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!’
ELEVEN
The Bush Inn was in the lower part of the city, which sloped downwards from the high point of Rougemont castle in the north-east to the riverside in the south-west. It lay on Idle Lane, which linked two streets than ran down to the western wall. The name came from the waste ground that lay around the inn, left unused after a devastating fire some years earlier.
A large thatched roof sat on a square of wall at little more than head height, with a yard behind with the usual huts for the kitchen, brewery, stable and privy. The front door had a withered bush of twigs hanging over it from a projecting beam, the sign of a tavern since Roman times. This was appropriate, as Exeter’s street plan was laid out by the Romans and much of the town wall was built by them, added to later by Saxons and Normans.
De Wolfe tied up his hired horse near a water trough at the side of the inn, as the July weather was becoming very warm. When he went round to the front door, he frowned as he noticed that the limed walls were in dire need of their annual whitewash and the thatch above was becoming tattered and frayed. Three years ago, when he was last here, the place was spruce and fresh, as Meredydd and Nesta had made great improvements to what had been a scruffy old alehouse.
He went inside and again was dismayed to see broken benches and dirty rushes on the floor. The place smelt strongly of urine, mould and spilled ale. A slatternly girl of about twelve was bringing earthenware mugs of ale from the casks at the back of the large room to a few men seated on the benches. There were no more than half a dozen of them, far fewer patrons than he remembered from three years ago. John beckoned the girl and asked for a quart of ale.
‘Where’s Meredydd, your master?’ he asked her. The child, for she was little more than that, stared at him from big eyes in a thin, pale face. As she backed away, she shook her head, but made no reply. Afraid that his scruffy appearance had scared her, he asked her gently to fetch Mistress Nesta. This time she nodded, then vanished through the back door into the yard behind.
John sat on an empty bench at a table near the central firepit, now filled with dead ashes within its ring of whitewashed stones. Again he noticed the neglected state of everything, so different from its former state. As he pondered the possible reasons for the decline in the Bush, a pot of ale was put on the table before him.
‘You asked for my husband?’ came a well-remembered voice. He lifted his face and saw Nesta staring down at him. Then with dawning comprehension, she gasped as she saw his features instead of the dirty straggle of black hair on top of his head. ‘John? Is it really you, John?’ Her face showed amazement, her hazel eyes enormous as they opened wide in disbelief.
John smiled wryly at her. ‘Sorry, I expect I look more like John the Baptist than John de Wolfe, but I’ve come more than a thousand miles! So where is Meredydd?’
To his surprise and utter embarrassment, the landlady slumped down on to the bench alongside him and leaning into his shoulder, promptly burst into tears. Awkwardly, he put an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the curious glances of several other drinkers across the room.