Crowner Royal

CHAPTER TWELVE

An hour later, de Wolfe was lying on a low bed in the abbey infirmarium, surrounded by a circle of anxious faces. He had a vague memory of being manhandled on to some kind of stretcher and of severe discomfort as he was bumped along at jogging pace across the few hundred yards of Palace Yard to the monks’ hospital behind the cloisters.

His wits only fully returned when he was on this palliasse, but his return to full consciousness brought with it a burning soreness in his neck and throat. His first attempts at speech sounded like a combination of a duck and a rusty file, which prompted Gwyn to lean over him solicitously.

‘Don’t try to talk, Crowner! That throat of yours will need a bit of rest after the squeezing it suffered!’

Gwyn’s hairy face was replaced in his field of vision by Thomas’s anxious features. ‘The infirmarian has sent for poultices and warmed wine with honey, which will help ease the soreness.’

John struggled to a half-sitting position and saw that in addition to his two faithful retainers, his audience consisted of a grey-haired monk, a younger novitiate, a sergeant from the palace guard, another priest who looked familiar, and Ranulf of Abingdon.

He tried to speak again, but rapidly changed it to a whisper, which seemed to come out more clearly. ‘What the hell happened, for Christ’s sake? Who did this to me?’

‘You were ambushed, but he got away,’ growled Gwyn. ‘When I catch him, I’ll tear his liver out with my teeth!’

The older Benedictine laid a hand gently on the coroner’s shoulder. ‘Don’t try to talk until this bruising of your voicebox wears off, my son. We’ll give you some potions to ease it, as your clerk said.’

John reached up tentatively to feel the back of his head, as he was aware of an ache there.

‘Yes, you have a lump there too, John, some bastard gave you a nasty whack!’ said Ranulf cheerfully. ‘But it’s your clerk to whom you should be grateful, he was the hero of the hour!’

De Wolfe’s bloodshot eyes swivelled to look at Thomas de Peyne, though he took the advice to avoid speaking.

‘The little fellow probably saved your life,’ chortled Gwyn. ‘That’s usually my job, but he beat me to it this time.’

John risked some gargling noises which were obviously a demand for more explanation and the Cornishman began it.

‘Just before I returned from a wasted search on the marshes behind the canon’s house, Thomas here said he was uneasy about you going off to meet some mysterious informant, so he decided to follow you down to that chapel place.’

He nudged the priest to get him to continue and Thomas, wriggling with embarrassment, reluctantly described what happened.

‘I was concerned that you went alone to meet this unknown person, Crowner, even though you took your sword. There might have been half a dozen Brabançons waiting to jump on you.’

He paused and shivered at the memory of his own desperate intervention. ‘So I followed a couple of minutes later and was in time to see this evil man strike you down with a club, then slip a cord around your neck and start strangling you.’

Gwyn guffawed and slapped Thomas on the back. ‘Damn me if the little devil didn’t attack the assailant, though he was twice his size, according to Thomas!’

‘I had to do something, didn’t I?’ snapped the clerk indignantly. ‘I owe my life to Sir John, I couldn’t just stand by and see him murdered! There was a big brass cross on a long staff leaning against a wall, so I took it and struck the man with the heavy end. I’m afraid I snapped it, though it was already bent.’

The infirmarian gave a benign smile. ‘I’m sure God — and Abbot Postard — will forgive you for that! It seems appropriate that a priest like yourself should use the emblem of Our Lord to save a life!’

The other cleric — who John later discovered was Gerard, one of the two chaplains who ministered at St Stephen’s — also approved of Thomas’s attack with an ecclesiastical weapon. ‘That was an old cross going back to Stephen’s time, it was beyond repair anyway!’

John reached out and gripped Thomas’s shoulder. ‘Once more, I have to thank you, good friend!’ he croaked, determined to show his gratitude, however painful his Adam’s apple might be.

His clerk’s embarrassment was mixed with happy pride in having been able to repay some of his master’s kindness in giving him a job when he was destitute several years ago, but de Wolfe cut short his contentment with husky whispers.

‘But did you see who the swine was, Thomas? Who did this to me?’

‘I saw him clearly, Crowner, but I have no idea who he was,’ Thomas bleated. ‘He was a large, rough man, a labourer or perhaps a mercenary soldier. I have never seen him before — though I certainly would know him again!’

‘You were fortunate that he did not turn on you as well,’ said Ranulf. ‘You told us he let go of the coroner’s garrotte and fled.’

