The regular patrons of the Bush readily joined in the fun, as since his return, their hero Sir John de Wolfe was the city’s most popular man. Soon, the few women present were hauled to their feet as they danced the jigging steps of rural England, laughing and chattering as those at the tables banged out the rhythm with empty ale jugs. With autumn logs crackling in the firepit, the scene in the dark taproom began to look like some scene from Celtic mythology.
John looked on with amiable approval and even ventured a couple of ballads of his own, carefully censored because of the respectable women there – the Bush was rarely used by whores, as Nesta discouraged that trade, leaving it to disreputable inns like the Saracen, two streets away.
Then Agnes dragged him to his feet and they laughingly attempted the simple steps of the dance, mostly hand-holding, advancing, retreating and turning. John was no dancer and only the loosening of inhibitions caused by the ale persuaded him to take part. Then Agnes, who had a very shrewd head on her plump shoulders, waited until one of the masons had released Nesta, then steered John into the landlady’s path. Smiling happily, she cavorted with him around the firepit and even his saturnine features creased into an almost foolish grin as they stamped and pranced to the obvious approval of the others, who clapped in time to Edwin’s piping and the thump of a small drum that someone had produced.
When they finally flopped down on to their bench, Agnes noted with satisfaction that John’s arm remained draped around Nesta’s shoulders. She knew, through Gwyn, of de Wolfe’s frustrating marriage and also of his past affairs with Hilda of Dawlish and other women, but also knew that he was a lonely man at heart. It was about time, she decided, that he enjoyed some female company.
When the party broke up, Gwyn took Agnes up to her sister’s in Gandy Lane, as it was far too late to get out of the city, the gates being firmly closed at dusk. The others faded away and John, slightly unsteady on his feet, offered to help Nesta clear up, with Edwin and the two other servants. But the Welshwoman, having herself drunk a little more than her usual moderate amount, declared that it should be left until morning and told the others to go to their homes.
‘Off to bed with you, Sir John, Great Crusader!’ she said with an unusual lack of inhibition. She climbed the ladder to the loft, and missed her grip on the top step, falling back into his ready arms.
John pushed her up to safety and they stood swaying slightly outside her small room. There were several lodgers on the other side of the loft, but their lusty snores told that they were oblivious to what was going on. Her cheerful mood suddenly melted into tears and she laid her head on his chest.
‘John, thank you for everything. What would I do without you?’
His arms went around her and he drew her tightly to him. She raised her face and kissed him on the lips, long and earnestly. Then with a sudden movement, she twisted away and opened the door to her bedchamber. ‘Good night, sweet man, sleep well and may God watch over you this night!’
She slipped inside and the door closed with a click of finality as the wooden latch dropped into place.
John stood there stupidly, touching his lips where they had kissed. His rapid arousal faded almost as quickly as it had arisen and he stumbled across to his cubicle and sat heavily on the edge of his mattress.
‘I think I’m in love again, blast it!’ he muttered.
For the next few days, John went around in an abstracted frame of mind, behaving perfectly normally, but in a distant mood that Gwyn detected only too well. Agnes, who had almost a wise woman’s sixth sense, had told him what was going on and received a rebuke from her husband for meddling in matters that didn’t concern her. John still had his reservations about becoming emotionally involved with a friend’s widow, but he found Nesta increasingly attractive and desirable. At intervals, he chastised himself for his juvenile qualms – for God’s sake, he was a Norman knight, a member of a class who thought no more of seducing or even ravishing an alehouse keeper than kicking a stray dog! Why should he be different with this particular woman?
Yet Nesta affected him in a way similar to the feelings he had for Hilda, who was now out of his reach – and strangely, he felt more remote from her now that Nesta had come into his life. Not an introspective man, he usually dealt with such situations by demanding some robust action. One morning, he marched up to Rougemont and pulled Gwyn out of a game of cards in the gatehouse.
