Crowner's Crusade (15 page)

Eventually, the wine got the better of her and she rose unsteadily and said she must take her usual afternoon rest. ‘But you cannot stay here now, John. I came to help my cousin, as she has a daughter here waiting for childbed in a few weeks' time. I have to share a room with Edith, so you must go elsewhere until we find our own house.'

This was music to John's ears, as he liked her cousin even less than Matilda herself and would be delighted to lodge elsewhere.

‘I must first go to my family in Stoke, I will stay with them for a while. But first I have business to settle with Hugh de Relaga, so will board at an inn for a few days. Meanwhile, while you are staying in Exeter, you can discover what dwellings are for sale or lease in the town.'

When he left Matilda, with a feeling of relief in spite of their fairly amicable reunion, he went up to Rougemont, the castle built soon after the Conquest by William the Bastard himself. An inner wall of the red sandstone that gave the fortress its name, carved off the upper corner of the Roman wall at the highest point of the city. Outside this was a much wider arc of wooden palisade mounted on an earthen bank, forming the outer ward where the garrison and their families lived in what was essentially a hutted village. The inner ward was guarded by a high gatehouse, its arched entrance having a drawbridge across a dry moat. Inside the inner ward were the keep, a small chapel and the barn-like Shire Hall which functioned as the court.

John strode up to the gatehouse and when challenged about his business by a young soldier who had obviously never heard of Black John, he gruffly demanded that Sergeant Gabriel be called.

The lad vanished into the guardroom inside the archway and a moment later, a grizzled man in a short belted tunic and breeches hurried out, a wide smile on his leathery face. ‘Blessed be to God Almighty, it is you, Sir John!' He grasped him by both upper arms and shook him in an exuberance of delight.

‘Don't say “I thought you must be dead,” for Christ's sake!' growled John, but his own wide grin showed his pleasure at seeing his old friend again. Years before they had served together in the North Country and he would trust Gabriel with his life. He rapidly gave him a summary of his doings these past three years, then asked if the castle constable was about. ‘We can sit together over a jar of ale and I'll tell you more about my time with the king,' he promised.

A few minutes later, they climbed the wooden stairs to the entrance to the keep, a squat tower which was built over the prison and storehouse, on the further side of the inner ward. Inside, most of the first floor was one large hall, with a few small chambers along one side. This was the meeting place where most of the official business of Devonshire was done, the hall often being crowded with soldiers, nobles, clerks and merchants, all seeking something from the officials who occupied the castle.

A firepit occupied the centre, but was unlit on this warm summer day. However, food was being carried in by servants from a kitchen hut at the back and ale was flowing as required from barrels in one corner. A few rough tables and benches occupied part of the hall and a number of men were eating and drinking at them amongst a babble of noise.

‘There he is, though his beard is greyer than when I last saw him!' said de Wolfe, marching across to a table and clapping a hand on the shoulder of a very large man. Sir Ralph Morin looked like one of his Viking ancestors, with a nose as big as John's and a forked beard that jutted out like the prow of a ship. As Gabriel had done, he went through the routine of surprise and delight when he saw who it was – and thankfully avoided telling John that he had expected him to be dead!

John and the sergeant sat down and a servant brought them quarts of ale, as de Wolfe once again went through a summary of the fateful voyage from Acre. Ralph listened avidly, as he was tiring of the inactivity of peaceful Devon, after years where he had campaigned as actively as John. Also like John, he was a devoted king's man, being the military commander of the castle and its garrison. Rougemont was one of the two West Country fortresses to be held by the king, the other being Launceston in Cornwall – a wise precaution as it turned out.

‘So how did you and that great lump Gwyn get home after that treacherous seizing of King Richard?' Ralph wanted to know.

‘We walked most of the bloody way!' growled John. ‘Took us over six months. Neither of us had a word of German between us and that lad had been seized as well, so as we both spoke the language, we posed as Welsh mercenaries, cut off from our main company.'

Ralph Morin grinned, in spite of the seriousness of their plight. ‘Plenty of those knocking about in Europe,' he said. ‘Did you meet any there?'

