The Noble Outlaw (11 page)

John found Matilda to be in a less frosty mood than he had expected and she even listened to his account of the inquest with less than her usual indifference. He always studiously avoided any topics that could trigger her scorn and anger, which severely limited the range of acceptable subjects for conversation. Naturally mention of the Bush alehouse was forbidden, and even talk about the shipping venture with Hugh de Relaga was banned, for the simple reason that their three vessels were owned in partnership with Hilda of Dawlish, one of his former lovers before Nesta came on the scene.

But today, his wife seemed moderately civil, if not actually affable. Sensitive to her moods after years of suffering, John wondered what was making her so mellow. It was only after finishing their meal that he found out. When Mary's boiled bacon and a pease pudding had been consumed, followed by dried apricots stewed in honeyed cider, Matilda took her cup of small ale to the fireside and divulged not one, but two reasons for her relatively benign mood.

'We are invited to a feast, John,' she announced. 'A messenger from the Guildhall came this morning, requesting our attendance there tomorrow evening.

The Guild of Mercers are holding a banquet to celebrate something or other. It will be a chance for me to wear my new blue velvet, the one I bought at the October Fair.' She preened herself at the thought of outshining some of the merchants' wives who were her cronies from the congregation of St Olave's Church in Fore Street.

Her husband grunted as he settled down on the opposite side of the hearth. Not much given to social occasions, he was indifferent to such gatherings, but then the thought of a free meal and fine wine made him accept the prospect with moderately good grace. It also occurred to him that it gave him an opportunity to ask amongst the many guildsmen present, to see if they could throw any light on the death of one of their former treasurers.

Matilda's second reason for being in a good mood was even less exciting, as she was enthusing about a new friend she had acquired amongst the small congregation at St Olave's, a church obscurely named after the first Christian king of Norway. Along with the nearby cathedral, this was her favourite place of worship, where as the wife of a knight she could flaunt her rank amongst the wives of merchants and craftsmen, even though many of them were far richer than her husband.

'There is a new lady recently arrived in Exeter,' she announced. 'Joan de Whiteford, the young widow of a manor lord from Somerset, though I suspect she has fallen on hard times since his death, as she is living off her relatives, poor thing. Still it is pleasant to have someone of equal status to converse with, a person of breeding instead of the clodhopping goodwives that usually attend the services.'

John was sleepily staring into the fire, about as interested in his wife's social life as he was in the number of stars in the sky, but she continued to drone on about Lady Joan.

'She is lodging with her cousin Gillian le Bret, who I've known as a devout churchgoer for some years. I had no idea that Gillian had noble relatives, for her late husband was only a merchant - though a very rich one,' she added, as if his affluence was partly her doing.

When John responded with a snore, Matilda gave a rut of irritation and flounced out to find her maid to settle her in the solar for her afternoon nap.

CHAPTER FIVE

In which a noble outlaw comes to town

As the first pale glimmer of dawn appeared in the eastern sky next morning, people began converging on the city gates like iron filings to a lodestone. There were four main entrances to the city, a legacy of the symmetrical Roman plan that still governed the layout of Exeter.

Recently a fifth opening, the Water Gate, had been knocked through the south-western corner of the old walls to give direct access to the quayside, necessary now that trade was burgeoning in the city.

Although Exeter was too far upriver to be prey to the sea raiders and pirates that sometimes ravished the towns on the coast, the city gates were still closed from dusk to dawn, and at the West Gate that morning, a hundred or so people waited patiently to be admitted. As well as farmers driving beasts to be slaughtered in the Shambles, there were many traders and peasants with goods to sell, as Thursday was a market day.

Though in winter the range of foodstuffs was limited, ox-carts hauled cabbages and root vegetables, and men pushed wheelbarrows piled with other produce, including live chickens trussed by their legs. Fishermen who had boated up on the flood tide from Topsham had wicker creels of fresh fish, and old women stumbled up with baskets of eggs or a goose or duck tucked under their arms.