Thomas nodded, a rather sheepish expression on his face.

‘I suspect it was the screams I made that scared him off, rather than my feeble attempts to injure him,’ he admitted. ‘Though I did manage to cut the back of his head when I caught him with the brass crosspiece of my weapon,’ he added proudly.

The chaplain, Gerard, cut in at this point. ‘I heard the yells from the entrance to the chapel above, as I was going in to prepare for the next office,’ he explained. ‘I shouted lustily down the steps to ask what was happening and the next thing I knew, I was being shouldered aside by this large lout, who dashed up the stairs and promptly vanished through the outside door on to the river walk.’

‘And you didn’t recognise him, either?’ asked Ranulf.

Gerard shook his head. ‘My brother Thomas’s description is accurate, he was a rough-looking villain with coarse features. All I recall was that he had a hairy mole on his cheek.’

‘We made a search of the palace and the yards as soon as we were told about the assault,’ said the guard sergeant. ‘But many minutes had passed by then and we had only a vague description of who we were seeking amongst all the crowds that come and go in the palace.’

‘It was the same with that swine who knifed Basil,’ growled Gwyn. ‘He vanished into thin air, for this place is like a rabbit warren, with doors and passages everywhere.’

Ranulf laid a hand gently on de Wolfe’s shoulder. ‘Why should anyone want to murder you, John? This was a deliberate trap, luring you down to that crypt, then jumping you from behind.’

The coroner’s reply was delayed by a young novice coming in with a pewter cup which he gave to the infirmarian, who held it to John’s lips. It was a posset of mulled wine sweetened with honey and immediately had the effect of soothing the rawness of his throat, which had felt as if he had feasted on broken glass.

‘I brought it on myself,’ he whispered, in answer to Ranulf’s question. ‘I put it about that I was about to unmask the thieves who took the treasure and also made some hints about knowing of some foreign spies in the palace.’

The under-marshal roared with laughter, then apologised.

‘Sorry, but that’s rich! You put up a bluff and someone calls it with a club and a garrotte! You should join our gaming sessions, John, you would win a fortune.’

Thomas looked far more serious. ‘Do you really think it was that, master? Someone wanting to silence you?’

‘It seems likely,’ croaked John. ‘Why else would someone want me dead?’

‘Which one d’you think it was?’ demanded Gwyn, ready to seek out someone and tear off his head for harming his old comrade. ‘Was it over the treasure or this tale brought by Robin Byard?’

De Wolfe shrugged, finding that less painful than trying to speak, but any further discussion was ended by another young monk coming in with a steaming length of linen lying on a wooden tray. It was rolled like a large sausage and gave off a foul smell.

‘All of you must leave now, if you will,’ ordered the infirmarian. ‘I must apply this poultice of hot clay and herbs to Sir John’s neck. It will reduce the pain and swelling.’

He shooed the men out of the small cubicle and proceeded to wrap the poultice around John’s neck, where an angry red line caused by the ligature had cut into the skin around its full circumference.

‘It stinks!’ protested de Wolfe.

‘But not as much as you would stink in your grave, had not your brave clerk saved your life!’ retorted the Benedictine.

It was the following afternoon before de Wolfe was allowed to return to his lodging. He had suffered repeated applications of the poultice, as well as regular doses of the herbal honeyed wine. The tyrant of an infirmarian had also taken the opportunity to bleed him and purge his bowels, so that he was more than glad to escape, even though he readily admitted that the treatment seemed to have banished most of the pain in his throat and his voice was halfway back to normal.

Gwyn and Thomas came to collect him and take him back to Long Ditch, both solicitous in their efforts to assist him. He shrugged off Gwyn’s offer of an arm to lean on. ‘It’s my bloody head and neck that suffered, not my legs,’ he growled, but leavened the rebuff with a lopsided grin.

In the house, Osanna fussed over him even more and insisted on administering a different honey posset made according to her grandmother’s recipe. John accepted it with good grace, then washed it down with a pint of ale as soon her back was turned. She appeared to have forgiven him for his indiscretion with Hawise d’Ayncourt and this latest drama seemed to restore their relations to normal.

De Wolfe refused suggestions that he should take to his bed and he waited up until Osanna provided supper. She insisted that he had mostly liquid food, in the shape of a vegetable potage followed by a mutton stew in which she had shredded most of the meat so that he could swallow it more easily. The last course was a junket of rennet-curdled milk, flavoured with saffron. In fact, he was glad of her thoughtfulness, as the food slipped down easily, though he could see that poor Gwyn would have preferred using his teeth to rip apart a pork knuckle or a brisket of beef.

