Crowner's Crusade (16 page)

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 of 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.

‘Does anyone in Winchester know that you are back?' asked William. ‘Surely you should tell someone the true details of our king's capture?'

In the short time that John had been home, this had not occurred to him, but now that his brother had suggested it, he began to think that perhaps he had better report to someone. He had heard from Ralph Morin that Hubert Walter had been made Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar of England, virtually a regent now that the king was in captivity. De Wolfe knew Hubert, who had been the Lionheart's right-hand man at the Crusade and had conducted most of the negotiations with Saladin. Morin had heard that the new archbishop was also in charge of parleying with Emperor Henry of Germany over the king's ransom and was the prime mover in raising the vast amount of money.

‘Perhaps you are right, brother,' he said. ‘As soon as my immediate problems are settled in Exeter, perhaps Gwyn and I should ride to London and tell our story.'

When the excitement had subsided and John was bursting with food and ale, his next desire was to be reunited with his old horse Bran and his dog Brutus. The big destrier, a warhorse he had won by defeating its previous owner in a tournament, was delighted to see him when John went to the stables, snickering his pleasure as John stroked his neck and fed him a few carrots.

His lanky brown hound was being looked after by the blacksmith, but as John walked towards the forge, just beyond the manor house, a frenzied barking and howling began as, almost by magic, Brutus could tell that his long-lost master was coming for him. The reunion was emotional for both of them and afterwards John pondered on the fact that he had had a far warmer welcome from four-legged beasts than from his own wife.

John stayed a few days at Stoke, his family and friends refusing to let him leave any sooner. Pleading that he had to return to Matilda and find them somewhere to live, as well as settle more business matters with Hugh de Relaga, they reluctantly let him go on the fifth day, after promises that he would soon return.

He left early on Bran, with the rounsey following quietly behind on a head rope. Brutus ran delightedly with them, dashing ahead and then returning for some foray into the bushes on either side. At an easy pace, he crossed the Teign again and a few miles further on, decided to call at Holcombe, which was a short distance off the road. Though he came to pay his respects to the reeve and his wife, he had a sneaking hope that Hilda might be there, as he knew that she often visited her parents. He was again disappointed in this, though he enjoyed the welcome they gave him, assuring him that their daughter was well, though still without child.

When he reached Dawlish some miles further on, he saw that the
Mary and Child Jesus,
the ship that had brought him from Antwerp, was beached in the mouth of the small river, having repairs carried out on the planking. This told him that Thorgils was definitely at home, so with a sigh he plodded on through the village and took the track across the marshes towards the ferry to Topsham, where he could return the rounsey to its stables.

Beyond the village of Starcross on the edge of the wide estuary, John stopped to rest and water the horses. He sat on the bank of a small stream that ran in a culvert under the lane to eat the bread and meat that his mother had pressed on him for the journey, while the larger beasts drank and Brutus went off to sniff the new odours of otter, fox and badger that abounded amongst the scrub and rushes that covered this flat plain. The muddy shore was only a few yards away and the hound vanished in that direction. A moment later, he began barking and whining, then dashed back to his master to sit expectantly at his feet, his tongue hanging out in expectation. John knew the signs well enough and climbed to his feet.

‘What are you trying to tell me, old fellow?' he said affectionately, rubbing the dog's domed head. For reply, Brutus dashed off once again, turning to make sure that John was following. They went along the edge of the stream to where it flowed into the Exe. The tide was ebbing and at once, de Wolfe saw what was arousing the dog's interest. Caught in a clump of reeds at the mouth of the stream was a man's body, left there by the retreating water.

John squelched through a few inches of brown ooze to reach it and saw that the corpse was already starting to putrefy in the warm weather, the face being swollen and discoloured, the tongue and eyes protruding. He grabbed the man's belt and hauled him out on to firmer ground, then dragged him up on to the bank where he could get a better look at the body. Brutus sat down a few yards away and looked at the process with interest, obviously proud of his part in discovering this novel event.