‘We need to start our campaign against these bastards who are infesting the roads,’ he proclaimed. ‘Let’s see what Ralph Morin has to say about it.’
They found the castellan in his chamber, haranguing Gabriel and another sergeant about the lacklustre appearance and performance of the last batch of recruits to the garrison.
‘Maybe we can offer something that will put some steel into their backs,’ suggested de Wolfe. ‘It’s about time we took some action against these scum who are attacking travellers and thieving from villages with little to discourage them.’
After an hour’s discussion and plotting, they decided to comb the forest area where John and Gwyn had been attacked.
‘Those three we dispatched seemed lone wolves, but there have been many more organized raids on passing traffic, so there must be a more substantial gang in there somewhere,’ he said.
They set a day the following week, giving the sergeant time to pick a score of men and get them fit and well equipped.
‘Are we going to tell de Revelle?’ asked Morin, dubiously.
‘I’ll tell him, just to let him know how idle we think he is, but it’s really none of his business. We are doing this on behalf of the Curia and Hubert Walter. In fact, when we talked in London not long ago, he hinted that he was thinking of setting up some unemployed knights in every county, as “keepers of the peace”, so we’re just anticipating his wishes.’
John was as good as his word and loped into his brother-in-law’s chamber, ostensibly to offer him congratulations on his recent birthday. ‘I trust you had a good celebration, Richard – Matilda told me that it was a festive occasion.’
De Revelle showed no embarrassment at the implied rebuke for the lack of invitation to John and merely asked if his sister’s house was fit for habitation yet, again with the implication that it was hardly suitable for a woman of her status.
‘We hope to move ourselves in there very soon,’ said John, omitting to say that he looked on the occasion with gloomy foreboding. He would a thousand times prefer to stay in his little cubicle in the Bush, almost within arm’s reach of Nesta.
‘You have engaged servants, I hope?’ enquired Richard, loftily.
‘A customer of Hugh de Relaga has recommended a young woman who used to cook for him before he moved to Dartmouth. And a church friend of Matilda’s has palmed off a French girl on her to act as her personal maid.’
Richard sorted parchments on his table with an impatient gesture, implying that John’s presence was delaying important work. ‘I hear that you are contemplating some vigilante activities against trail bastons,’ he said loftily. ‘Are you setting yourself up as an unofficial sheriff?’
De Wolfe glowered at him. ‘We’ve already got one of those, by the looks of it, except that he seems to have no interest in keeping the king’s peace!’
Richard shrugged indifferently. ‘It’s none of my business, John. I am merely doing a service for the prince – who at least is in England and not absenting himself for three years, probably never to return.’
He always knew how to rile his sister’s husband, as any criticism of the Lionheart was anathema to John.
‘I’m just doing what any honest knight should do, trying to clear our roads of the murderous villains that infest them!’ he roared. ‘When you have personally found a king’s servant with his throat cut and then been attacked on the highway by a couple of thugs intent on killing you, it’s a great incentive to do something about it!’
Richard pulled some documents towards him is a gesture of dismissal. ‘Then I wish you luck,
John. I always travel with a strong bodyguard, so the matter is of no consequence to me.’
John gave up trying to hold a reasonable conversation with him and marched out, giving the heavy door a satisfying slam behind him.
SIXTEEN
The first expedition of the posse from Rougemont was an anticlimax, after the excited young men-at-arms had worked themselves up into a lather of expectation at defeating a band of murderous outlaws. Ralph and John had chosen Haldon Forest as their target, as this was where de Wolfe had been attacked. Twenty men, together with the two knights, Gwyn and Sergeant Gabriel marched the five miles out of Exeter, being seen off by rather mystified townsfolk as they stamped their way out of the West Gate, as if leaving from some distant battle.
They all wore short chain mail hauberks, breeches and round helmets, their weapons being a mixture of pikes and swords, with half a dozen archers amongst them. It would have taken twenty-score men to thoroughly comb that area of woodland, but a start had to be made somewhere, if only to leave a message that the authorities were not going to let lawlessness go unchecked.