Nearby, the new stone bridge across the River Exe was still far from complete, as the builder had once again run out of money, so the figure merging amongst the latecomers had to pass over the rickety footbridge that was the only dry route. In times past, Sir Nicholas de Arundell would have ridden his horse across the ford next to the bridge, but today he trudged with the peasantry, wearing a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, a tall staff in his hand. The grey woollen cloak that enveloped him was thin and stained, and from his shoulder hung a shapeless hessian bag. In the cold wind and the dim morning light, no one gave him a second glance; all were too intent on both their own business and their shivering bodies to concern themselves with another pilgrim, probably on his way to the shrines in the cathedral - or even making for distant Canterbury. With a few days' growth of stubble on his cheeks and a cloth wound round his chin as a scarf, Nicholas was next to unrecognisable, even if there had been anyone in Exeter who might have known this man from a small manor way out in the countryside.

He crossed with the others on to the marshy ground of Exe Island, and followed the well-beaten track from the bridge to the gate. Here he hunched himself into his cloak and stamped his feet with the other freezing travellers until dawn was unmistakably streaking the sky and the porters took pity on the perishing folk huddled outside. There was a rumble as the bars were slid from their sockets; then, to squeals from the rusty hinges, the huge pair of oaken doors slowly swung open.

As the press of humanity surged through ahead of the livestock and the carts, the two gate guards made no attempt to check anyone's identity. This was a routine that had been going on for centuries and, except in times of war or rebellion, security was lax. Those who would have to pay market dues for trading would be seized upon by the tally clerks as soon as they set up stalls or crouched at the roadside to sell their eggs or onions, but that was no concern of the gate men. The man in the pilgrim's hat had banked on this and walked boldly into Exeter alongside a man leading a goat on a length of cord.

Though Nicholas was not very familiar with Exeter, he walked steadily up Fore Street, which climbed from the river up to Carfoix, the junction where the roads from the four original gates met in the centre of the city. This was bustling with activity, as booths and stalls were being set up along the sides of the streets, making the narrow lanes even more congested as early-morning shoppers came out to get the freshest produce. He carried on up High Street past the new Guildhall, looking neither to right or to left in his effort to remain inconspicuous. However, he had to dodge many passers-by, especially those porters who jogged along with great bales of wool hanging from a pole across their shoulders, and milkmaids with a pair of wooden buckets swinging from their shoulders. When he got within sight of the East Gate at the other end of the town, he searched his memory for his only previous visit with his wife to her cousin, which was now fully five years ago. A landmark he remembered was the New Inn, Exeter's largest hostelry, where the judges and commissioners stayed when they came to hold c6urt. Turning fight just past it, he thought he recognised a quiet street where the burgage plots were large and the houses amongst the best in the city.

'Is this Raden Lane?' he asked a ragged urchin who was standing on the corner with a smaller child on his hip, begging from passers-by. The boy, barefoot and blue with cold, nodded jerkily, his teeth chattering. He gave a beatific smile as Nicholas slipped him a quarter-penny, which had come from a fat purse taken from a waylaid horse dealer a week before.

Raden Lane was almost empty of people and he felt more exposed as he walked along, looking for the house where his wife was staying. Some dwellings were right on the lane, their doors opening straight off the street.

Others were further back on their plots, with a fence and gate at the front. Most were built of wood or were half-timbered with cob plastered between the frames, but a few of the newer houses were made of stone. Some were tall and narrow, others low and wide, half of them with two storeys. The city wall was visible at the end of the lane and he knew that the cousin, now a widow of comfortable means, lived about halfway along on the right. He spotted the house, distinguished by its arched gate leading into a garden plot, and not wanting to draw attention to himself by hesitating, he strode up to the gate and pushed at the stout boards. It was locked and there was no handle. Cursing under his breath short-temperedly, he rapped on it with the end of his staff until he heard slow footsteps on the other side. The gate creaked open and a man in late middle age peered out, an iron-tipped wooden spade in his hand - whether intended as a weapon or an implement was not clear.

