Crowner's Crusade (24 page)

‘I can't see any other way of trying to deal with these criminals,' growled John. ‘We can't escort travellers like the Templars and the Hospitallers did in Palestine. But if we catch, kill or hang a few outlaws, then it may help to discourage the rest.'

Life at the Bush went on almost as normal, as during the following week Nesta and John made no mention of the intimate moment outside her room. It was by no means ignored, however, as the frequent smiles she gave him seemed warmer and on his part, John lost no opportunity of getting her to sit close to him on the bench when he was having a meal or a jug of ale. When it was time to sleep, however, they seemed to have an unspoken agreement that they would not ascend the ladder at the same time, as if to avoid the temptation to repeat the brinkmanship that had occurred on the night of the impromptu party.

The house in St Martin's Lane was almost ready for occupation now. John had met Mary, the cookmaid recommended by Hugh de Relaga, and was favourably impressed. A well-built girl in the mid-twenties, her Saxon mother was the cook to a leather merchant in Goldsmith Street. She frankly admitted that she was the illegitimate daughter of a soldier who had not waited in Exeter for her birth. Handsome rather than pretty, she had an air of competence and independence that he liked. Mary readily accepted the offer of the job and was happy to live in the cook shed and even look after Brutus, as she was a dog lover like Gwyn.

Matilda had also engaged the maid that she was offered, though John kept well clear of that transaction. He saw the girl once with his wife before they moved in, a thin rabbit-toothed creature with a permanently frightened manner. This Lucille spoke not a word of English, as she had come from the Vexin, a part of Normandy north of the Seine, which Philip of France was trying to seize. Her speaking only French suited Matilda, who had an obsession with wishing to appear totally Norman.

On Gwyn's advice, John also took on an old man, who lived on Stepcote Hill, who could come to do the rough outside work, like chopping wood, drawing water from the well, emptying the privy and feeding the pig and chickens. All this domesticity was new to John and as he knew that Matilda would never deign to soil her own hands with work, he was determined to get sufficient servants to keep the place running.

In spite of his fears that time would hang heavy without a war to attend, it passed quickly. He visited Hugh de Relaga a number of times to see if there was anything he could do to help him and twice he went off with Gwyn to take written orders for wool to Buckfast Abbey, some twenty miles away towards Plymouth. Buckfast was a Cistercian foundation, famous for its sheep breeding and wool production, so their exporting business sent a lot of their produce to Flanders and the Rhine, using Thorgils' ships to transport it.

John also spent a lot of time in the Bush and was pleased to see the trade growing rapidly after the new improvements that he had funded. Molly turned out to be an excellent cook and he hoped that Mary would prove as expert in St Martin's Lane. Now having the best ingredients, Nesta also improved the quality of her ale to such an extent that it was soon acknowledged to be the best in the city. All this, including an increase in the number of travellers who came to lodge overnight, meant that the income rose appreciably. Though like himself, Nesta could not read or write, she was very proficient at counting coins! They sat every week at a table and added up the profits for the past seven days. The silver pennies, the only coins in circulation, were locked away in a stout chest in her bedroom, after recording the results on tally sticks, lengths of hazel twig with spaced notches indicating the amounts. Nesta insisted on passing on to John any excess over running expenses, as repayment for the money he had lent her. Though initially reluctant to accept it so soon, he decided that it would offend her if he refused, but he made it plain that his funds were always there if the need arose.

About a week before he was due to make his reluctant move out of the Bush into the new house, the inevitable happened. He made a daily call on Matilda in Fore Street to see that all was well – but on this occasion, when she came to the door, her usually impassive features were twisted into a malignant scowl.

‘I wonder you have the gall to show your face here!' she rasped. ‘Up to your old tricks as soon as you come back to these shores.'

He knew without asking what she was referring to, but she continued to rant at him. ‘You can fornicate all you like when you are cavorting abroad, John de Wolfe – but to start all over again under my very nose is too much! And with a common alehouse keeper, to add insult to injury! As if that wasn't bad enough, the whore is
Welsh
!'

