Crowner's Crusade

PART TWO — The Homecoming Devonshire, July 1193
TEN

The trading cog Mary and Child Jesus glided the last few yards on the smooth flood tide of the River Exe and came to a stop with a slight bump as her prow touched the stone wharf at Topsham, five miles downstream from Exeter. Her bow hawser was thrown ashore to be lashed to a post, so that the tide could swing her around to keep her steerboard side away from the quay. As the half-dozen crew sang their traditional arrival hymn of thanks to the Virgin, three men stood on the aftercastle watching them, two of them mightily pleased that their voyaging was over.

‘Glad to be home, are you?’ asked the third, a leather-faced mariner who was both the shipmaster and owner of the vessel.

‘Thorgils, nothing personal, but I never want to set foot on a bloody ship ever again!’ replied John de Wolfe fervently. Alongside him, Gwyn grinned mischievously. ‘But we had six months on land before this little pleasure cruise across the Channel.’

It had been a rough trip from Antwerp, in John’s memory as bad as anything they had suffered in the Adriatic. Now he just wanted to forget the whole episode, both on sea and shore, though his failure to save his king was something which he could never forget — nor forgive himself for. Lifting his pack on to his shoulder, he gripped Thorgils by the forearm in farewell. ‘Once again, I am in your debt, good friend. God knows how otherwise we could have got from Flanders across the French lands.’

As Gwyn was giving his own thanks to the old seafarer, John had a second pang of conscience — this time because he had cuckolded the shipman many times in the past, as for years Thorgil’s wife Hilda had been one of John’s lovers.

As soon as the cog was secured, they clambered ashore and with one mind, made directly for an alehouse in Topsham’s single street.

‘As I recall, the Crown made a good brew,’ said Gwyn, already salivating at the thought of his first quart of Devon ale since sailing with the Crusading fleet from Dartmouth over three years earlier. Soon they sat in the summer sunshine on a bench outside the tavern, getting used to the feeling of solid ground under their feet after two weeks at sea. It was strange to be back in familiar surroundings and de Wolfe rapidly felt as if he had never been away.

‘What will you do now, Sir John? Your wife can have no idea that you are back.’ Gwyn lifted his pot and drank most of a pint without drawing breath.

‘She probably thinks — or hopes — that I am long dead,’ growled the knight. ‘I’ll stay at the Bush until I discover where she’s living. I doubt her brother — and certainly his wife — would have put up with her for all this time.’ She had gone there three years ago, when they had given up their rented house near the East Gate.

Gwyn finished his ale and stretched his legs luxuriously. ‘What about horses? We need to get up to Exeter, unless you fancy a long walk.’

John signalled the alewife for another jug, while they waited for some food. ‘I’ll hire a couple of rounseys from the stables up the street. I’ll leave yours with Andrew the farrier in St Martin’s Lane. He can bring it back here sometime. You won’t need one at home, will you?’

Gwyn shook his head emphatically. ‘I left my old mare with Sergeant Gabriel at the castle stables. I’m going to spend a week or two pestering my wife and playing with the boys, if they can remember who I am!’ he said happily. ‘Then I’ll go up to Rougemont every day for a game of chance with Gabriel and his merry men. I don’t need a damned horse for that. But how are you going to manage?’

John filled their pottery mugs from the new jug. ‘I left both Bran and Brutus down with my family at Stoke,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride down there tomorrow on the hired horse and fetch Bran back to be stabled with Andrew.’

Bran was a destrier, a large stallion and former warhorse that John had won from an opponent defeated in a tournament some years ago, while Brutus was a hound of uncertain breed that he had had since a pup. Both were getting on in years, but he was very attached to them both.

‘Can you and your wife not stay with your family down at Stoke?’ asked Gwyn.

De Wolfe grimaced at the thought. ‘Holy Mary, that would be asking for trouble! She can’t stand my mother or my sister. To her, they are Welsh savages — and they are not too keen on her, with her airs and graces.’

The landlady brought them bowls of leek soup, followed by a scrubbed board carrying two large mutton shanks in onion gravy, with boiled parsnips and cabbage. These occupied them for a good few minutes and made them feel that at last they were back in civilization.

‘I wonder where Sir Baldwin and William de L’Etang are now?’ mused Gwyn, after squeezing gravy from his magnificent moustache. ‘And the High Admiral and Philip the clerk, too?’

