John tried to ignore the jibe, but his unemployed state was too near the truth to prevent it from rankling. ‘I thought I would tell you that the Chief Justiciar has given me a commission to seek out and report any evidence of disaffection and treason against the king, until the Lionheart returns to this country — which now seems imminent.’
‘Why are you telling me this, John? It is none of my business.’ Richard tried to gloss over the matter with an air of indifference, but secretly he was concerned at the dangers of such a tenacious man as de Wolfe poking his big nose into the prince’s intrigues. He was also piqued that his sister’s husband was on such intimate terms with both the king and his chief minister, whilst he had make do with a more distant relationship with an errant prince.
They bandied words for a few more moments and then, given that Richard was Matilda’s closest relative, John thought that he had better tell him about the house he was proposing to buy for her.
‘I suppose it will be convenient for her devotions at the cathedral,’ replied Richard, loftily. ‘Of course, I have bought a large house in North Street, as my manors in Revelstoke, Tiverton and Somerset are sometimes too distant for convenience.’
John’s patience with the arrogant, self-centred man soon ran out and he departed, leaving Richard to worry about whether he had sufficiently covered his own tracks in his own contribution to the prince’s ambitions.
De Wolfe went back to the Bush for his noon dinner, where Molly brought him a large bread trencher carrying slices of roast mutton, with a platter of boiled onions, beans and carrots. Nesta came with a small loaf of maslin bread, made from both wheat and rye, and a slab of cheese, then sat with him as he ate and listened to his story about his offer for the house.
He followed this with a diatribe against Richard de Revelle for his sneering self-importance and total uninterest in the murder of a royal courier. As he was washing down the food with a pint of her new ale, he confessed his frustration at what seemed to be the prospect of endless inactivity in his life.
‘How am I to spend my time, cariad?’ he demanded in the Welsh they always used together. ‘Am I grow old and soft, concerning myself with carpenters and stonemasons over this damned house? Is my sword going to rust in its scabbard — and will I and my horse grow fat from lack of exercise?’
Nesta frowned at his obvious anxiety and laid a hand gently on his arm. ‘It’s only natural for you to feel like this, John, after the strenuous life you have led recently. But things will settle down — you could become more active in this wool enterprise that you have with the portreeve.’
De Wolfe shook his head. ‘Can you really see me sitting in the Guildhall, poring over bills and receipts?’ he growled. ‘Anyway, first I’d have to learn to read and write! I’d rather become a shipman and help Thorgils take our bloody wool to Flanders!’
She smiled at the thought of him doing either of these tasks. ‘I suppose you’re right, John. You belong in a saddle, with a lance under your arm. If it were not that I would fear for your life and limb, I’d say go back to competing in tournaments, as you used to. Though you no longer seem to need the prize money nor the ransoms.’
It was true that five or ten years ago, he was a successful contestant in the jousting that paid high rewards for the winners, as well as ruin or death for the losers. Though made illegal in England by the old King Henry, there were plenty of tourneys held outside the law — and many knights travelled abroad to compete in large-scale contests.
‘An attractive idea, Nesta — but I’m getting too old at almost forty. The risks of defeat increase greatly with age, for we get too slow and less agile than these young bloods!’
Looking at the attractive redhead sitting next to him, he was conscious of another defect in his life. Over the years, he had had a number of mistresses, both in Devon and elsewhere. There was a certain widow in Sidmouth whom he used to visit and, of course, the delightful Hilda of Dawlish. She was now out of bounds for at least another month, as he had learned from Hugh de Relaga that her husband Thorgils had decided to have a break from voyaging while his ship underwent extensive repairs. On the weary six-month journey across the continent, John had occasionally bedded a buxom serving wench, but lately his sensual appetite had been unsatisfied. Relations of that kind with Matilda had ceased long ago, as like his sister Evelyn, her desires were mainly in the direction of becoming a nun. Several times, during some of their shouting matches, she had bitterly expressed her regret at her father’s refusal to allow her to take the veil. But when his thoughts turned to Nesta, he told himself that this was forbidden territory. The memory of Meredydd was still too fresh in her mind and he had a strong sense of obligation to the archer to take advantage of his wife.
Old Edwin limped up to console him with his ale jug and to lighten his mood. John complimented Nesta on the improvement of the brew.
‘I learned this recipe from my mother in Gwent,’ she replied. ‘But the good grain that Gwyn found for me is the main reason for the fine taste.’
John rasped at the dark bristles on his face — it was time for his weekly shave, but Nesta’s mention of Gwyn reminded him that he should pay another visit to his family down near the coast.
‘Gwyn was always a favourite of theirs, with his amiable nature and his easy wit,’ he said. ‘I promised them that I would bring him with me next time. Perhaps after the next Sabbath, we’ll take a ride down there.’
The days went by and his offer for the lease was accepted, so John needed to seek out workmen to begin renovating the neglected old dwelling. One of the regulars at the Bush was a master mason and another a carpenter, so he had long talks with them about what could be done to improve the place. Several times Matilda was weaned away from her cousin’s house to visit St Martin’s Lane with him, as the new baby was delivered at last and the fever of expectation replaced by the sober reality of endless feeding and washing soiled swaddling clothes.
He found her less scornful and abrasive as the novelty of a new house possessed her and they disagreed less than usual. Matilda wanted the earth floor covered with flagstones, a feature of the best houses — and he had his way with the chimneyed fireplace, mainly because it could be incorporated in the building of a solar for Matilda. The mason sketched out a rough plan with a piece of chalk on a slab of slate, showing how the panels of cob and the inner bracing beams could be removed from the back wall up to the level of the eaves and replaced with mortared stone.
‘It will take us a couple of months, Sir John,’ advised the artisan. ‘We will have to order and cart the stone from the quarries at Beer, as well as having the timber cut for the solar and the roof gable.’
Much of this was beyond John’s comprehension, but he trusted the man to get on with the job, though the proposed cost made him wince a little. It was a fortnight before he could carry out his promise to go down to Stoke-in-Teignhead with Gwyn and September had arrived before they set out one morning.
As John knew it was pointless hoping to see Hilda with her husband at home, they avoided Dawlish and took the inland route through Kennford, Haldon Forest and Chudleigh to cross the river at King’s Teignton and ride down the western bank to his family’s manor.
Haldon Forest was an area of particularly dense woodland, a few miles in extent, near the south-eastern edge of Dartmoor. As they rode the narrow road through it, both men kept sharp eyes and ears open for unwelcome company, as this stretch of road was notorious for armed robbers, both predatory outlaws and the more organized gangs of trail bastons. Though John kept a hand near his broadsword and Gwyn fondled the shaft of the ball mace that hung from his saddlebow, they traversed the mile of road without seeing anything move, other than a fox slinking into the undergrowth.