Her sneering tone was like a poker stirring a dull fire into leaping flames, as John had a ready temper, easily provoked into activity. ‘I suppose one of those frustrated old baggages you call your friends has been peddling tittle-tattle about me!' he snarled. ‘Third-hand tales with about as much truth in them as you have charity in that cold heart of yours!'

His sudden anger was made all the stronger by the fact that he felt unjustly accused, as not only had he not made it into Nesta's bedchamber, but had even forbidden himself that pleasure because of noble feelings about her late husband.

Matilda was unmoved, as she stood in the doorway with her fists on her wide hips, glaring pugnaciously at him. ‘A barefaced liar, too! Do you really think I don't know about that common serf's daughter in Dawlish – or that brazen widow in Sidmouth? God alone knows how many other trollops you have scattered around the countryside!'

Before he could vent his indignation any further, she slammed the door in his face.

Ignoring the stares of several curious passers-by, he stamped away back up to Carfoix and went into the nearest alehouse, which was perhaps appropriately called ‘The Hanged Man' with a crude depiction of a gallows over the door. It was a tavern that he had never patronized before and its sordid interior made it unlikely that he would do so again. The nearest drinking-place for the slaughterers in The Shambles, it was nothing but a bare room with a few rough benches and a row of casks against one wall. There were no tables and the filthy straw on the floor was soiled with bloodstains that had dripped off the leather aprons of the customers. However, in his state of foul temper, he wanted a drink and did not trust himself to go straight to the Bush where he might upset Nesta by blurting out Matilda's taunts.

A potman who was so thin that he must have been suffering from some wasting disease, brought him a misshapen pot with a quart of poor ale, all of which slightly cheered him by adding to the contrast between this seedy place and Nesta's trim establishment.

A dozen burly butchers and slaughterers stood around, drinking and gossiping noisily, some giving John sidelong glances as they wondered why such a well-known knight and Crusader was drinking in such a miserable place.

He found an empty bench in a corner and sat in solitude with his quart, his anger slowly cooling into gloom. Though his wife's taunts about his other infidelities were true, she had known about them for years – it was the unfounded accusations about Nesta, combined with her usual loathing for anyone with Celtic blood, that had riled him most. He was not particularly concerned about them falling out and hurling insults at each other – that was commonplace whenever they had been together for any length of time. It was the complication that the house in St Martin's Lane was almost ready for them to move in and having spent a considerable part of his ready cash on it, he wondered whether she would now refuse to live there, just to spite him. However, as he slowly drank the sour ale, his temper subsided and he could look more calmly on the situation. Firstly, he was stuck with Matilda as a wife – much as they disliked each other, there was no way in which their marriage could be ended – unless he strangled her! Divorce was virtually unknown and after some sixteen years, he could hardly plead for an annulment on the grounds of consanguinity, which did not exist, except for the devious nobility who might have the ear of the Pope. Neither after all this time, could he claim that the marriage was void because of lack of consummation – though that particular activity had been notably absent for a dozen years.

So what about this damned house, he wondered? On reflection, he thought that there was little chance of her declining the opportunity to live in such a prestigious spot, right next to her beloved cathedral, especially as it now had a unique hearth and chimney, flagged floors and a new solar. Matilda could flaunt these, together with a lady's maid and two other servants, before her snobbish friends who made up the upper middle-class in the city, mostly wives of the richer merchants and few priests and canons. One such was Julian Fulk, the fat, oily parish priest of St Olave's, who Matilda seemed to think was on a par with St Peter himself. If he had not known of her frigidity, he would have suspected her of being his lover, from the simpering deference she showed Fulk and her endless attendance at his miserable church.

De Wolfe finished his ale and, feeling somewhat better for his cogitation, he marched out into the crisp autumn air. Some kind of religious procession was winding its way down the High Street, choristers singing and others playing instruments. It reminded him that this was celebrating the Feast of St Cecilia, the patron saint of music, so it must be the twenty-second day of November already.

