De Wolfe was surprised to hear his friend being so outspoken about his prospective bishop, but they had kept their voices down so that they would not be overheard, though the level of chatter was now very high.
When the party was over, John escorted his wife back to Fore Street. She was in an uncommonly jovial mood and clung to his arm, though he knew this was more from needing a strong support after too much wine, than from any sense of affection. She even expressed her regret that he could not stay in her cousin’s house, but after seeing her step unsteadily across the threshold, he hurried away down to the Bush with a light heart.
FOURTEEN
As Gwyn had said, compared with crossing half of Europe, the journey to Winchester was far from arduous and they reached it in five days. John had decided not to ride the older and heavier Bran and had rented another horse from Andrew’s stables, though Gwyn was happy to use his own brown mare.
They stayed in inns on the way, a luxury after their rough living on the continent, but John was taking advantage of his recently increased wealth and saw no reason to stint themselves whilst on the king’s business. When the walled city, for centuries the capital of England, came into sight, Gwyn was greatly impressed by the huge cathedral and the massive castle, but after a night’s rest at an inn in the High Street, the morning brought disappointment.
Enquiries at the castle told them that the Chief Justiciar was in London, having just returned from another visit to Germany, where he was once again trying to negotiate the king’s release. Within a couple of hours, the two men from Devon were on the road again, heading for the new capital on the Thames. After another night in Guildford and a second in Esher, the third day saw them across the Thames and into Westminster. Having stabled their horses and rented a couple of beds at a hostelry in King Street, de Wolfe led Gwyn across to the palace, a group of rambling buildings attached to William Rufus’s Great Hall on the riverbank adjacent to Westminster Abbey. Inside the wide courtyard, the next problem was to gain admittance to the man they had come to visit. Hubert Walter was now the greatest in the land, being both head of the Church and the head of government, especially since the hated Chancellor, William Longchamp, had had to flee to Rouen.
John presented himself at the porch beyond the Great Hall and after telling a porter that he was Sir John de Wolfe, found a small room where a gruff clerk sat at a table shuffling parchments.
John identified himself again and said that he wanted to speak to someone who had access to the Justiciar, on a matter of importance.
The official, whose stiff hair surrounded a clerical tonsure, looked at him suspiciously. ‘How do I know you are who you claim to be?’ he muttered.
‘What is this business that brings you here?’
De Wolfe glowered at the man. ‘It’s confidential, at least to such as you,’ he retorted.
Nettled, the clerk glared back. ‘You could be some French spy or an assassin wishing harm to the Justiciar?’
John felt like grabbing the fellow by the throat and shaking him, but Gwyn put a restraining hand on his shoulder, as he spoke to the obstructive clerk.
‘My master and I fought alongside Hubert Walter in the Holy Land — and we were part of the king’s company on his journey back from there.’
The man behind the table looked suspiciously at them, but sensed trouble for himself if he got this wrong. ‘Can you prove that?’ he snapped.
For answer, John dipped his fingers into his scrip and produced the courier’s ring. Holding it out, he pointed to the pair of royal lions engraved on the inside. ‘Does this convince you?’
The man’s attitude changed immediately. With a mumbled apology, he beckoned to the porter, who was hovering in the doorway. ‘Escort these gentlemen to the Justiciar’s chambers and find one of his officers to speak to them.’
With Gwyn grinning behind him at being called ‘a gentleman’, the man led de Wolfe into the gloomy passages of the palace and, after several turns then up some stairs, arrived at a busy room where many clerks and servants bustled about. The porter spoke to one of them and soon a fat priest appeared from another room, clutching lists of accounts.
John again explained who he was and why he needed to speak to the archbishop. When Brother Roland heard that this was the John de Wolfe that Hubert Walter had spoken of in connection with the king’s capture, his eyes widened and he treated the knight with considerable respect.
‘The Justiciar has heard from the king’s own lips the sorry tale of his outrageous abduction in Vienna — and he spoke warmly of your faithful service,’ he said obsequiously.
He led them through several more rooms and a passage to another antechamber where a chaplain was seated and after a whispered consultation, the chaplain vanished through an inner door.
A few moments later, he returned and ushered them into a large, but plainly furnished chamber where a lean man with a lined face and greying brown hair rose from his chair to greet them.
Hubert Walter did not assume the trappings that might be expected of such a powerful man. All that suggested that he was an archbishop was the plain red cassock with a small gold cross hanging around his neck.
‘Sir John, old friend!’ he said quietly, as he came across the room to grip de Wolfe’s arms in greeting. ‘And Gwyn of Polruan, too! It’s good to see you safe and sound after all we went through in Palestine — though the king told me that you and he had suffered even more later on!’
Having been with the king’s guards for much of the campaign, the two Exeter men had seen a lot of the Bishop of Salisbury, as Hubert had been then. Originally he was made the chaplain to the English crusading contingent after Archbishop Baldwin had died of disease — though Hubert did far more fighting and diplomacy than any priestly duties.
He went back his chair and motioned the others to bring up stools to the table. ‘Now tell me of what happened after you sailed from Acre. I’ve heard it from Richard, but not in much detail.’
For half an hour John related the story of the eventful voyage and then the disastrous ride across country to Vienna. ‘I feel shame at not being able to have prevented our lord king’s capture,’ he concluded sorrowfully. ‘If we had not gone out searching for food, perhaps I could have saved him.’
Hubert shook his head. ‘When I spoke to the king in Wurzburg, he was adamant that you did all you could for him. You had to buy provisions for the journey — and you could have done nothing to overcome a whole troop of soldiers, other than lose your own lives.’
John shook his head sadly. ‘I would gladly have given my life for him, sir. This will plague me for the rest of my life.’
They spoke about it for a few more minutes, Gwyn respectfully asking the Justiciar how he found the Lionheart in body and spirit.
‘He is now almost restored to his usual fiery self,’ said Hubert with a smile. ‘At first he was confined in a remote castle on a crag, at Durnstein on the Danube. Then he was dragged off by Count Leopold to Regensburg in Germany to meet the Emperor and your old enemy Count Meinhard of Gorz, but Leopold distrusted King Henry and took him back to Austria after two days. Then a month later, he sells him on to Henry and our king was taken to Wurzburg.’
John leaned forward with a question. ‘There’s been some tale going around that one of the king’s troubadours, Blondel of Nesle, first discovered him by singing a song they composed together and heard the Lionheart respond with another verse from behind his prison bars at this Durnstein place!’