Thomas had gone back to the abbey for his supper and fraternal gossip with his religious friends, so after the meal the coroner and his officer sat around the dead fire-pit and drank more ale, punctuated by sporadic conversation. John wondered how many times they had done this over the last two decades — sitting together in the evening in a devastated castle or under a thorn tree, talking over the day’s events, be they a bloody battle or a miserable ride across ruined French farmland or a stony desert in Outremer. His throat was improving by the hour and the desultory talk with his henchman proved no strain on his voice. The red line around his neck was still there, where the cord had dug into his skin, and a thin margin of bluish bruising had appeared alongside it, but apart from tenderness when the collar of his tunic rubbed him, he was virtually back to normal.

‘What are we going to do about this, Crowner?’ growled Gwyn. ‘We can’t let the bastards get away with attempting to kill a royal law officer!’

‘We’ve got to find them first,’ said John pragmatically. ‘They’ll put a foot wrong sooner or later, then we’ll have them. Maybe they’ll try again, but I won’t be so trusting next time.’

‘I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is settled!’ promised Gwyn with grim determination. ‘You’ll not so much as go to the privy without me standing guard outside!’

De Wolfe grinned at the thought of his burly officer parading with drawn sword while he attended to his bowels, but his heart warmed to the faithful Cornish-man who he knew would die for him if required.

The evening wore on, the sun still in the sky as the longest day of the year approached and it was about the eighth hour when there was a knock on the door to the lane. Osanna appeared almost instantly from the back door, like a genie from a bottle, confirming John’s suspicions that she spent much of her time lurking behind it to listen to what was said in the main room.

Hurrying across to the front door, she opened it and stepped back in surprise when she saw the elegant woman on her threshold. But her indignant scowl was stillborn when she saw that behind Lady Hawise was a gentleman dressed in expensive, if rather garish clothing, with a manner and appearance that exuded nobility.

From where John was sitting, he could at first see only the woman and began to groan at being hounded once again. He rose to his feet and then saw Renaud de Seigneur, with the maid Adele sheltering behind him. For a moment, he feared that the husband had come to accuse him of trying to seduce his wife, but their expressions of friendly concern reassured him.

‘Sir John, we have just heard the news, when we were at the supper table, for we were away overnight!’ fluted Hawise. ‘Ranulf told us that you had been viciously attacked and left for dead!’

John invited them inside and requested Osanna to fetch wine and cups. She seemed flattered to have this French lord in her house and accepted his forward wife as long as she did not throw herself again at her resident knight. Gwyn diplomatically withdrew to the nether regions with her, leaving John to entertain the guests.

The three sat at the table with the wine, the maid crouching unobtrusively in the corner, while de Wolfe regaled them with the tale of his ambush and his rescue by his clerk and the chaplain of St Stephen’s. Both Renaud and Hawise seemed genuinely concerned about his health and the Lord of Blois produced a glazed pottery bottle of red wine as a gift.

‘From my own vineyard in Freteval!’ he said proudly. For her part, Hawise offered him a small glass jar of a salve, which she said would help to remove the sting from his abused throat.

Touched by their solicitude, de Wolfe endured their questions with patience, responding as politely as he could to their wild theorising about the reasons for this attack. Even Osanna, hovering within earshot, seemed to be mollified by Hawise’s concern for John’s welfare.

‘It is just as well that we will all soon be on the road to Gloucester,’ declared Renaud. ‘Then you will be safely away from whoever wishes you ill!’

John gave one of his crooked grins. ‘Unless the miscreant goes with us,’ he said. ‘According to the preparations for the procession described by Ranulf, it seems that almost everyone in Westminster above kitchen boy, is joining the exodus.’

Hawise fluttered a hand to her mouth in a patently false gesture of terror. ‘Sweet Mary preserve us!’ she gasped. ‘Do you think that we might have a killer in our midst as we travel?’

De Seigneur patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Calm yourself, lady. We will have a strong escort of troops with us, for the queen’s sake, if not ours.’

The cynical John felt that she was as hard as nails under that divine exterior and had little fear of being assaulted — and as for ravishment, he thought that perhaps she might welcome it as a change from the podgy Renaud.

Hawise fluttered her lashes at him again. ‘And we have these doughty knights to protect us as well, Sir Ranulf and William, as well as our Crusading hero here!’

