‘I’m glad your wife has gone to Tiverton this week. Without you around, I would have been so alone, just left with sad memories of former years.’
Their eyes met, his dark ones lurking under heavy brows, her large hazel orbs set in a smooth rounded face. Something new passed between them, so that he stood up and raised her by the hand, then wordlessly took her to the wide steps to the loft. At the top, he pushed open the door of her little cell and then shut it firmly behind them.
Nesta sank to the edge of her thick pallet and held out her arms to him. As he knelt to kiss her, she whispered again. ‘John, I told you, I’d never make a nun!’
The next week was a foretaste of heaven for both man and beast. Brutus had a bone every day and John had Nesta. He spent every night there, only going back to St Martin’s Lane at dawn, in time for Mary to give him a good breakfast. The cook knew perfectly well what was happening – as did much of Exeter – and not being in the market for him, bore no jealous feelings at all. In fact she was both pleased and amused at the change in her master, who with Matilda absent and having found Paradise down in Idle Lane, was amiable and cheerful in a way she’d not seen before.
Nothing lasts for ever and in this case, it was only a week before Nemesis arrived on a dappled palfrey. Matilda was home and after a flurry of unpacking and harassing Lucille, she sat in her usual place near the hearth, waiting for Mary to hurriedly prepare a meal. She was still too full of pride about her brother’s elevation to sheriff to bother much with John, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before some gossiping friend would tell her of her husband’s new interest in the Bush Inn. He felt he should begin to broach the subject of de Revelle’s appointment, to prepare her for what must surely be a great disappointment. As soon as he could get her attention after her eulogy about the grandeur of the festivities at the Tiverton manor, he described the problem about Richard de Revelle’s proposed shrievalty.
‘As the king’s representative in Devon, only the king can appoint him,’ he said cautiously.
She immediately dismissed the notion. ‘You are only trying to stir up trouble again, John!’ she snapped. ‘Prince John was given the county after the king’s coronation, to rule as he thinks fit. He already has a chancellor, justiciar and exchequer of his own, so of course he can appoint his own sheriff!’
‘So why did the king keep Rougemont and Launceston castles in his own hand – and why are many of Prince John’s fortifications now being pulled down?’ retorted her husband.
Matilda glared at him around the corner of her chair. ‘As ever, you are only trying to make trouble for my brother! Is it pure dislike or jealousy of a man who is achieving something in his life?’ she cried. ‘Unlike you, he’s not shiftless and aimless unless he has a war to fight or a harlot to straddle!’
So within an hour of her return, they were squabbling again – and he knew that when she found out about the time he had spent in the Bush, the battle would be endless. They ate in sullen silence, then Matilda took herself off to her solar, shouting for Lucille as if she were calling to a dog.
It was another few days before the expected challenge to her brother came about. The time moved on to the New Year, still celebrated by most on the first day of January, even though the Church had long ago moved its date to the twenty-fifth of March, on the grounds that the one set in early Roman times was a pagan festival.7
Richard de Revelle had again installed himself in the sheriff’s chamber, but rapidly made it known that he was now there in a different capacity as the true sheriff. He called his senior clerks to him and had proclamations written to the two portreeves of Exeter, the Masters of the various Guilds and to the burgers who made up the city council as well as sending them to the other major towns like Totnes and Plymouth. These informed them that Sir Richard de Revelle was now Sheriff of Devon, appointed by their lord, the Count of Mortain and that all important business and the conduct of the courts now operated through him.
De Revelle also tried to impress upon Ralph Morin his superiority in the hierarchy of the county, but that pugnacious soldier told him bluntly that he was an officer of the king and took no orders from someone who held his dubious post at the behest of a mere Count.
On Epiphany, the sixth day of the new month that celebrated the Magi’s visit to the infant Jesus, a small procession entered Exeter from the London road. Half of the dozen men were a guard of men-at-arms under a sergeant, escorting a tall, grizzled man in his sixties, accompanied by another heavily built man with a large white moustache, both of whom had a squire and a body-servant.