As he walked down towards the Bush, he wondered where the Lionheart was now, doubtless somewhere in Germany fretting about his release. Ralph Morin had had news from a herald passing through from London, that though much of the huge ransom had now been collected, there was still a long way to go and there were worries that Emperor Henry and Duke Leopold would become impatient and sell the king to Philip, to cut their losses.

This train of thought brought him to Hubert Walter, the man who was so desperately trying to wring the money from an already impoverished England. John felt guilty that he had been unable to advance the task that Hubert had given him, to find any evidence of Prince John's treachery, but he could not see any way of seeking such information. The killing of Roger Smale was the only possible clue, but it also seemed a dead end.

With a sigh, he strode across Southgate Street and down Priest Street, heading for the Bush and a decent pot of ale. As he neared Idle Lane, he decided not to mention Matilda's accusations to Nesta – though knowing how fast gossip spread within Exeter, it was only staving off the inevitable for a time.

T
he following week, now almost into December, Ralph Morin and his fellow vigilantes took a patrol of six mounted soldiers up the main road eastwards, along the highway that went via Honiton towards Ilminster and thence to Bristol and London. Though there was no continuous forest very near Exeter, there were substantial patches where the road passed through dense woods for several miles. Although the trees were supposed to be cut back for a distance of a bow shot each side, this was rarely done and in places, the track almost ran through tunnels, where the large trees arched overhead.

With Morin and de Wolfe at their head and Gwyn and Gabriel bringing up the rear, they trotted along, intent on showing themselves to any prying eyes that might be lurking in the fringes of the forest. As they came around a bend in one of the narrower sections, a violent scene suddenly presented itself.

Ahead of them, a number of horses and people were jostling in the road, shouts and screams being mixed with the clash of weapons. Spurring Bran forward, with the castellan alongside him, John galloped down the few hundred paces that separated them from the melee, closely followed by the other men. As John hammered along, already drawing his sword in readiness, he saw that a pair of horses had fallen, overturning the litter that had been carried between them. Two women were crouched in the road, screaming at the tops of their voices. Half a dozen attackers were obviously gaining the upper hand over the same number of men trying to defend themselves and the ladies. Two of the travelling party were lying in the road, one ominously still and the other writhing in agony.

The battle was short and vicious, as the military contingent thundered up to the scene of the ambush. At the first sight of the soldiers, the outlaws abandoned their attack and fled for the cover of the trees, but one who was still fighting a member of the escort, was felled by a blow from the man's sword as he turned away.

‘Archers, dismount and get after them!' bellowed Ralph Morin, as the attackers began vanishing into the undergrowth at the side of the road. With John and Gwyn alongside him, they hauled their horses around and charged off the track as two soldiers were stringing their bows and firing off a volley after the retreating ruffians. Within a few yards, the mounted men had to slide off their steeds, as dense saplings and brambles made it impossible to ride any deeper into the forest at anything other than a walking pace. Scrambling after the assailants, Gwyn tripped over one, who lay groaning with an arrow shaft sticking from his back. Within a couple of minutes, Ralph and John realized that it was fruitless to continue the chase, as the remaining fugitives had already gained too great a distance on them and had faded into the trees.

‘Back to the road, they may need our help!' yelled the constable and when they had recovered their horses, they walked out on to the road, Gwyn dragging the wounded man by his arms, to dump him at the side of the track.

There was confusion at the scene of the ambush, as the men-at-arms were pacifying the frightened horses and trying to attend to the wounded travellers. John now saw that the two females were nuns and that the immobile figure in the road, who appeared to be dead, was a priest. The tall man who had struck one of the attackers – who now lay whining in the dust, clutching his bleeding shoulder – stumbled across to Ralph.

‘Thank God you came in time, sir!' he panted. ‘I am Justin, one of the proctor's men from the cathedral. I must attend to those poor ladies!'