Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (37 page)

A court on the march was an impressive sight, even when the king himself was absent. A column a quarter of a mile long snaked through the countryside of Wiltshire, having left Newbury Castle that morning, aiming to reach Marlborough by evening, a distance of twenty miles.

A vanguard of mounted soldiers were drawn from the palace guard, augmented by troops supplied by several of the major barons who were members of the Royal Council. These provided both outriders along the length of the cavalcade and a strong rearguard at the tail. Behind the spearhead of men-at-arms came the most important people – Queen Eleanor herself, still riding stiffly erect on her white mare, with Hubert Walter, William Marshal, and the Treasurer, Richard fitz Nigel, in close attendance, her three ladies riding decorously behind. Following these was the whole column of riders of all ranks, flanked by people on foot. Colourful banners and pennants fluttered from poles and lances and when they passed a village the trumpets brayed a signal that nobility was on the march.

Unlike the journey from Portsmouth, this was a slow, trundling affair, the horses going only at walking pace, for towards the end of the procession, a baggage train of a dozen ox-carts laboured along, piled with luggage, beds, provisions and hundreds of different items needed to keep the court viable during the next few weeks. All the lower-class staff were walking alongside, though some washerwomen and scullery maids had hitched rides on the tailboards of the carts. There were several primitive coaches, little more than curtained litters on wheels, for those ladies of the queen’s entourage who preferred the bumpy ride of unsprung carriages being dragged along the rutted track.

As roads went this one was better than most, being the main highway out of London to the West Country, but it was still a rough track of pounded earth and stones, with occasional bridges of crude logs thrown across the streams. The weather had been good, so the usual quagmires of sticky mud had largely dried up, but the best the oxen could manage was about three miles an hour and often less when there was a gradient. Stops were frequent, to rest man and beast and to water and feed the horses and oxen. At midday, the whole column came to a halt for dinner and the servants hurried to the important travellers with meat and drink prepared at Newbury, whilst the rest had to cluster around the provision wagons to collect what they could.

The Coroner of the Verge was entitled to ride close behind the royal party, but John chose to stay well back with Gwyn and Thomas. Ranulf and William Aubrey were busy riding up and down the column in their role as marshals, organising matters and dealing with the endless hitches and emergencies that such a mass of men, horses and vehicles generated.

De Wolfe had kept behind partly to avoid Hawise and her husband, for he saw that the Lord of Freteval was fairly close to the queen and that Hawise, no horsewoman like Eleanor, had taken to one of the palanquin wagons. At Reading Abbey, the night before last, Hawise had sought him out after supper in the crowded guest hall, where the middle echelons had been fed. Though she had somehow managed to shake off her husband, John was so surrounded by other men that she was unable to separate him from them and had to be content with a few words and some suggestive glances, her maid standing by all the time.

Now Odin lumbered along happily, his great hairy feet rhythmically thumping the track. As a destrier, he could raise a brisk gallop over short distances on the battlefield or the tourney ground, but was not built for sustained speed. However, John knew from experience that at walking pace or even a trot, Odin could shift his half-ton of horseflesh all day without effort.

This was their fourth day on the road and with luck another two would see them at Bristol, where de Wolfe intended to tackle the Justiciar about a compassionate side-trip to Devon.

They reached Marlborough in the early evening and the cavalcade camped in the grounds of the castle, which was built on an ancient mound, in which Merlin was supposed to have been buried. Ironically, the castle had been given to Prince John by his father many years earlier, but after his treachery when Richard was imprisoned, it was removed from his grasp and reverted to a royal possession.

As before, the queen and the high officials of state were lodged in the private apartments. The other officers and clergy ate in the main hall, then slept on the floor on straw mattresses brought in from the carts. John ate a plain but adequate meal provided by the harassed servants and then decided to go for a walk to stretch his legs after a day in the saddle. Gwyn was eating in the outer bailey, where an ox was being roasted for the soldiers and the rest of the travellers, so John managed to avoid him, as he was beginning to tire of his officer’s insistence on protecting him against further attempts at assassination. He went out through a small postern gate in the inner ward and across a bridge over a dry moat to a wide area kept free of trees to give an open field of fire in case of attack. It was a time of peace this far inland and no one was likely to lay siege to Marlborough that night, so John walked on, savouring the serenity and quiet after the noisy journey all day on the high road.