John picked meat from between his teeth with a splinter from the board. ‘They’ll have been ransomed by now, I’ll wager. The priest Anselm will have been freed rapidly, no doubt. The Pope would have called down the wrath of God on anyone who kidnapped a man in Holy Orders.’

They both carefully avoided mentioning the Lionheart, as their failure to protect him from the Mayor of Vienna still weighed heavily on their hearts. They had heard almost nothing of him since that fateful day when the last they saw of their king was him being hustled off in Erdberg as a prisoner. During their arduous six-month journey across Europe, all they had heard was that he was a captive somewhere and that negotiations were going on to try to release him for a huge ransom.

Shaking off their recurring concerns, they finished the food, then walked to the livery stable beyond the church. Here John hired a pair of docile geldings, promising to return them within a few days. The proprietor looked rather askance at the worn and shabby clothing they wore, until John told him who he was and explained that they were returning Crusaders. The man was now effusive in his praise for them and refused to accept any deposit for the safe return of his steeds. De Wolfe knew that the news would be all over Topsham within the hour and probably would have reached Exeter almost as soon as themselves.

‘It’s shameful news that the king is now cast into prison in Germany!’ said the farrier. ‘No one knows where he is, but that bastard Emperor Henry is said to have bought him from the Austrians!’

Without disclosing their part in the affair, John pressed him for more details, but he knew nothing more than the rumours that took months to percolate to Devon from across the Channel. On the short jog to the city, he discussed this scant information with Gwyn, but hoped to get better news from his old friend and business partner, Hugh de Relaga — or from Ralph Morin, the constable of Rougemont. As the castellan of a royal castle, Ralph was a king’s officer and had good contacts in Winchester and London.

They trotted up the country road alongside the river and when they came within sight of the great twin towers of the cathedral rising above the city wall, John enquired about Gwyn’s intentions for the future.

‘I don’t know what’s in store for me, good friend,’ said de Wolfe. ‘We’re both getting too old in the bones to go off campaigning for much longer. But I’ll not see you and your family go short of anything, you can depend on it.’

Gwyn nodded appreciatively. ‘We can both still wield a sword or a mace if needs be, but I agree we’ve seen enough of foreign parts for a while. Don’t worry about me, I’ve got a few bits of silver tucked away for a rainy day.’

De Wolfe frowned at the memory of the king’s liberality to them. ‘That money he shared out with us in Istria lasted us well, thank Christ. It kept us fed all the way to Antwerp. Without it, we’d have starved, unless we’d turned to highway robbery!’

His squire grinned. ‘But it was not enough to buy us new clothes, eh? No wonder that farrier back there looked a bit dubious until he discovered who you were!’

De Wolfe, never a smart dresser at the best of times, looked very down-at-heel in the black cloak he had worn since Dubrovnik. Travel-worn, mud-stained at the hem and torn in several places, it covered a limp calf-length tunic of grey serge, stained with old sweat under the armpits. His boots were just about serviceable, but looked as if they were more than ready for the rubbish midden. John had lost his pilgrim’s hat long ago and now wore a simple coif, a cloth helmet of grey linen, tied with laces under his bearded chin. He could imagine, with some grim delight, what Matilda would say if she saw him now, with her snobbish insistence on keeping up appearances. Gwyn still wore his indestructible leather jerkin, but the knees had worn through on his worsted breeches and one buttock sported a large patch sewn on by a sympathetic alewife in Saxony.

When they reached Exeter’s South Gate, both men felt as if their arduous journey was over at last. They passed under the arch into crowded Southgate Street, lined with booths and stalls fronting the houses and shops, most selling cloth and clothing in this lower end. Higher up, the slaughtermen were swilling away the blood and entrails from the street, following the daily public massacre of animals that supplied the butchers’ stalls that led up to the central crossroads of Carfoix.

Turning right into the High Street, John rode the few yards up to the new Guildhall, where Gwyn left him to carry on to the East Gate and out into St Sidwells, where he would surprise his wife and children with his sudden appearance. Hitching the rounsey to a rail, John went into the Guildhall, recently rebuilt in stone as Exeter was thriving on its burgeoning trade in wool and tin. Though most of the houses were still timber, the new prosperity was evident in the masonry buildings springing up. The hall was crowded with people carrying on their business, buying, selling and making deals of all sorts. At the far end, several doors opened into rooms where the guilds and city administrators held court and in one of these, John sought his friend, Hugh de Relaga. He was one of the two portreeves, the leaders of the city council, as Exeter had not yet followed the new continental fashion of electing mayors.

