Crowner's Crusade

TWENTY-ONE

It was now two months since they had occupied the house in St Martin’s Lane and during that time, John’s enforced celibacy had become irksome. Hugh de Relaga had told him that Thorgils had decided to give up even coastal voyages for the rest of the winter, so seeing Hilda was out of the question. He had no desire to resort to brothels, as he had done occasionally in his younger days — and which he knew Richard de Revelle still patronized, as there was no lack of them in Exeter.

Relief came easily and from an unexpected quarter.

From the first, his relations with Mary were cordial, as there was an immediate rapport between them, but one free of any emotional ties. She rapidly learned of the smouldering antagonism between John and Matilda and an unspoken conspiracy developed between them to improve his lot. It was Mary who fed him, supplied him with clean clothes and gave him refuge and companionship in her kitchen shed. It was Mary who got him hot water to shave and wash once a week and the sight of him naked when he sometimes discarded his nether garments to be washed, never gave rise to any embarrassment. Though the master-servant relationship persisted, they were friends in every sense of the word. She had a roguish eye and, at her age, was by no means a virgin, so rapidly the occasional touch and gesture developed into a hug and kiss. Before long, they were enjoying a quick tumble on her mattress in the kitchen shed, when Matilda was either at church or fast asleep.

The only problem was Lucille, who lived in her box under the solar steps. It was only a few yards away and Mary soon realized that the French girl was well aware of what was going on. As the two were not particularly friendly, she did not trust Lucille to keep her mouth shut, especially to her mistress. Mary fed her and was civil to the girl, but partly because of language problems, Lucille never unbent towards the cook.

By late December, Mary had reluctantly decided to stop bedding her employer, confessing to him that she could not afford to risk losing such a good job and a home for the sake of an occasional tumble. John accepted with good grace and confined his activities to a quick hug and a kiss.

A few days before the celebration of Christ’s birth, Richard de Revelle reappeared, whilst journeying between his Devon manors. John avoided him, as he knew that a sneering or shouting match would be inevitable if he tackled him about his invalid appointment as sheriff. He preferred to leave it to the men in London and Winchester to react as they thought fit. Richard’s acidulous wife, Lady Eleanor, who as the daughter of an earl, looked down on Matilda in the same way that the latter sneered at John’s less affluent family, was travelling to Tiverton in a litter. John felt a little admiration for his own wife, who refused to join Eleanor in her swaying conveyance and insisted on riding a horse to Tiverton. For all her other many faults, she had been a competent horsewoman since her youth and John now hired a good rounsey for her from Andrew’s stable, fitted with a side saddle.

He saw the cavalcade off when Matilda joined it at the corner of the lane with the High Street and as they made their ponderous way towards the East Gate, he breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a whole week to himself. Lucille, who was too timid to approach a horse, let alone try to ride one, was left behind, which ruined any chance of reviving his activities with Mary.

It was four days before Christ Mass, the exact anniversary of the Lionheart’s capture in Vienna and later he and Gwyn sat rather despondently in the Bush, drinking ale and going over that fateful day in their minds.

‘We did all we could, Sir John,’ said the Cornishman quietly. ‘The two of us couldn’t have saved him against those odds.’

John had to agree. ‘I suppose not, it was a hopeless venture once we had turned around after Sicily. Looking back, I suppose we should have pressed on to the Spanish coast, it would have been a better prospect than trying to creep through central Europe.’

Eventually they left this overworked topic and went on to the other matter that had Exeter’s gossips in full spate. Nesta had joined them, looking pert and pretty in a green kirtle, with a white apron tied around her slim waist, a lock of her auburn hair peeping from beneath her linen coif. John had abandoned his headgear, now that the wound had healed to a reddened scar, buried under his own black thatch.

‘When does de Revelle think he’s taking over as sheriff?’ she asked. ‘I’ve only met the man once, but disliked him on sight when he came here trying to buy the inn, taking advantage of a newly bereaved widow.’

‘It’s supposed to be directly after Christ Mass, according to Matilda,’ said John. ‘The actual appointment will be confirmed by the Shire Court, but will be a formality, as half those freemen, bailiffs and serjeants are in Prince John’s pocket already.’

‘Gabriel told me this morning that Ralph Morin has sent a message by the courier about it to the Justiciar,’ announced Gwyn. ‘Let’s hope he gets there safely, not like that poor fellow Smale.’

Nesta hurried away to settle some argument between Molly and Edwin over where to put the decorations for the coming festival.