The coroner made one of his all-purpose rumbles in his throat, but found it hurt, even used as deprecation. The other pair continued to prattle on about his awful experience, then turned to ask about the other current excitements in Westminster.

‘Is there any more news of who slew the poor canon?’ asked Renaud, his plump face wreathed in concern. ‘And has that stolen treasure turned up anywhere?’

When John had to admit to not making any progress, Hawise probed the other recent murder: ‘That poor young man in our guest chambers, I still feel sad for him, though we never exchanged as much as a single word,’ she said solicitously. ‘It seems an injustice that he should lose his life and no one is brought to book for it.’

Although he had already raised the bluff, de Wolfe had to conceal his lack of any progress in finding a culprit for Basil’s murder and muttered some vague claim about hoping to settle the matter very soon. He had heard nothing at all from the city sheriffs about the slaughtered ironworker, so that made three undetected murders of local men within a couple of weeks. Again, it made him wonder if his presence in Westminster was of any use whatsoever and, like Gwyn, strengthened his desire to go home to Devon.

When the wine was finished and the conversation was exhausted, the pair from Blois rose to leave, with renewed expressions of concern for John’s health and hopes for a speedy return to full health and voice. Osanna hurried to open the door and bobbed her head obsequiously to the departing nobles.

John followed them out into Long Ditch to send them on their way and just as they were going, Hawise offered her hand to John to bow over. It was an excuse for her to whisper to him.

‘You have been avoiding me, John! But our journey to Gloucester and back is a long one.’

The coroner’s throat, if not his pride and temper, had improved greatly during the few days before the news was received of Queen Eleanor’s impending arrival. A herald on a fast horse had been dispatched from Kingston when she arrived there, so that Westminster could be put on full alert and the next morning the welcoming party set out to meet her entourage on the high road.

Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal and his under-marshals, were the prime movers in organising this parade. The previous evening, their sergeants had hurried around all the personages required to take part, to ensure that they would be mounted and ready to go soon after dawn.

Gwyn had cleaned all of John’s equipment, polishing up the harness of his stallion Odin, so that he was well turned out when they assembled in New Palace Yard. It was not an event that called for armour and helmet, so he wore his best grey tunic and a mottled wolfskin cloak thrown back over both shoulders. His broad leather belt and baldric carried his broadsword and his head was uncovered, his black hair sweeping back to the nape of his neck.

Twenty mounted men-at-arms formed the vanguard and rearguard of the escort, with another two-score civilians in their centre. Leading these was Hubert Walter, today in his secular mode as Chief Justiciar, rather than archbishop. He was dressed in similar fashion to de Wolfe, only in a scarlet tunic under his sword belt and a close-fitting linen helmet. Behind him were a number of earls and barons, members of the Curia, accompanied by the High Steward, the Deputy Chancellor, the Treasurer and other senior ministers. John rode in the next contingent, the middle-grade officers of the Exchequer and palace, including the Keeper and the Purveyor whilst a bevy of churchmen were led by the abbot, William Postard.

A dozen outriders, mostly esquires and knights, flanked the procession, carrying gaily coloured banners and pennants that streamed in the wind to display the arms and devices of the most prominent members of the party.

They rode out in fine style through the gates into King Street, the trumpets of the military escort blaring out as they advanced up the Royal Way towards the city, where they were to pick up the contingent provided by the Mayor and his council. A small crowd gathered along the road, always glad of some diversion in their drab lives. Some cheered or even jeered, as the cavalcade trotted past, especially when some of the horses, spooked by the trumpets, shied and skittered while their riders struggled and cursed to control them.

Once through Ludgate, the crowds were denser, as the ant-hill that was the city was penetrated by the vanguard of the troops. The mayor and some of his twenty-five aldermen were waiting at the Guildhall, with the bishop from St Paul’s, his archdeacons, the two sheriffs and an escort of constables. Jealous as ever of their privileges and independence, the Mayor, Henry fitz Ailwyn de Londonstone, led his party into the vanguard of the column from Westminster, settling them by prior arrangement just behind the Chief Justiciar.

The augmented column set off for London Bridge, the crowds now shouting more enthusiastically as the leaders of their own community were seen in a favoured position in the procession.

They crossed the bridge, the weight of the rhythmically tramping horses creating tremors in the old wooden structure built by Peter de Colechurch twenty-three years earlier, and causing several nervous priests to cross themselves and commend their souls to God. Other more hardy men looked over the side at the nineteen new piers for the stone bridge that de Colechurch had started.

