Crowner's Crusade

SIXTEEN

The first expedition of the posse from Rougemont was an anticlimax, after the excited young men-at-arms had worked themselves up into a lather of expectation at defeating a band of murderous outlaws. Ralph and John had chosen Haldon Forest as their target, as this was where de Wolfe had been attacked. Twenty men, together with the two knights, Gwyn and Sergeant Gabriel marched the five miles out of Exeter, being seen off by rather mystified townsfolk as they stamped their way out of the West Gate, as if leaving from some distant battle.

They all wore short chain mail hauberks, breeches and round helmets, their weapons being a mixture of pikes and swords, with half a dozen archers amongst them. It would have taken twenty-score men to thoroughly comb that area of woodland, but a start had to be made somewhere, if only to leave a message that the authorities were not going to let lawlessness go unchecked.

They stopped on the road at the point where the three would-be assassins had been killed. There was no sign of the bodies and as the castle constable had already questioned the bailiff of the Exminster Hundred, who told him that no one had recovered or even told him about corpses in that area, it was assumed that the local wildlife had dealt with their disposal.

The soldiers fanned out in pairs and began advancing into the forest, keeping within shouting distance. They had no hope of coming upon any outlaws by stealth but on this preliminary foray, wanted to make their presence known and to discover any camps that may have been set up.

After a couple of hours, they had passed beyond the halfway mark in the direction of Trusham village, when a cry from men on the left of the line brought the three leaders to the place. In a clearing, there were the remains of a fire, with a wisp of smoke still rising from logs which had been hastily kicked apart. Nearby were some crude shelters of woven branches built against the trunks of trees, in which were a few scattered articles of tattered clothing.

‘They’ve made a run for it, no doubt they heard us coming from a furlong away,’ declared Ralph Morin.

De Wolfe kicked at a half-eaten carcass of a chicken, lying near the fire. ‘A hell of a way to live, especially with winter coming on. Still, I expect they think it’s better than having their necks stretched on the gallows in Exeter.’ From the appearance of the rough shelters, he thought that about six men had been camping out there.

‘We’ll not catch them today, I fear,’ said Gabriel, hefting his long pike in frustration. ‘They can circle round us and vanish in any direction without us getting a sight of them.’

‘Still, we’ve made it clear that they can’t have their own way any longer,’ said Ralph resignedly. ‘If I had five hundred men, we could encircle the place and drive them to the centre, like rabbits in a harvest field.’

The men relit the fire and sat around it to eat the bread, meat and cheese they had brought with them, washing it down with water from a nearby stream.

Afterwards, they carried on until they emerged from the trees in sight of the strip fields of Trusham and began marching back home through smaller lanes.

‘At least it’s given these lads some exercise and a taste of discipline,’ said Gabriel. ‘Maybe next time, they can get some proper action.’

‘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.