A pile of freshly cut ivy and holly was lying on the floor and Gwyn and John joined in the task of wreathing them around the walls and hanging them from the rafters.

‘I’ll be down here every night, now that I’ve been deserted by my wife!’ exclaimed John. ‘I’ll have to eat at home sometimes to please Mary, but I’ll be down here often for more of Molly’s good food!’ he promised.

He could have spent the festival in Stoke-in-Teignhead, but he had been down there for a few days the previous week, doing his duty as a faithful son. He felt he would enjoy himself more amongst his friends in Exeter, as Hugh de Relaga had invited him to early dinner on the eve of the festival.

When that day came, he went along with Hugh’s family to the cathedral and discharged his infrequent spiritual obligations at an early special Mass. After a lavish meal in his house at noon, which included a roast swan, they watched a Miracle Play put on by the Guilds. This was performed at Carfoix, the junction of the four main streets and was staged on the back of a large wagon draped in cloth and carrying wooden scenery. A large crowd watched as enthusiastic apprentices re-enacted the traditional stories of Adam and Eve, Noah’s Flood, and the Nativity. Dressed as angels, devils and all the well-known characters, the lads (including those dressed as women) went through the exaggerated gestures demanded of them, while a priest stood at one side, loudly reading an explanatory commentary, in both Latin and vernacular English.

That evening, John was back at the Bush, with Brutus lying with a bone in his usual comfortable spot under the table. Gwyn had for once stayed at home with his family, but the place was crowded with regular patrons, all intent in eating and drinking to welcome in Christ Mass day.

‘I’ve made a special brew for the occasion,’ declared Nesta, banging a quart pot in front of him. ‘And if you don’t eat all the food we put before you, Molly says she’ll never speak to you again!’

Instead of her usual tight-fitting coif, Nesta tonight wore a snow-white veil and wimple.

‘You look more like a nun, or better, an angel, than an innkeeper!’ said John, in a rare moment of admiration.

She bent to give him a quick peck on the cheek and whispered in his ear, ‘I may be an angel, John, but I’m certainly no nun!’ Then she glided off to attend to her other customers, leaving him to ponder her words.

As the evening wore on, a group of townsfolk came around the streets, singing and dancing. Holding hands in a wide circle, these were ‘carollers’, as they sang both religious, secular and sometimes bawdy ballads. Carols had been banned from churches as being sacrilegious, so they had to be celebrated in the streets. When they had moved on, some of the patrons of the Bush began to copy them in the taproom and a smaller circle formed where men and women, now loosened-up by Nesta’s special brew, sang and stamped lustily below the holly and the ivy hanging from the beams. John joined in willingly, grasping Nesta’s warm fingers on one side and Molly’s on the other, until fatigue and the need for food sent him back to his table. Here half a goose was put before him, followed by an oblong mince pie, shaped to mimic the cradle of Jesus. Made of minced mutton, currants and spices, it was followed by a special frumenty, a sweet porridge flavoured with fruit, cinnamon and nutmeg.

By midnight, many of the more sober customers had left to attend Mass at either the cathedral or at one of the twenty-seven churches in the city and John was left sitting with Nesta as they shared a flask of red wine as a change from ale.

‘What a difference half a year has made, John,’ she said softly. ‘You have changed my life, from the depths of despair to real happiness. Though I miss Meredydd, I feel as if my life has begun all over again.’

He nodded, his long dark face somehow looking younger as he looked down at the woman sitting close beside him. ‘I too am content, cariad. I wish I could spend all my time in the Bush, instead of only half of it!’

‘I’m glad your wife has gone to Tiverton this week. Without you around, I would have been so alone, just left with sad memories of former years.’

Their eyes met, his dark ones lurking under heavy brows, her large hazel orbs set in a smooth rounded face. Something new passed between them, so that he stood up and raised her by the hand, then wordlessly took her to the wide steps to the loft. At the top, he pushed open the door of her little cell and then shut it firmly behind them.

Nesta sank to the edge of her thick pallet and held out her arms to him. As he knelt to kiss her, she whispered again. ‘John, I told you, I’d never make a nun!’

The next week was a foretaste of heaven for both man and beast. Brutus had a bone every day and John had Nesta. He spent every night there, only going back to St Martin’s Lane at dawn, in time for Mary to give him a good breakfast. The cook knew perfectly well what was happening — as did much of Exeter — and not being in the market for him, bore no jealous feelings at all. In fact she was both pleased and amused at the change in her master, who with Matilda absent and having found Paradise down in Idle Lane, was amiable and cheerful in a way she’d not seen before.