The sun was low but still visible in a sky studded with woolly clouds as he entered the edge of the woods that had formed the hunting park for the lords of Marlborough. There was a stream tinkling over stones a few yards into the trees and he found a fallen log to sit on, while he watched the sparkling water. It dropped into a deep pool, where small fish made circles on the surface as they snapped at the midges that flitted by. Though John was no nature lover, it reminded him of his childhood in Stoke-in-Teignhead, the de Wolfe family manor, where he used to swim in such pools and try to catch trout with a pointed stick.

He sat staring into the stream, lulled by the quiet and the peacefulness after the crowds and clamour of London, wishing again that he could return to his native land of Devon. Maybe it was a sign of getting old, he thought pensively. Then he thought of Queen Eleanor, seventy-four and still as sharp as ever, perhaps good enough for another twenty years. But she had no need to wield a sword or a lance like a knight – and a slowing warrior was soon likely to be a dead warrior.

As if to put these thoughts to the test, a pair of hands were suddenly clapped across his eyes from behind. With a roar of shocked surprise at yet another unexpected attack, he threw himself sideways and grabbed desperately at his assailant, expecting to feel the thrust of a dagger between his ribs.

They both fell full-length to the long grass behind the tree-trunk, but instead of feeling homespun cloth or a leather jerkin under his hands, they slid around smooth silk – and instead of a muttered curse from coarse lips, there was a silvery laugh.

‘Why, Sir John, you seem very ardent, throwing a defenceless lady to the ground so quickly! And I thought your fondness for me had cooled!’

Shocked, but glad to be alive after his lapse of caution, he found himself lying on the soft ground, almost nose to nose with Hawise d’Ayncourt, his hands still grasping her around her slim waist.

‘Where in hell did you spring from, lady?’ he gasped with a distinct lack of courtesy.

For answer, she slid her arms around his neck and clamped her lips upon his in a long and passionate kiss. When he came up for air, he pulled his head away and stared at her beautiful face, only inches from his own. It was flushed with excitement, the tip of her pink tongue peeping from between her pearly teeth.

‘You’ll not escape me this time, John de Wolfe,’ she hissed.

He loosened his hands and tried to wriggle from her limpet-like embrace, though admittedly his efforts were half-hearted.

‘By Christ, woman, I’m married and have a lover who’s dear to me!’ he muttered, somewhat illogically. But clinging to him even more tightly, she rolled her eyes around in a parody of searching the surrounding trees.

‘I see no wife or mistress, John! There’s just us and the birds – and I’m sure they’ll tell no tales.’

Then she returned to kissing and massaging the back of his neck, her body squirming against his as they lay side-by-side in the soft grass. John was a sensual man who loved women – almost all women – and his self-control was very thin at the best of times. To be locked in an embrace with one of the most seductive beauties he had ever known was more than his flesh and blood could resist. With a groan of pleasure, rather than remorse, he capitulated and began returning her kisses and pulling her even more firmly against the length of his body.

In spite of the restrictions of clothing, the inevitable happened. His long tunic was slit front and back for riding his horse and each of his black hose was tied up separately to a thin underbelt. Hawise, perhaps in anticipation of the meeting, wore a flowing gown which was laced from neck to midriff and she showed a remarkable agility in undoing it and casting off the twisted silken rope that acted as her girdle.

Hawise and John were no strangers to the art of lovemaking and once committed he made the most of the opportunity. Eventually, exhaustion overtook the pair and they lay consummated and satiated, staring up at the paling sky.

