In spite of the fall from fortune that the inn had suffered since Meredydd died, it still had a reputation for the best value for a night’s lodging in Exeter and it seemed quite feasible that a king’s messenger might choose it on his long trek from London.
‘Did he say who he was or where he was going?’ he asked.
Nesta held a hand to her mouth in a typical feminine gesture as she thought for a moment. ‘Cornwall! It was to Cornwall he said he was going, for he mentioned that it was a very long journey for him. He said he was glad that they had given him a good horse this time, whoever “they” were.’
‘He made no mention of where he had come from?’
‘No, but it must have been a long way from Exeter, as he said he was now well over halfway.’
John failed to squeeze any more from Nesta’s memory, but was impressed with her recall and ready willingness to help. He was also becoming more aware of her physical charms and was pleased when she came to sit near him when he came in for a meal or a drink. The previous night, as he lay in his cubicle in the loft, he was also very aware of her proximity in her small bedchamber, only a few yards away, but he shrugged off the images that came unbidden into his mind, telling himself that this was the widow of an old comrade. Instead, he had made himself think of Hilda, but could not escape the fact that Dawlish was a dozen miles away, while Nesta was only a dozen paces.
John was jerked out of his reverie by Nesta being called away by Molly to attend to some problem in the kitchen shed and her place was almost immediately taken by Gwyn, who had come down from his cottage to check on some of the jobs that he had ordered on the fabric of the tavern.
‘It’s looking a lot better, Sir John!’ he declared proudly. ‘Needs a man out the back when it can be afforded, someone to clean up, shift the barrels and look after the hens and pigs. That sort of work is too heavy for women — and old Edwin’s foot limits him, though he tries hard enough.’
They talked for a time about the revival of the Bush, then Gwyn asked if they were really going to London and back.
‘I must talk to someone, both about Vienna and about this dead man with the royal ring,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘The man I need to see is Hubert Walter, but now that he’s been exalted to Chief Justiciar, perhaps he’ll be above my reach.’
Gwyn shook his shaggy head, his ginger hair flailing about like loose straw from a wagon. ‘He’ll see you right enough! We were close in Palestine, he even used to talk to me — though he was only a bishop then, not an archbishop.’
‘Hubert may be in Germany, I hear he’d been there with Queen Eleanor, as she is the driving spirit behind getting her son out of Emperor Henry’s clutches. But I must tell someone in authority about this dead man — they may be expecting some answer or concerned that their own message may have fallen into the wrong hands.’
‘You mean Prince John’s,’ growled Gwyn. ‘I wonder where this fellow had been in Cornwall?’
‘You know the place better than I do,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Any ideas?’
‘The only place left belonging to the king is Launceston Castle, so he may have been taking messages there.’
Again there was nothing more to go on and John said he would have to wait until they got to London or Winchester to learn more.
‘Which one are we aiming for?’ asked Gwyn, who had never set foot in either city.
‘Winchester first, as it’s on the way to London. Ralph Morin said that they are gradually moving the government to London — even the Exchequer is shifting to Westminster Palace.’
Gwyn nodded and swallowed the better part of a pint of ale. When he came up for air, he was philosophical about the forthcoming journey. ‘It’s a long ride, they reckon it takes a good week from here. But after us trekking from the bloody Adriatic, it should seem like strolling around the town.’
John had called to see Matilda earlier that day, a duty visit to tell her that he had returned from Stoke. He was surprised to learn that Hugh de Relaga had left a message with her, inviting them to a dinner at his house in Raden Lane that evening. Hugh was one of the few of John’s acquaintances of whom she approved, as the jolly little man was always attentive to her and shared her love of expensive clothes and good food. She also knew that he would probably have several of the city’s more prominent people there, as he was one of the two portreeves. She could boast there of her husband’s royal connections by telling tales of his recent adventures abroad.
‘At least I see you’ve bought new raiment,’ she said, inspecting him critically. ‘So you won’t shame me with old rags as you’ve done in the past — though they are still that miserable grey and black.’
At about the fifth hour, after the cathedral bell had rung for Vespers, he escorted her to the area near the East Gate where, in a side street, Hugh had his house. It was a fine stone building, far too large for an unmarried man who lived with his elder sister, but as one of the leaders of the city council, a Warden of one of the Guilds and a prominent merchant, he had a position to uphold and often needed to entertain people of a similar social level.
Matilda, under a snowy wimple and resplendent in her best gown of plum-coloured velvet under a summer surcoat of green silk, enjoyed herself greatly. There were half a dozen others there, most of whom she knew, as she was an avid social climber and was for ever trying to prod John in becoming more active in the town’s hierarchy — which was difficult, as he was absent most of the time.
He himself was not averse to good food, wine and some gossip, but she outshone him that evening, becoming vivacious to the point of being garrulous.
As he watched from across the long table, he thought what a different woman she could be in company, compared to the spiteful and cold nature she displayed to him. He knew it was partly his fault, as he had no affection for her at all. Their parents had forced them into marriage years ago, as Matilda’s father wanted to get his least attractive daughter married off before her scanty good looks faded even more. John’s own father also wanted to settle his younger son with a family like the de Revelles, one far richer than his own.
The evening passed well enough, with no disturbances apart from his wife’s voice becoming louder and more strident as she drank more of Hugh’s excellent Loire red wine. For his part, he was glad to be sitting next to another old friend, his namesake John de Alencon, one of the senior canons of the cathedral and the Archdeacon of Exeter. A thin, almost gaunt man, this John had wiry grey hair around his tonsure and a pair of bright blue eyes in his bony face.
John related the now oft-told story of his return from Acre and the disaster of the Lionheart’s capture.
De Alencon was also a staunch supporter of King Richard, unlike some of the other senior canons, who were keen to see Prince John on the throne of England. ‘I pray for him every night, John,’ he said sincerely. ‘I’m sure that our new Archbishop of Canterbury will do all he can to secure Richard’s release. Hubert Walter may not be a very enthusiastic churchman, but is the best negotiator we could hope to have.’
John had heard that there had been considerable resentment amongst senior clergy — especially in Canterbury itself — to the high-handed appointment of Hubert by the Lionheart from his foreign prison cell, but he made no comment and went on to tell the archdeacon about his discovery of the murdered royal agent.
‘I’ll see to it that he gets a decent burial, John, even if we don’t know who he is,’ promised de Alencon.
‘I hope to give you his name within a few weeks, as I’m off to report to Hubert Walter on Wednesday. They must surely know who they sent to Cornwall.’
De Alencon sadly shook his head. ‘I fear for this land if we have another civil war,’ he said sombrely. ‘I’m sure that the Count of Mortain is actively planning a rebellion and that a number of leading churchmen are supporting him. It’s unfortunate — or perhaps even fortunate — that we have had no bishop here since John the Chanter died two years ago. It’s rumoured that Henry Marshall, Dean of York, may be appointed before long, as he is the brother of William Marshal, your old Crusading comrade. But Henry is also a keen advocate of Prince John’s ascent to the throne.’