They made straight for Rougemont and surprised the constable, who had no idea that they were coming. A flurry of activity settled their horses and escort, then Ralph Morin had food and drink organized for them in his chamber. At the same time, he covertly told Gabriel to send a soldier down to find Sir John de Wolfe and get him up to the castle as soon as possible.
The new arrivals were Sir Walter de Ralegh, one of the Royal Justices and a member of the Curia, the King’s Council, together with Sir Henry de Furnellis, a middle-aged knight whose father, Geoffrey de Furnellis, had been sheriff of Devon earlier in the century.
Both of them had strong Devon connections, as Walter had been born in East Budleigh and though de Furnellis was now a Somerset man, his family came from Venn Ottery, both manors being near each other about ten miles south-east of Exeter.
‘I came in response to your message to Hubert Walter,’ announced de Ralegh in his deep voice. ‘I am due to hold an Assize of Gaol Delivery in Dorchester next week, so it was convenient for me to come here. I picked up my old friend Henry here on the way, as the Justiciar has plans for him!’
‘Plans that I could well do without,’ put in de Furnellis wryly. ‘I want a quiet life these days, but my duty to the king comes first.’
They avoided further discussion while they ate and drank after their journey, the visitors saying that they would stay in the New Inn, the city’s largest hostelry in the High Street, where visiting judges were usually accommodated.
When John de Wolfe arrived, he too was surprised by the rapid response to the messages to the Chief Justiciar about both his success in combating outlaws and in dealing with the killer of the royal messenger, as well as the news that Prince John had flaunted the royal protocol in appointing his own sheriff. De Wolfe was already acquainted with both of the visitors, from various campaigns in Ireland and France, as well as at tournaments. Walter de Ralegh still had a Devonshire accent and because of his local knowledge, was often sent by the Curia Regis on matters concerning the west of England. When the platters and cups were cleared away, Walter got straight down to business.
‘The Curia is concerned about the increasing level of violence all over the country and the lack of any proper means to deal with it. Hubert Walter has plans to set up Keepers of the Peace and other measures, but that’s in the future, when the king is back in circulation.’
‘It’s bad down here, Sir Walter,’ said Ralph Morin. ‘The roads are getting so unsafe that it’s dangerous for folk to travel anywhere.’
‘Don’t think you’re alone in that, the Justiciar gets pleas from all over the country complaining of the same thing. But not having a sheriff here makes things worse.’
‘We now have a self-appointed one!’ said John cynically.
Walter de Ralegh turned his rough, weather-beaten face towards de Wolfe. ‘Not for long, John! Where is the bloody man? We’ll soon deal with him.’
‘De Revelle has settled himself in the old sheriff’s room here, but he’s not shown up today,’ advised the constable. ‘The clerk he’s brought with him says he’s starting his duties tomorrow.’
De Ralegh scowled. ‘What in hell is he doing settling in a royal castle, like a cuckoo in another bird’s nest? Have him here in the morning, we’ll soon stamp on another of Prince John’s little schemes!’
The reign of Richard de Revelle as Sheriff of Devon was very short and not particula
rly sweet. When next morning he arrived at the castle from the house he was leasing in North Street, he had already heard from his steward about the unexpected arrival in the city of Walter de Ralegh and Henry de Furnellis, but had no idea of their mission. He knew both of them slightly, but as they were staunch supporters of the king, he had kept his distance from them ever since his sympathies had moved to Prince John.
It was with considerable surprise that he entered his chamber in the keep to find it already occupied by four men. Sir Walter was sitting in his own chair behind the table and the constable, Henry de Furnellis and his own brother-in-law occupied stools alongside him.
Richard’s habitual arrogance and self-assurance soon surfaced. ‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded.
Walter jabbed a finger towards an empty chair. ‘Sit down, de Revelle. Firstly, it’s not your room, it belongs to the king – as will all Devonshire again be very soon.’
