As he rode down the lane through the fringe of forest, he saw all the familiar sights of his youth, for he had been born and lived here until his father had sent him at ten years of age to be a page and then a squire to a nobleman in the north of the county. As the valley opened out into strip fields and cottages, the familiarity was almost overwhelming, even to an unimaginative man like John. There were a few people on the road and more working in the fields on either side — the children and younger lads staring curiously at this dark stranger, but older villagers soon began shouting and running towards him as they recognized him as their long-lost lord. His elder brother William was the actual lord of the manor and head of the family, a gentle fellow whose interests were in managing the estate, rather than John’s dependence on the sword. However, John had always been very popular, especially amongst the younger villagers, who admired his reputation as a warrior.
After reunion with his family in the manor house, the next hour was a bewildering confusion of welcome, praise and thanksgiving for his safe return, the sexton ringing the church bell in an endless paroxysm of rejoicing. Many had given up any hope of seeing him again, thinking that like the majority of the men who had sailed from Dartmouth three years before, he would have died of wounds, illness or drowning at sea.
His mother Enyd was one who never contemplated his death, resolutely believing that he would come home. Her conviction supported the others, especially his plump sister Evelyn, who had spent much of the last three years praying for him, as she was as religious as Matilda, having wanted to enter a nunnery in her youth. William had secretly feared that he would never see his brother again, but had kept up a firm pretence for the sake of his mother and sister — and was now heartily pleased to have been proved wrong.
What remained of the day was spent in talking, eating and drinking, as the family, the steward, the bailiff and the reeves all clustered around John in the hall of the manor house to hear his tales of the Holy Land and especially of the journey home. None of them had known that he had been part of the Lionheart’s bodyguard for the return from Acre and were prodigiously proud of him. When they heard that only John and Gwyn had been left with the king after all the others had been whittled away, they were astounded — and John’s sombre confession of his remorse at not being able to prevent the capture was dismissed by them as God’s will. Everyone in England knew that their king was in prison in Germany, but the details were scanty, except to the ministers and high officials.
‘Does anyone in Winchester know that you are back?’ asked William. ‘Surely you should tell someone the true details of our king’s capture?’
In the short time that John had been home, this had not occurred to him, but now that his brother had suggested it, he began to think that perhaps he had better report to someone. He had heard from Ralph Morin that Hubert Walter had been made Archbishop of Canterbury and Chief Justiciar of England, virtually a regent now that the king was in captivity. De Wolfe knew Hubert, who had been the Lionheart’s right-hand man at the Crusade and had conducted most of the negotiations with Saladin. Morin had heard that the new archbishop was also in charge of parleying with Emperor Henry of Germany over the king’s ransom and was the prime mover in raising the vast amount of money.
‘Perhaps you are right, brother,’ he said. ‘As soon as my immediate problems are settled in Exeter, perhaps Gwyn and I should ride to London and tell our story.’
When the excitement had subsided and John was bursting with food and ale, his next desire was to be reunited with his old horse Bran and his dog Brutus. The big destrier, a warhorse he had won by defeating its previous owner in a tournament, was delighted to see him when John went to the stables, snickering his pleasure as John stroked his neck and fed him a few carrots.
His lanky brown hound was being looked after by the blacksmith, but as John walked towards the forge, just beyond the manor house, a frenzied barking and howling began as, almost by magic, Brutus could tell that his long-lost master was coming for him. The reunion was emotional for both of them and afterwards John pondered on the fact that he had had a far warmer welcome from four-legged beasts than from his own wife.
John stayed a few days at Stoke, his family and friends refusing to let him leave any sooner. Pleading that he had to return to Matilda and find them somewhere to live, as well as settle more business matters with Hugh de Relaga, they reluctantly let him go on the fifth day, after promises that he would soon return.
He left early on Bran, with the rounsey following quietly behind on a head rope. Brutus ran delightedly with them, dashing ahead and then returning for some foray into the bushes on either side. At an easy pace, he crossed the Teign again and a few miles further on, decided to call at Holcombe, which was a short distance off the road. Though he came to pay his respects to the reeve and his wife, he had a sneaking hope that Hilda might be there, as he knew that she often visited her parents. He was again disappointed in this, though he enjoyed the welcome they gave him, assuring him that their daughter was well, though still without child.
When he reached Dawlish some miles further on, he saw that the Mary and Child Jesus, the ship that had brought him from Antwerp, was beached in the mouth of the small river, having repairs carried out on the planking. This told him that Thorgils was definitely at home, so with a sigh he plodded on through the village and took the track across the marshes towards the ferry to Topsham, where he could return the rounsey to its stables.
Beyond the village of Starcross on the edge of the wide estuary, John stopped to rest and water the horses. He sat on the bank of a small stream that ran in a culvert under the lane to eat the bread and meat that his mother had pressed on him for the journey, while the larger beasts drank and Brutus went off to sniff the new odours of otter, fox and badger that abounded amongst the scrub and rushes that covered this flat plain. The muddy shore was only a few yards away and the hound vanished in that direction. A moment later, he began barking and whining, then dashed back to his master to sit expectantly at his feet, his tongue hanging out in expectation. John knew the signs well enough and climbed to his feet.
‘What are you trying to tell me, old fellow?’ he said affectionately, rubbing the dog’s domed head. For reply, Brutus dashed off once again, turning to make sure that John was following. They went along the edge of the stream to where it flowed into the Exe. The tide was ebbing and at once, de Wolfe saw what was arousing the dog’s interest. Caught in a clump of reeds at the mouth of the stream was a man’s body, left there by the retreating water.
John squelched through a few inches of brown ooze to reach it and saw that the corpse was already starting to putrefy in the warm weather, the face being swollen and discoloured, the tongue and eyes protruding. He grabbed the man’s belt and hauled him out on to firmer ground, then dragged him up on to the bank where he could get a better look at the body. Brutus sat down a few yards away and looked at the process with interest, obviously proud of his part in discovering this novel event.
John bent over the dead man and saw that he was dressed in riding attire, a long tunic slit front and back for sitting a horse. It was of good quality and he wore a stout leather belt with a sheathed dagger at the back. The belt carried a bronze buckle with an unusual design, a dragon within a circle and John removed it in case it could help in identifying the victim. His boots were of good quality, over long woollen hose and there was also a baldric across one shoulder, but no sword or sheath, though if he had been riding, they may have been on his saddle bow. The man’s face was unrecognizable due to the putrefaction, which was also swelling his belly, but what was easily recognizable was the massive wound across his neck, where his throat had been cut.