As he threaded his way through the crowded hall, John received some cold looks from the richer merchants in their fur-edged cotes and mantles. This disreputable figure in a dirty cloak and unkempt black beard, was not the usual type of visitor to the trading floor of Exeter’s Guildhall. No one recognized him as Sir John de Wolfe, though he had been well-known in the city before he left for Palestine.

At the door of the portreeve’s chamber, a steward held up a hand to challenge him, but a baleful glare from John’s deep-set eyes made him stand back. Inside the room, a short, rotund man, some ten years older than de Wolfe, sat behind a table cluttered with manuscripts, attended by a stooped clerk with more bills in his hand. Dressed in a bright green tunic with a scarlet surcoat, the dandyish Hugh de Relaga looked up in irritation, which turned to annoyance when he saw this black scarecrow advancing towards him. Then a grin from the apparition broke the spell and Hugh’s normally cheerful face lit up with surprise and pleasure.

‘By God’s bones, tell me it’s you, John!’ he cried, rising from his seat. ‘We thought you were long dead!’

They embraced, an unusual gesture for the undemonstrative knight and the next few minutes were spent in a rapid exchange of news between them. Hugh sent his clerk out to get wine and pastries, pushing his parchments aside to make room on his table for cups and a platter. De Wolfe told him of the momentous events he had been involved in and made no attempt to cover up his own mortification at his failure to prevent the capture of the king.

‘There is little hard news of Richard’s fate,’ said Hugh, his round face serious for once. ‘Exeter is a long way from Winchester or Rouen and we get more rumour than fact, especially with this county under the yoke of the Count of Mortain.’

This was the title bestowed on Prince John by brother Richard at his coronation in 1189, along with the gift of six English counties, including Devon.

‘But have you heard anything of Richard’s whereabouts?’ asked John, anxiously. ‘We only heard that he had been taken from Austria to Germany, where he is in the clutches of Emperor Henry.’

De Relaga shrugged. ‘We know little more than that, John. It seems that he was first dragged to some grim castle on the Danube near Vienna, then taken to Germany. Philip of France is trying to get his hands on him, but the Emperor knows he is too great a prize to be given up. Bishop Hubert Walter is leading a deputation to seek his release — and already stoking up a vast tax-raising campaign to pay for it!’

As a businessman, he added wryly, ‘That will probably affect us sorely, John, as our enterprise has flourished greatly since you left. Still, we have made a lot of money, so can hardly begrudge some of it to get our sovereign released.’

Hugh stood back and surveyed John critically. ‘And we can’t begrudge a little more to get you some new clothing and a haircut. I doubt you’ve washed or shaved since leaving the Holy Land!’

He soon learned that John was virtually penniless, the money given by the king having been almost exhausted. He called his clerk in again and they unlocked a large iron-banded chest in the corner, from which he took a leather bag of silver coins and dumped it into de Wolfe’s hands.

‘Take this as a start and restore yourself to your former glory! Your wife will have apoplexy if she sees you in this state.’

In the next few minutes, John learned that Matilda was back in Exeter, staying with her cousin in Fore Street. He also discovered that he was now a comparatively rich man, as the sleeping partnership he had with Hugh in a wool-exporting venture had prospered remarkably. Also, his brother William, having heard nothing of John for three years, had deposited his share of the estate income from the manor at Stoke-in-Teignhead with de Relaga, which had added considerably to the profits. With fervent congratulations at having survived the campaign, he ushered John out, repeating his stern command for him to visit a clothiers without delay.

But John had a prior appointment, apart from not knowing where to find somewhere to buy new garments. He wanted to go down to the Bush Inn, to see how Meredydd and his very attractive wife were faring. Some years ago, he had loaned the former archer enough money to make up the price of the tavern when Meredydd purchased it on John’s recommendation and he now wanted to see how his gift had been used.

Though he now knew that his wife was back in the city, he had no sense of urgency in going to seek her out. ‘The bloody woman will be a millstone around my neck soon enough,’ he muttered to himself, as he untied his horse. ‘Another hour or two of freedom won’t come amiss!’