Nothing lasts for ever and in this case, it was only a week before Nemesis arrived on a dappled palfrey. Matilda was home and after a flurry of unpacking and harassing Lucille, she sat in her usual place near the hearth, waiting for Mary to hurriedly prepare a meal. She was still too full of pride about her brother’s elevation to sheriff to bother much with John, but he knew it would only be a matter of time before some gossiping friend would tell her of her husband’s new interest in the Bush Inn. He felt he should begin to broach the subject of de Revelle’s appointment, to prepare her for what must surely be a great disappointment. As soon as he could get her attention after her eulogy about the grandeur of the festivities at the Tiverton manor, he described the problem about Richard de Revelle’s proposed shrievalty.

‘As the king’s representative in Devon, only the king can appoint him,’ he said cautiously.

She immediately dismissed the notion. ‘You are only trying to stir up trouble again, John!’ she snapped. ‘Prince John was given the county after the king’s coronation, to rule as he thinks fit. He already has a chancellor, justiciar and exchequer of his own, so of course he can appoint his own sheriff!’

‘So why did the king keep Rougemont and Launceston castles in his own hand — and why are many of Prince John’s fortifications now being pulled down?’ retorted her husband.

Matilda glared at him around the corner of her chair. ‘As ever, you are only trying to make trouble for my brother! Is it pure dislike or jealousy of a man who is achieving something in his life?’ she cried. ‘Unlike you, he’s not shiftless and aimless unless he has a war to fight or a harlot to straddle!’

So within an hour of her return, they were squabbling again — and he knew that when she found out about the time he had spent in the Bush, the battle would be endless. They ate in sullen silence, then Matilda took herself off to her solar, shouting for Lucille as if she were calling to a dog.

It was another few days before the expected challenge to her brother came about. The time moved on to the New Year, still celebrated by most on the first day of January, even though the Church had long ago moved its date to the twenty-fifth of March, on the grounds that the one set in early Roman times was a pagan festival.⁷

Richard de Revelle had again installed himself in the sheriff’s chamber, but rapidly made it known that he was now there in a different capacity as the true sheriff. He called his senior clerks to him and had proclamations written to the two portreeves of Exeter, the Masters of the various Guilds and to the burgers who made up the city council as well as sending them to the other major towns like Totnes and Plymouth. These informed them that Sir Richard de Revelle was now Sheriff of Devon, appointed by their lord, the Count of Mortain and that all important business and the conduct of the courts now operated through him.

De Revelle also tried to impress upon Ralph Morin his superiority in the hierarchy of the county, but that pugnacious soldier told him bluntly that he was an officer of the king and took no orders from someone who held his dubious post at the behest of a mere Count.

On Epiphany, the sixth day of the new month that celebrated the Magi’s visit to the infant Jesus, a small procession entered Exeter from the London road. Half of the dozen men were a guard of men-at-arms under a sergeant, escorting a tall, grizzled man in his sixties, accompanied by another heavily built man with a large white moustache, both of whom had a squire and a body-servant.

They made straight for Rougemont and surprised the constable, who had no idea that they were coming. A flurry of activity settled their horses and escort, then Ralph Morin had food and drink organized for them in his chamber. At the same time, he covertly told Gabriel to send a soldier down to find Sir John de Wolfe and get him up to the castle as soon as possible.

The new arrivals were Sir Walter de Ralegh, one of the Royal Justices and a member of the Curia, the King’s Council, together with Sir Henry de Furnellis, a middle-aged knight whose father, Geoffrey de Furnellis, had been sheriff of Devon earlier in the century.

Both of them had strong Devon connections, as Walter had been born in East Budleigh and though de Furnellis was now a Somerset man, his family came from Venn Ottery, both manors being near each other about ten miles south-east of Exeter.

‘I came in response to your message to Hubert Walter,’ announced de Ralegh in his deep voice. ‘I am due to hold an Assize of Gaol Delivery in Dorchester next week, so it was convenient for me to come here. I picked up my old friend Henry here on the way, as the Justiciar has plans for him!’

‘Plans that I could well do without,’ put in de Furnellis wryly. ‘I want a quiet life these days, but my duty to the king comes first.’

They avoided further discussion while they ate and drank after their journey, the visitors saying that they would stay in the New Inn, the city’s largest hostelry in the High Street, where visiting judges were usually accommodated.