De Revelle’s mouth opened to protest, then the significance of the remark came home to him. Rapidly, he began to reassess his fortunes in the light of a possible change of politics.
‘The process of King Richard’s release is under way,’ continued Walter. ‘Queen Eleanor should by now be at the Emperor’s court in Mainz with the bulk of the ransom money, so his return home is only a matter of time – a very short time!’
‘I’m delighted to hear it!’ said de Revelle, after some rapid thought. ‘I am the caretaker sheriff at present, but would be honoured to continue to serve the king in that post.’
De Ralegh glowered at him and thumped the table with a big fist. ‘Not a chance, de Revelle! You are not the sheriff, you never were the sheriff – and if I have any say in the matter, you never will be the bloody sheriff!’ He lifted a parchment from the table, which had a heavy seal dangling from ribbons at the bottom. ‘This is a warrant signed and sealed by Archbishop Hubert Walter, Chief Justiciar of England, appointing Sir Henry de Furnellis as Sheriff in this county, as from the day of Christ Mass. It was issued by the Justiciar on behalf of the king, for whom he is acting in every capacity.’
‘But the county belongs to Prince John!’ howled de Revelle.
Walter de Ralegh jabbed a finger at the speaker. ‘A word of advice, de Revelle! As soon as the king is released, all lands he unwisely gave to his brother will be forfeit. John’s remaining castles will be attacked and seized and the prince himself will probably be charged with treason, along with those who are known to support him. If I were you and you wish to save your neck, I would try to forget you’d ever heard of the Count of Mortain!’ The tall judge got to his feet and pointed at the door. ‘Now go, de Revelle! You have no business here. Go to your manors, hunt, eat and sleep, but stop meddling in affairs of state that will only bring ruin upon you!’
Richard went pale, then red as his chagrin at being so summarily dismissed, wounded his pride and his vanity. He stalked to the door, sweeping his green cloak around him. As he passed John, he glared at him venomously. ‘This is your doing, de Wolfe! I’ll never forget it!’
TWENTY-TWO
It was now early September and much had happened since the depths of winter. One warm afternoon, Nesta had moved two trestle tables and benches outside to flank the front door of the Bush. A pair of carpenters and a blacksmith sat on one, with John de Wolfe, Gwyn of Polruan and Nesta on the other. The only view was that of a bare patch opposite, where weeds covered the charred remains of the fire of some years ago, but it was pleasant to sit in the sun with a jug of ale and chat about the state of the world.
‘Any news from across the Channel?’ asked Gwyn, leaning back against the wall of the inn, with a quart pot in his hand.
‘Ralph Morin’s usual source passed through yesterday,’ replied John. ‘A courier from Winchester said that our king is making slow but steady progress against Philip’s army in Touraine and that he is planning to build a huge castle on the Seine.’
‘What about his traitorous brother?’ demanded Nesta. ‘He seems to have faded from sight since May, when the king pardoned him yet again.’
De Wolfe scowled at the memory. ‘Yes, the Lionheart said he was like a naughty child and it was those men who led him astray who should be punished. But I don’t trust him, he won’t easily give up plotting to unseat Richard.’
After the collapse of John’s rebellion in March, the main instigator, Hugh of Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was fined heavily and went into exile in Normandy, where he died in disgrace. His brother, Robert Brito (who had refused to go to Germany as a hostage for the king) was thrown into the cells of Dover castle and was starved to death.
John himself had fled to Normandy and allied himself openly with King Philip, until he had crawled back to Liseaux to seek his brother’s forgiveness. As Walter de Ralegh had foreseen, the Curia Regis had stripped him of his English possessions, including Devon, even before the king was released from Germany into his doughty mother’s custody in February.
As the sun warmed them, they gave up talking politics in favour of things nearer home. Their sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, was liked well enough, but they were rather irked by his lack of enthusiasm for keeping the peace.