They stopped on the road at the point where the three would-be assassins had been killed. There was no sign of the bodies and as the castle constable had already questioned the bailiff of the Exminster Hundred, who told him that no one had recovered or even told him about corpses in that area, it was assumed that the local wildlife had dealt with their disposal.
The soldiers fanned out in pairs and began advancing into the forest, keeping within shouting distance. They had no hope of coming upon any outlaws by stealth but on this preliminary foray, wanted to make their presence known and to discover any camps that may have been set up.
After a couple of hours, they had passed beyond the halfway mark in the direction of Trusham village, when a cry from men on the left of the line brought the three leaders to the place. In a clearing, there were the remains of a fire, with a wisp of smoke still rising from logs which had been hastily kicked apart. Nearby were some crude shelters of woven branches built against the trunks of trees, in which were a few scattered articles of tattered clothing.
‘They’ve made a run for it, no doubt they heard us coming from a furlong away,’ declared Ralph Morin.
De Wolfe kicked at a half-eaten carcass of a chicken, lying near the fire. ‘A hell of a way to live, especially with winter coming on. Still, I expect they think it’s better than having their necks stretched on the gallows in Exeter.’ From the appearance of the rough shelters, he thought that about six men had been camping out there.
‘We’ll not catch them today, I fear,’ said Gabriel, hefting his long pike in frustration. ‘They can circle round us and vanish in any direction without us getting a sight of them.’
‘Still, we’ve made it clear that they can’t have their own way any longer,’ said Ralph resignedly. ‘If I had five hundred men, we could encircle the place and drive them to the centre, like rabbits in a harvest field.’
The men relit the fire and sat around it to eat the bread, meat and cheese they had brought with them, washing it down with water from a nearby stream.
Afterwards, they carried on until they emerged from the trees in sight of the strip fields of Trusham and began marching back home through smaller lanes.
‘At least it’s given these lads some exercise and a taste of discipline,’ said Gabriel. ‘Maybe next time, they can get some proper action.’
‘I can’t see any other way of trying to deal with these criminals,’ growled John. ‘We can’t escort travellers like the Templars and the Hospitallers did in Palestine. But if we catch, kill or hang a few outlaws, then it may help to discourage the rest.’
Life at the Bush went on almost as normal, as during the following week Nesta and John made no mention of the intimate moment outside her room. It was by no means ignored, however, as the frequent smiles she gave him seemed warmer and on his part, John lost no opportunity of getting her to sit close to him on the bench when he was having a meal or a jug of ale. When it was time to sleep, however, they seemed to have an unspoken agreement that they would not ascend the ladder at the same time, as if to avoid the temptation to repeat the brinkmanship that had occurred on the night of the impromptu party.
The house in St Martin’s Lane was almost ready for occupation now. John had met Mary, the cookmaid recommended by Hugh de Relaga, and was favourably impressed. A well-built girl in the mid-twenties, her Saxon mother was the cook to a leather merchant in Goldsmith Street. She frankly admitted that she was the illegitimate daughter of a soldier who had not waited in Exeter for her birth. Handsome rather than pretty, she had an air of competence and independence that he liked. Mary readily accepted the offer of the job and was happy to live in the cook shed and even look after Brutus, as she was a dog lover like Gwyn.
Matilda had also engaged the maid that she was offered, though John kept well clear of that transaction. He saw the girl once with his wife before they moved in, a thin rabbit-toothed creature with a permanently frightened manner. This Lucille spoke not a word of English, as she had come from the Vexin, a part of Normandy north of the Seine, which Philip of France was trying to seize. Her speaking only French suited Matilda, who had an obsession with wishing to appear totally Norman.
On Gwyn’s advice, John also took on an old man, who lived on Stepcote Hill, who could come to do the rough outside work, like chopping wood, drawing water from the well, emptying the privy and feeding the pig and chickens. All this domesticity was new to John and as he knew that Matilda would never deign to soil her own hands with work, he was determined to get sufficient servants to keep the place running.