When John de Wolfe arrived, he too was surprised by the rapid response to the messages to the Chief Justiciar about both his success in combating outlaws and in dealing with the killer of the royal messenger, as well as the news that Prince John had flaunted the royal protocol in appointing his own sheriff. De Wolfe was already acquainted with both of the visitors, from various campaigns in Ireland and France, as well as at tournaments. Walter de Ralegh still had a Devonshire accent and because of his local knowledge, was often sent by the Curia Regis on matters concerning the west of England. When the platters and cups were cleared away, Walter got straight down to business.

‘The Curia is concerned about the increasing level of violence all over the country and the lack of any proper means to deal with it. Hubert Walter has plans to set up Keepers of the Peace and other measures, but that’s in the future, when the king is back in circulation.’

‘It’s bad down here, Sir Walter,’ said Ralph Morin. ‘The roads are getting so unsafe that it’s dangerous for folk to travel anywhere.’

‘Don’t think you’re alone in that, the Justiciar gets pleas from all over the country complaining of the same thing. But not having a sheriff here makes things worse.’

‘We now have a self-appointed one!’ said John cynically.

Walter de Ralegh turned his rough, weather-beaten face towards de Wolfe. ‘Not for long, John! Where is the bloody man? We’ll soon deal with him.’

‘De Revelle has settled himself in the old sheriff’s room here, but he’s not shown up today,’ advised the constable. ‘The clerk he’s brought with him says he’s starting his duties tomorrow.’

De Ralegh scowled. ‘What in hell is he doing settling in a royal castle, like a cuckoo in another bird’s nest? Have him here in the morning, we’ll soon stamp on another of Prince John’s little schemes!’

The reign of Richard de Revelle as Sheriff of Devon was very short and not particularly sweet. When next morning he arrived at the castle from the house he was leasing in North Street, he had already heard from his steward about the unexpected arrival in the city of Walter de Ralegh and Henry de Furnellis, but had no idea of their mission. He knew both of them slightly, but as they were staunch supporters of the king, he had kept his distance from them ever since his sympathies had moved to Prince John.

It was with considerable surprise that he entered his chamber in the keep to find it already occupied by four men. Sir Walter was sitting in his own chair behind the table and the constable, Henry de Furnellis and his own brother-in-law occupied stools alongside him.

Richard’s habitual arrogance and self-assurance soon surfaced. ‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded.

Walter jabbed a finger towards an empty chair. ‘Sit down, de Revelle. Firstly, it’s not your room, it belongs to the king — as will all Devonshire again be very soon.’

De Revelle’s mouth opened to protest, then the significance of the remark came home to him. Rapidly, he began to reassess his fortunes in the light of a possible change of politics.

‘The process of King Richard’s release is under way,’ continued Walter. ‘Queen Eleanor should by now be at the Emperor’s court in Mainz with the bulk of the ransom money, so his return home is only a matter of time — a very short time!’

‘I’m delighted to hear it!’ said de Revelle, after some rapid thought. ‘I am the caretaker sheriff at present, but would be honoured to continue to serve the king in that post.’

De Ralegh glowered at him and thumped the table with a big fist. ‘Not a chance, de Revelle! You are not the sheriff, you never were the sheriff — and if I have any say in the matter, you never will be the bloody sheriff!’ He lifted a parchment from the table, which had a heavy seal dangling from ribbons at the bottom. ‘This is a warrant signed and sealed by Archbishop Hubert Walter, Chief Justiciar of England, appointing Sir Henry de Furnellis as Sheriff in this county, as from the day of Christ Mass. It was issued by the Justiciar on behalf of the king, for whom he is acting in every capacity.’

‘But the county belongs to Prince John!’ howled de Revelle.

Walter de Ralegh jabbed a finger at the speaker. ‘A word of advice, de Revelle! As soon as the king is released, all lands he unwisely gave to his brother will be forfeit. John’s remaining castles will be attacked and seized and the prince himself will probably be charged with treason, along with those who are known to support him. If I were you and you wish to save your neck, I would try to forget you’d ever heard of the Count of Mortain!’ The tall judge got to his feet and pointed at the door. ‘Now go, de Revelle! You have no business here. Go to your manors, hunt, eat and sleep, but stop meddling in affairs of state that will only bring ruin upon you!’

Richard went pale, then red as his chagrin at being so summarily dismissed, wounded his pride and his vanity. He stalked to the door, sweeping his green cloak around him. As he passed John, he glared at him venomously. ‘This is your doing, de Wolfe! I’ll never forget it!’