De Wolfe’s fevered mind gradually returned to normal as he found himself still with an arm around the woman, whose head was pillowed against his shoulder. He pulled himself to a sitting position and began restoring his clothing to a more decent arrangement. He looked down at the lady from Blois, wondering what would come of this gross indiscretion. At least her husband had not appeared on the scene, to blackmail him into giving away state secrets, as he once had feared.

‘This is a fine situation, madam!’ he growled. ‘The man is supposed to seduce the woman, not the other way around!’

She smiled lazily up at him. ‘If I were to wait for you, I’d wait for ever, John!’

She held out a hand for him to pull her up and began re-lacing the bodice of her green silk gown, which thankfully – or perhaps by design – would not show any stains from the lush grass.

‘Don’t fret, Sir Crowner, I’ll not petition the Pope to seek an annulment and then insist that you marry me!’ she said archly. ‘We’ve had a pleasant diversion, that’s all – and there’s no reason that we should not have several more, before I’m dragged back to a dull existence as a dutiful wife in Freteval.’

John had his own ideas about that, but he thought that this was not the time or place to fall out with her. He had enjoyed their ‘diversion’ immensely, but he had no intention of making it a habit, there were too many potential complications for that.

‘How did you come to find me here?’ he asked, after they were both dressed decently again.

‘I always have my eye set upon you, John,’ she said earnestly. ‘I saw you slip away without that hulking great fellow that guards you like a wet nurse, so I followed.’

‘What about your husband and your maid?’

‘Renaud is safely drinking with his fellow lords in the guest chamber. I feigned a headache and then got rid of Adele for an hour with a two-penny bribe.’

John stood up and lifted her to her feet with a strong hand.

‘You had best go back alone, but I’ll watch you from the edge of the trees to see you safely to the postern gate,’ he said gallantly. Hawise reached up and as a farewell put her arms around his neck again and kissed him on the lips. Not so passionately this time, but it was a warm and comforting embrace. As she walked off, with a girlish wave of her fingers, he thought that in different circumstances, free from all the other baggage that his life had accumulated, he could love that woman – and certainly enjoy his nights with her.

When he had seen her safely across the open field to the castle, he returned to his fallen log and looked down at the crumpled grass behind it. Another memory for his old age, if he ever lived to see it!

He sat and delved into his feelings, to see what remorse and shame were welling up there. He ticked off the positive factors first – the husband did not know about this and Hawise seemed quite relaxed about the adultery. She was not going to scream ‘rape’ or make him marry her. Then Gwyn knew nothing of this escapade, so would not be making reproachful hints about his master’s infidelity. On the down side, his own conscience was the main problem. He had no scruples where Matilda was concerned, as she had made it abundantly clear that her marriage to him was a penance and she wished she had stayed a spinster. Thank God they had had no children, though this would have been a physical impossibility during the past dozen years, unless she managed another virgin birth. Nesta was no longer a factor, as she had taken herself off to be married. It was Hilda who was the problem, and she was the reason for the devilish imp that sat on his shoulder and hissed the mantra of his conscience into his ear.

Yet even she had not had him exclusively, as when her husband, Thorgils the Boatman, was alive, John had only sporadic access to Hilda when the shipmaster was away on voyages, so he had to vent his amorous energy elsewhere. Even when he was with Nesta, he had occasional flings with Hilda – and the blonde woman knew that he was not faithful to her either, for there had been a sprightly widow in Sidmouth who gave him favours, until she went off to marry a butcher.

As he sat on his log, he chided himself for his wanton behaviour and vowed that in future he would be faithful to Hilda. He convinced himself that this episode tonight was an aberration, verging on a rape of himself by Hawise. He felt he was hardly to blame, as it was more than any man could have stood, to be wrestled on the ground by such an ardent beauty. He dismissed the devil of conscience with a promise that henceforth he would be a model of fidelity and chasteness except where Hilda was concerned. He had one mental eye on his excursion to Devon in a few days’ time and wanted to appear in Dawlish as pure as the driven snow – so Hawise would henceforth be strictly out of bounds!