In spite of his fears that time would hang heavy without a war to attend, it passed quickly. He visited Hugh de Relaga a number of times to see if there was anything he could do to help him and twice he went off with Gwyn to take written orders for wool to Buckfast Abbey, some twenty miles away towards Plymouth. Buckfast was a Cistercian foundation, famous for its sheep breeding and wool production, so their exporting business sent a lot of their produce to Flanders and the Rhine, using Thorgils’ ships to transport it.
John also spent a lot of time in the Bush and was pleased to see the trade growing rapidly after the new improvements that he had funded. Molly turned out to be an excellent cook and he hoped that Mary would prove as expert in St Martin’s Lane. Now having the best ingredients, Nesta also improved the quality of her ale to such an extent that it was soon acknowledged to be the best in the city. All this, including an increase in the number of travellers who came to lodge overnight, meant that the income rose appreciably. Though like himself, Nesta could not read or write, she was very proficient at counting coins! They sat every week at a table and added up the profits for the past seven days. The silver pennies, the only coins in circulation, were locked away in a stout chest in her bedroom, after recording the results on tally sticks, lengths of hazel twig with spaced notches indicating the amounts. Nesta insisted on passing on to John any excess over running expenses, as repayment for the money he had lent her. Though initially reluctant to accept it so soon, he decided that it would offend her if he refused, but he made it plain that his funds were always there if the need arose.
About a week before he was due to make his reluctant move out of the Bush into the new house, the inevitable happened. He made a daily call on Matilda in Fore Street to see that all was well – but on this occasion, when she came to the door, her usually impassive features were twisted into a malignant scowl.
‘I wonder you have the gall to show your face here!’ she rasped. ‘Up to your old tricks as soon as you come back to these shores.’
He knew without asking what she was referring to, but she continued to rant at him. ‘You can fornicate all you like when you are cavorting abroad, John de Wolfe – but to start all over again under my very nose is too much! And with a common alehouse keeper, to add insult to injury! As if that wasn’t bad enough, the whore is Welsh!’
Her sneering ton
e was like a poker stirring a dull fire into leaping flames, as John had a ready temper, easily provoked into activity. ‘I suppose one of those frustrated old baggages you call your friends has been peddling tittle-tattle about me!’ he snarled. ‘Third-hand tales with about as much truth in them as you have charity in that cold heart of yours!’
His sudden anger was made all the stronger by the fact that he felt unjustly accused, as not only had he not made it into Nesta’s bedchamber, but had even forbidden himself that pleasure because of noble feelings about her late husband.
Matilda was unmoved, as she stood in the doorway with her fists on her wide hips, glaring pugnaciously at him. ‘A barefaced liar, too! Do you really think I don’t know about that common serf’s daughter in Dawlish – or that brazen widow in Sidmouth? God alone knows how many other trollops you have scattered around the countryside!’
Before he could vent his indignation any further, she slammed the door in his face.
Ignoring the stares of several curious passers-by, he stamped away back up to Carfoix and went into the nearest alehouse, which was perhaps appropriately called ‘The Hanged Man’ with a crude depiction of a gallows over the door. It was a tavern that he had never patronized before and its sordid interior made it unlikely that he would do so again. The nearest drinking-place for the slaughterers in The Shambles, it was nothing but a bare room with a few rough benches and a row of casks against one wall. There were no tables and the filthy straw on the floor was soiled with bloodstains that had dripped off the leather aprons of the customers. However, in his state of foul temper, he wanted a drink and did not trust himself to go straight to the Bush where he might upset Nesta by blurting out Matilda’s taunts.
A potman who was so thin that he must have been suffering from some wasting disease, brought him a misshapen pot with a quart of poor ale, all of which slightly cheered him by adding to the contrast between this seedy place and Nesta’s trim establishment.
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