He was unusually tall and thin, with a large purple birthmark of coarse, thickened skin disfiguring the whole of one side of his face. The apparition gaped toothlessly at the visitor, but said nothing.

'Is this the dwelling of Mistress le Bret?' demanded Nicholas. He had a deep voice, and a brusque manner even when he was in a benign mood, which was not often these days.

The servant nodded, but still seemed suspicious of early-morning callers. 'Who wants her?' he croaked.

'I am Philip de Whiteford, returning from Canterbury,' he lied. 'I am husband to Mistress Joan, who is staying here.'

These were aliases he and his wife had decided on long before; she had kept to her real Christian name as she feared she could never avoid answering to it.

The servant's strange features relaxed and he pulled the door open. 'Welcome, Sir Nicholas! Your good lady will be glad to see you.'

Obviously, the true state of affairs was no secret within the house, and Nicholas fervently hoped that the servants kept their mouths firmly shut when they left it.

He was led through a well-kept garden to an old timber-framed building with a steeply pitched roof of stone tiles. Inside, a hall occupied most of the ground floor, with a solar and a bedroom built on at the side. It was a substantial dwelling, as Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, was the widow of a wealthy tinmaster and on his death, five years earlier, he had left her comfortably off, for they had no children to share the inheritance.

As Nicholas entered, a small, fair woman rushed out of an inner door and threw herself at him, sobbing and laughing in turns. As they hugged each other and kissed, an older, handsome woman appeared from the solar.

Gillian le Bret watched indulgently as the pair made an emotional reunion, then went across to the old servant Maurice, who had stood uncertainly in the doorway, and whispered something to him, drawing a warning finger across her lips. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen shed in the back yard, with orders for the cook-maid to prepare food and drink for the visitor.

Gradually, the de Arundells settled down, and Nicholas greeted Gillian with a kiss and profound thanks for sheltering Joan for the past month since she had come up from her exile in Cornwall. The widow was considerably older than her cousin, with greying hair peeping from under the white linen wimple that framed her pleasant face. When the knight and his lady had prised themselves apart again from a second embrace, Gillian managed to set them down on a long settle facing the burning logs in the firepit.

'Are you sure you went unrecognised in the city?' asked Joan. Though her pretty face was now flushed with tears of joy, she lived with the constant worry that her husband
 
would be arrested, which inevitably would mean would be hanged or beheaded. At twenty-six, she seven years his junior, and sometimes she looked even younger. Pretty rather than beautiful, she had a determined set to her face, partly born of the troubles she had suffered these past few years.

Nicholas slid a brawny arm around her slender shoulders, which were becomingly draped in a green pelisse over a pale yellow kirtle,

'Don't fret, my love. No one was interested in a scruffy pilgrim like me. I'll have to leave in a day or two, but, until then, I'll not show my face outside the gate. As long as everyone in this household keeps a tight hold on their tongue, there'll be no problem.'

A few minutes later, their chatter was interrupted the arrival of cold meats, bread, cheese and ale. After eating, de Arundell spent the rest of the morning until dinnertime talking to Joan about his existence on Dartmoor. He told of life in the abandoned village and tales of his men, many of whom had been retainers in Hempston and were well remembered by his wife. After a hearty dinner at noon, Cousin Gillian diplomatically went off to her solar to give the pair some privacy.

'I just had to see you, Joan, apart from talking about a plan of campaign,' he began, hugging her on the settle in front of the glowing logs. 'D'you realise that I've only been with you for a few days since I went off to Outremer?'

When he returned so unexpectedly from the Holy Land, his wife had already returned to Cornwall, dispossessed by Pomeroy and de Revelle and convinced that Nicholas was long dead. After the news of his resurrection percolated down to her relative's manor in Cornwall, she had had great difficulty in getting a message to him on Dartmoor, and it was due to Gillian le Bret and her servant Maurice that contact had been made again. Since then, they had only managed two fleeting meetings such as this, both in Totnes, where the risk of his being recognised was becoming too great for him to venture there again.