seven years’ wages for a labourer, the lawyer promised to see if his old colleague would accept it and they parted amicably.
He called on Matilda to tell her what he had done and she seemed mildly interested, though immediately offering her own news that her niece’s ‘waters had broken’, which caused John to flee from the house, which seemed even more full of women than ever.
Going up to the castle on its low hill, he called in on Ralph Morin to tell him of the complete failure of the expedition the previous day. ‘I despair of seeing any justice done in this county now,’ he said grimly. ‘When William Brewer was sheriff, before the king gave Devon away four years ago, at least he made the effort to hunt down criminals. Now it seems that unless manor lords keep the peace in their own patches, no one cares about seeking miscreants, other than in the towns. And even in Exeter, the council has only two constables to try to keep order amongst four thousand people.’
The castellan agreed with him, but said he had no remit to intervene. ‘I am only empowered to act against insurrection or invasion,’ he said ruefully. ‘I could contribute some of the garrison to a posse comitatus, should a hunt be mounted for marauding outlaws or highway robbers. But that could only be done at the behest of a sheriff – and we don’t have one!’
John moved down a couple of doors and pushed into Richard de Revelle’s chamber, bent on irritating his brother-in-law. ‘I see you are still here, playing at being sheriff!’ he said sarcastically, wanting to get his words in first.
‘And what are you playing at, John?’ retorted Richard, suavely. ‘Practising to be an unemployed soldier, eh? God knows there are plenty of those about now, with no Crusade to offer an excuse for pillaging, drinking and whoring.’
John tried to ignore the jibe, but his unemployed state was too near the truth to prevent it from rankling. ‘I thought I would tell you that the Chief Justiciar has given me a commission to seek out and report any evidence of disaffection and treason against the king, until the Lionheart returns to this country – which now seems imminent.’
‘Why are you telling me this, John? It is none of my business.’ Richard tried to gloss over the matter with an air of indifference, but secretly he was concerned at the dangers of such a tenacious man as de Wolfe poking his big nose into the prince’s intrigues. He was also piqued that his sister’s husband was on such intimate terms with both the king and his chief minister, whilst he had make do with a more distant relationship with an errant prince.
They bandied words for a few more moments and then, given that Richard was Matilda’s closest relative, John thought that he had better tell him about the house he was proposing to buy for her.
‘I suppose it will be convenient for her devotions at the cathedral,’ replied Richard, loftily. ‘Of course, I have bought a large house in North Street, as my manors in Revelstoke, Tiverton and Somerset are sometimes too distant for convenience.’
John’s patience with the arrogant, self-centred man soon ran out and he departed, leaving Richard to worry about whether he had sufficiently covered his own tracks in his own contribution to the prince’s ambitions.
De Wolfe went back to the Bush for his noon dinner, where Molly brought him a large bread trencher carrying slices of roast mutton, with a platter of boiled onions, beans and carrots. Nesta came with a small loaf of maslin bread, made from both wheat and rye, and a slab of cheese, then sat with him as he ate and listened to his story about his offer for the house.
He followed this with a diatribe against Richard de Revelle for his sneering self-importance and total uninterest in the murder of a royal courier. As he was washing down the food with a pint of her new ale, he confessed his frustration at what seemed to be the prospect of endless inactivity in his life.
‘How am I to spend my time, cariad?’ he demanded in the Welsh they always used together. ‘Am I grow
old and soft, concerning myself with carpenters and stonemasons over this damned house? Is my sword going to rust in its scabbard – and will I and my horse grow fat from lack of exercise?’
Nesta frowned at his obvious anxiety and laid a hand gently on his arm. ‘It’s only natural for you to feel like this, John, after the strenuous life you have led recently. But things will settle down – you could become more active in this wool enterprise that you have with the portreeve.’
De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Can you really see me sitting in the Guildhall, poring over bills and receipts?’ he growled. ‘Anyway, first I’d have to learn to read and write! I’d rather become a shipman and help Thorgils take our bloody wool to Flanders!’
She smiled at the thought of him doing either of these tasks. ‘I suppose you’re right, John. You belong in a saddle, with a lance under your arm. If it were not that I would fear for your life and limb, I’d say go back to competing in tournaments, as you used to. Though you no longer seem to need the prize money nor the ransoms.’
It was true that five or ten years ago, he was a successful contestant in the jousting that paid high rewards for the winners, as well as ruin or death for the losers. Though made illegal in England by the old King Henry, there were plenty of tourneys held outside the law – and many knights travelled abroad to compete in large-scale contests.
‘An attractive idea, Nesta – but I’m getting too old at almost forty. The risks of defeat increase greatly with age, for we get too slow and less agile than these young bloods!’
Looking at the attractive redhead sitting next to him, he was conscious of another defect in his life. Over the years, he had had a number of mistresses, both in Devon and elsewhere. There was a certain widow in Sidmouth whom he used to visit and, of course, the delightful Hilda of Dawlish. She was now out of bounds for at least another month, as he had learned from Hugh de Relaga that her husband Thorgils had decided to have a break from voyaging while his ship underwent extensive repairs. On the weary six-month journey across the continent, John had occasionally bedded a buxom serving wench, but lately his sensual appetite had been unsatisfied. Relations of that kind with Matilda had ceased long ago, as like his sister Evelyn, her desires were mainly in the direction of becoming a nun. Several times, during some of their shouting matches, she had bitterly expressed her regret at her father’s refusal to allow her to take the veil. But when his thoughts turned to Nesta, he told himself that this was forbidden territory. The memory of Meredydd was still too fresh in her mind and he had a strong sense of obligation to the archer to take advantage of his wife.
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