Passing through Southwark on the south side of the Thames, the cavalcade crossed the flat, marshy ground to enter farmland and then patchy woodland, as the land rose and the main track to the south-west aimed itself towards Kingston.

A scout had been sent ahead on a fast rounsey to warn of the arrival of the queen’s party and in mid-morning he came galloping back with the news that there was now only a couple of miles between them. After a consultation with the marshals, Hubert Walter held up a gloved hand and the cavalcade came to a halt in a large clearing with trees on either side, near the village of Clapham.

They waited, all mounted on their steeds, some of which were pawing the ground, shaking their heads, neighing and snorting with impatience.

Soon there was a distant braying of trumpets and horns, which rapidly came nearer until the Deputy Marshal gave the order for his own trumpeters to reply. These discordant blasts continued until the head of the approaching cavalcade appeared through the trees, a dozen soldiers with banners flying. John recognised the arms of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and then the large banner of Eleanor of Aquitaine, a single golden lion on a scarlet ground.

As they came into the clearing, they saw at last two stiffly erect forms riding side-by-side at the head of a short column of riders, which included several ladies and priests, more soldiers bringing up the rear, with outriders guarding the flanks.

They slowed their trotting steeds to a walk and spread out to face the reception party, the two main figures opposite Hubert Walter. One was a tall, stern-faced man wearing half-armour, a short chain-mail hauberk and a round helmet with a nasal guard. A large sword hung from his saddle, with a spiked mace on the other side, emphasising William Marshal’s role as guardian of the queen.

Eleanor also sat as straight as a poker; her handsome face still reflected the beauty she had been in her younger days, though she was now seventy-four. The trumpets ceased and the Justiciar slid from his horse and advanced to her stirrup, going down briefly on one knee, then rising and kissing the hand that she held down to him. They were well-aquainted and spoke together for several minutes, though John was too far down the line to catch anything that was said.

Then Hubert moved across to William Marshal, who dismounted and clasped his arm. Warrior and archbishop, they were old comrades from Palestine and two of the king’s most trusted servants. They moved to each side of Eleanor’s white mare and took her bridle to lead her to the end of the long row of welcoming dignitaries from Westminster. This was a signal for all to slide from their saddles and stand by their horses’ heads as Hubert and William led the queen slowly down the line. As she passed each one, they dropped to a knee and bowed their heads as Eleanor nodded in recognition when Walter murmured their names to her. Many she already knew well, either from her years as Henry’s queen or the sixteen years as his prisoner in various places in England. It was William Marshal who was sent by Richard to effect her release when Henry died.

She did not know John de Wolfe, but had heard something of him and gave him a friendly smile when he rose from his obeisance to her, before moving on to the end of the line. Then the trumpets sounded again and everyone climbed back into their saddles, the procession soon working up into a trot and covering the few miles back to the city in good time.

At Westminster, the old queen was handed down from her horse with dignified gravity and conducted by Hubert and William Marshal to the main entrance and amidst a flurry of her ladies she went up to the royal apartments, no doubt grateful for a well-earned rest.

John made his way up to his chamber to join his officer and clerk and to wash the dust from his now-healed throat with a quart of ale. He regaled Gwyn and Thomas with a description of the journey and told them that they were invited to the great feast on the following evening, as almost everyone was included in the occasion to welcome the Queen Mother back to England. She was a popular figure, both for her proud and regal appearance, her colourful past and for being a bastion of stability in an uncertain world.

The feast next day was a triumph of organisation on the part of the Steward and Keeper and their army of servants. Tables had been set across the dais at the top of the Great Hall, where the Court of the King’s Bench normally sat. These were for the high and mighty guests and were covered with linen cloths. Down the length of the hall, two long rows of bare tables accommodated the several hundred less eminent diners and in the side alcoves behind the pillars other trestles were set for the lowest orders.

When the crowd below had entered and settled in a pecking order that was checked and adjusted by the Keeper’s men, who paraded up and down the lines of tables, a fanfare of trumpets from a gallery above heralded the approach of the queen. Everyone stood as the notables entered from within the palace entrance behind the dais. The chief guests came in, many splendidly dressed, and found their places around the top table, before Hubert Walter courteously escorted Eleanor to the large chair in the centre of the table, looking down the huge hall.