De Wolfe nodded ruefully. ‘We did indeed, and fought with them for a time in a dispute between two German princedoms. We had sold our horses after a month when our money ran low and walked into Bavaria where there was a local war going on. A company of ruffians from Powys took us on. Thank God they were not from Gwent, for we are of little use with a longbow.'

He described how they fought for one city alongside Brabantian and Provencal mercenaries against some other German princedom. ‘After ten weeks, we had collected enough loot to slip away and walk west again, eventually reaching the Low Countries.'

‘How did you get home from there?' queried Gabriel.

‘I knew from the business we have with Hugh de Relaga that Thorgils the Boatman regularly came to Antwerp with wool. We waited almost a month there until he showed up, then came home to Topsham with a cargo of finished cloth. We only arrived on this morning's tide.'

After his elaboration on the story had finished, John asked what had been happening here at home.

Ralph rolled up his eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘The West Country has gone to the dogs under that bastard Prince John!' he declared. ‘I fear we are in for civil war unless someone can bring him to heel.'

Gabriel shook his head in gloomy agreement. John knew that after his coronation in 1189, the Lionheart had rashly – and in many people's opinion, foolishly – given his younger brother six counties, including Devon and Cornwall, as his own property. Their father, Henry II, had wisely kept his feckless son short of possessions, so that he was known contemptuously as ‘John Lackland'. The overgenerous Richard more than made up for this and as virtual king over a large area of England, John kept all the taxes and ran the administration personally. There were no sheriffs, as nominally he himself held the shrievalties.

‘So who's in there now?' he asked, jerking a thumb at the door of the first chamber on the side wall. ‘William Brewer was the sheriff before I left.'

The constable's face darkened. ‘No, he's gone on to higher things in Winchester and London. He's a royal justice and one of the King's Justiciars. At the moment, I hear he is in Germany negotiating for Hubert Walter over Richard's ransom. So guess who our dear Count of Mortain has put in as his
locum
sheriff?'

De Wolfe stared at his friend blankly. ‘Old Henry de Furnellis, perhaps?' he suggested.

Ralph laughed scornfully. ‘No, it's your damned brother-in-law, Richard de Revelle!'

John was aghast. ‘God's blood! I think I'll turn around and go back to being a mercenary in Germany! Why would the prince want to do that? De Revelle will bleed the county dry to his own advantage.'

Though it was his own domain, Morin looked over his shoulder in an almost furtive way. ‘There's treason afoot, in my opinion. With our king away for years and now locked up in Germany, Prince John sees an opportunity to seize the crown for himself. Many thought that the Lionheart would be killed in battle or die of a fever; when he didn't, John began to think of overthrowing him by force, which is why he's been seeking an alliance with Philip of France and plotting with others at home.'

‘What others?' demanded John, concerned at this confirmation of the fears the Lionheart expressed on the journey from Palestine.

‘The rumour is that Hugh Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, is his main supporter, along with other senior churchmen, including some of the senior canons of Exeter.'

De Wolfe digested this worrying information with a scowl. ‘And you reckon my dear brother-in-law may also be a traitor, if he is thick enough with the prince for him to be given this chance to milk the county revenues?'

The burly constable shrugged. ‘We all know what a shifty, devious character de Revelle is, John. I'd not trust him an inch, which is why I'm not letting him nibble away at my royal authority over this castle.'

Gabriel leaned forward. ‘I recall that when the king ill-advisedly gave the prince these six counties and a lot more besides, he forbade him to set foot in England for the next three years, as a safeguard while he was on Crusade. But their mother, the old queen, talked Richard out of it, so John has been here most of the time, making trouble from his bases in Gloucester and Bristol.'

De Wolfe jerked his head towards the closed door of the sheriff's chamber. ‘Is de Revelle in there now? I suppose I had better tell the bastard that I'm home again. That'll spoil his day, no doubt!'

‘He's not there, he's gone to his manor in Revelstoke, probably to count all his money,' replied Ralph, sarcastically.

John hauled himself to his feet. ‘That's something I must do myself, go to my manor. I've not seen my family for three years, so I'll be off to Stoke-in-Teignhead first thing in the morning.'