‘He’s not a well man,’ said John, in mitigation. ‘He suffered wounds in Ireland when we were there, but his main problem is this shaking fever he gets at intervals, picked up in the marshes of southern France, due to their foul air.’
‘Whatever it is, he’s not too keen on chasing trail robbers from the roads,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘We’ve had to go out with Ralph a few times on his behalf.’
‘It keeps us from growing rusty,’ countered John. ‘And it’s something to do to pass the time.’
John was becoming restless at his own inactivity. He had been back in Exeter now for a year and apart from some sporadic involvement with their wool business, had no real occupation. This was a common problem for knights who had neither a manor to administer nor a war to fight. Some of them even turned to banditry, but many more found little to occupy themselves – and of these, many were relatively poor, as an honourable rank does not fill an empty stomach. De Wolfe had even been considering entering the king’s service again, but that would mean leaving Devon and almost certainly going to France to join the royal armies. Though he had no objection to this, he was now so enamoured of Nesta that it would be a great wrench to leave her. He looked at her now, smiling at him across the table, pretty and happy in her summer kirtle and lace coif.
‘Why so solemn, John?’ she asked gaily. ‘It’s a lovely day, the ale is perfect and Molly has a fine salmon to cook for our supper!’
He gave her one of his lopsided grins. ‘Not solemn, cariad – just wondering how to spend the next thirty years? Maybe I should take up my lance and go tourneying again, now that the king has made it legal.’
Old King Henry had forbidden jousting and tournaments, concerned at the loss of life amongst his knights and the fear that it trained them to be more proficient at rebelling against him. However, one of the first acts that Richard had made after his return, was to authorize five sites in England where they could be held on payment of steep entrance fees – another ploy to raise money for his war against Philip.
Nesta sat pondering John’s reply about the next thirty years, as it reminded her of the hopelessness of their relationship. She loved him and knew that he probably returned her love – but to what end? He was the mature son of a Norman knight, married to a woman from another notable Norman family – a marriage that was irrevocable in the eyes of the Church, one that only death could dissolve. And she was but a Welsh widow, a mere alewife of no social status whatsoever. There was no future for them other than an illicit affair, with furtive love-making and a dalliance virtually confined to the inside of a tavern. John could never be seen in public with her or even acknowledge her, outside the circle of those who frequented the Bush.
She sighed and wondered whether she should have left Exeter when Meredydd was taken from her – perhaps gone home to Gwent and lived wi
th her mother and sisters, then found a nice local man and settled down to have children. But then Nesta rebelled and mentally straightened her back. Today was today, she was going to enjoy her romance while it lasted and be damned to the consequences.
She looked across at de Wolfe, wondering what he was thinking. Not as uncomplicated and unimaginative as many people thought, he was also troubled about his liaison with Nesta, but in a different way. He both loved her and lusted after her, enjoying every moment of her company. But he felt that he was cheating her, standing in the way of her getting on with her life. Like her, he knew they could never marry and that he was blocking her chances of becoming a wife and mother. He was not concerned about his own image or reputation – after almost eight months, most of Exeter knew that she was his mistress. Many of the others of Norman blood, both knights and rich merchants, openly had lovers, even bastard children. Some of the canons and parish priests had the same illicit habits and no great notice was taken of it.
Of course, Matilda kept up a barrage of invective against him, but her vindictiveness over the ‘Welsh whore’, as she usually called Nesta, had been overshadowed by a different hatred. This was her burning rage against her husband for his part in getting her wonderful brother so ignominiously dismissed as sheriff within days of being appointed. She had endlessly made it plain that for that, she would never forgive him. With this as the background to his life, what was to happen very soon, was all the more remarkable.
Richard the Lionheart was now firmly re-established as King of England, even to the extent of holding a second coronation at Winchester in April – to which he failed to invite his wife, Berengaria, who never set foot in the country of which she was queen. After landing at Sandwich in Kent with his mother in March, he was to spend only two months in the country, leaving with his fleet and army from Portsmouth in May, never to return.
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