Still more elegant than most women half her age, she wore a gown of blue silk with heavy embroidery around the neck and a light mantle of silver brocade. Her white silk cover-chief was secured with a narrow gold crown and the dangling cuffs of her long sleeves were ornamented with gold tassels, as was the cord around her waist.

There was a roar of spontaneous cheering until the Justiciar held up his hands for silence, when William Postard, Abbot of Westminster, gave a long Latin grace and blessing to the assembly, who stood with bowed heads.

Then with a rumble of benches on the hard earthen floor, they all sat and the eating began. Immediately, a legion of servants appeared from the side doors, bearing trays of dishes and jugs of wine, ale and cider which were rapidly placed on the tables. The trenchers were already in place, though on the top tables, silver and pewter plates lay before the diners, as well as glass and pewter goblets. Two ladies stood behind Eleanor to attend to her every want, but the doughty old lady had little need of them, being well able to fend for herself. As a courtesy — and Eleanor of Aquitaine was the queen and main inventor of courtly behaviour in Europe — Hubert and William Marshal went through the motions of helping her to the choicest morsels of the extravagant food placed before them and pouring her wine.

Compared with the usual fare in the Lesser Hall, de Wolfe decided that this was indeed a memorable feast. The top table had a surfeit of delicacies, from a roast swan which had been re-dressed in its original feathers, to several suckling pigs swimming in platters of wine-rich gravy. There were whole salmon, joints of beef and pork, numerous types of poultry and a range of puddings and sweets to follow, all washed down with the best wine that could be imported into England.

The rest of the hall also did well, if not on such a lavish scale, but no one went away unless sated with many kinds of meat, fish and sweetmeats. There were rivers of ale, cider, mead and wine, more than sufficient to send many diners reeling out of the hall at the end — or even being carried out unconscious by their friends.

John was placed a little way down one of the long trestles, as even the court’s coroner had no chance of getting on to a top table filled with members of the Curia, bishops, earls and barons. He noticed, however, that Renaud de Seigneur and Hawise were seated not far from the queen, perhaps as the lady from Blois was almost the only woman present, apart from Eleanor and her ladies-in-waiting. Even amid the heady company she was with, Hawise still managed to send John a few burning glances, as he had deliberately avoided going to the Lesser Hall for the past few evenings. John saw Archdeacon Bernard a little further down the table and the two under-marshals Ranulf and William were on the next row. Thomas, as coroner’s clerk, managed to slip on to a bench at the extreme bottom of the other limb of tables, but Gwyn was quite happy on a table hidden behind a pillar, together with some of his soldier friends. As long as there was ample food and drink, he did not care a toss for pomp and ceremony.

Five musicians on various instruments had been playing away manfully in the gallery. It appeared a thankless task, as no one seemed to be listening to them, even when they could be heard above the hubbub of voices. After a great deal of food had been consumed, with many a gallon of ale and wine, they were interrupted by another discordant blast of trumpets, as Hubert Walter rose to his feet and waited until more trumpeting and rapping of dagger-hilts on tables managed to bring relative silence.

The archbishop made a short, but eloquent speech of welcome to Queen Eleanor expressing delight at her return to England. When he had finished, there was more boisterous banging on tables and stamping of feet, with thunderous shouts of appreciation from the lower hall. This was a sign for more trumpets and with a radiant smile and wave at the assembled company, the Lionheart’s mother allowed herself to be handed from her chair by Hubert Walter. With her ladies fussing about her, she retired through the door behind, escorted by the Justiciar, the Marshal and a number of the senior bishops and barons, no doubt to take more wine privately in the royal apartments. John noticed that Hawise and her maid also slipped away through another door, leaving Renaud de Seigneur to enjoy the rest of the evening with the men. There was still plenty of food to pick at and the drink flowed endlessly from the jugs and pitchers ferried in by the servants, so the festive evening continued until late, though it was still light when even the most hardy drinkers staggered out of the Great Hall.

John joined the people who were milling around the tables and went over to talk for a while to Ranulf and William Aubrey, then went down to see how Gwyn and Thomas were faring. His clerk, who was no great tippler, was about to slip away to his bed in the abbey dorter, but professed that it had been a good meal and a privilege to be in the presence of the famous queen and the elite of English government, even at a distance. Suddenly weary, John wondered whether age was catching up with him, and together with Gwyn, who was like a shadow to him since the attack in St Stephen’s crypt, they went out into the summer dusk and made their way back to Long Ditch Lane.