When they heard he would be staying in the Bush until he could find a town house, Gabriel and Morin expressed their concern at the death of the landlord, whom they had both known as a fellow soldier.

‘The place has gone downhill badly since Meredydd died,' bemoaned Gabriel. ‘Poor Nesta can't keep it up alone and she's become short of money.'

‘I heard that de Revelle wanted to buy the Bush, but offered her a paltry price,' said Morin. ‘I expect if she gets even more desperate, he'll get it for a pittance in the end.'

‘Over my dead body!' muttered John. ‘The Bush is about to regain its former glory!'

I
t was early evening when John arrived back at the Bush and even after only a few hours, the atmosphere there had changed remarkably. Gwyn was there, heartily organizing a couple of men he had got in to clean up and change the rushes on the floor and throw out any broken benches.

Already, two new staff had arrived. Old Edwin was there, eager to earn twopence a day and all the ale he could drink, together with Molly, the girl from St Sidwell who Agnes had claimed was a good cook.

Nesta looked a different woman, with a linen coif over her red-gold hair, a clean apron and a bright-eyed eagerness in her face. John's promise to help had rapidly transformed both her and the failing tavern and even some of the regular patrons were helping by killing rats and mice that ran from the dirty rushes as it was raked up.

‘Great to have you back, cap'n,' quavered Edwin, who had served in Ireland years before and still gave John his rank as leader of their company of pikemen. He had a horrible dead eye from an injury during that campaign, the fish-white eyeball rolling up in the socket when he moved his other eye. In addition, he limped badly, as he had lost all the toes and half the foot in the same conflict.

‘Come and sit down for a while, good lady' John said to the Welsh woman. ‘We must talk about how we restore your fortunes here.'

As they sat across a table while the bustle went on around them, he proposed his plan of action. ‘I'll clear all your debts and lend you whatever is needed to get this fine inn back on its feet. For the time being, I'll pay the wages of the three you have working here. I also think you should have a boy as ostler to look after horses in the yard behind, for it's been a popular lodging for travellers, bringing in much business for you.'

Nesta laid a hand on his and whispered her thanks, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. ‘Why are you being so good to me, Sir John? I know Meredydd thought the world of you, but he's gone, God rest him.'

De Wolfe squirmed a little with embarrassment. Emotion and especially a woman's tears, struck fear into him as much as a dozen Saracen swords. ‘Your man was a good soldier and a good friend,' he muttered. ‘That's more than sufficient for me to salute his memory by caring for his wife.'

Gwyn ambled up at this moment, obviously enjoying this new challenge as a change from trekking across half the known world. ‘The brew-shed is mortally short of materials for making ale,' he rumbled. ‘And the kitchen is equally bare. Can I go out tomorrow and buy enough to stock us up?'

For answer, John reached into the pouch on his belt and slid a leather bag across the table towards the landlady, part of the earnings he had received from Hugh de Relaga. ‘That's to be getting on with, Nesta. Give Gwyn what he needs for the market tomorrow. Good food and clean mattresses will soon bring back the customers.'

‘And I'll find a couple of men to start whiteliming the walls, inside and out – and get the thatch repaired,' promised the big Cornishman, as he stumped off again to supervise the cleaners.

Nesta laid a hand on the purse of silver, hesitant about accepting it. ‘How can I repay you, Sir John?' she murmured.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, his dour face lightening and momentarily making him a youth again. ‘Forget the “Sir”, Nesta! I've had six months living like a common mercenary, it will take a while for me to feel like a knight again!'

She beamed at him and he suddenly realized what an attractive woman she was. John was a great admirer of the fair sex, but as she was the wife of an old friend, he had genuinely never had any amorous or lascivious thoughts about Nesta. However, he had always enjoyed her vivacious company in the inn, especially as he could speak to her in Welsh. He looked with new appreciation at her heart-shaped face, the pert snub nose and the big hazel eyes. She was a small woman, with a tiny waist but a full, curvaceous bosom. Her auburn hair was her crowning glory, though now half-hidden under her linen cap.