‘In some places, large gangs have actually sacked small towns, so I’ve heard,’ contributed Gwyn.
‘Not having a sheriff with any guts is another cause,’ grated John. ‘Six counties being bled dry by that useless prince, but no effort made to enforce law and order. The bailiffs and sergeants of the Hundreds are in the pocket of the manor lords and are only concerned with piddling local disputes.’
Gwyn scratched his tangled hair to annihilate a few wild beasts lurking there. ‘Sir Ralph, why not lend us a few of your garrison men to hunt down some of these bastards?’ he suggested. ‘Sergeant Gabriel would relish the chance of giving his idle soldiers some real fighting. Most of the youngsters I’ve seen lounging about Rougement can never have seen a weapon wielded in anger.’
The castellan’s bushy eyebrows came together as he considered this. ‘You mean a sort of posse?’ he asked. ‘But as we said before, you need a sheriff’s warrant to do that.’
Gwyn shook his head. ‘I meant more like the Templars, who were founded to protect pilgrims travelling to the holy places in Palestine. In fact, many of our travellers here must be pilgrims going to Canterbury or St David’s — or even to take ship to Santiago de Compostella.’
Morin looked at de Wolfe. ‘What do you feel about that, John?’
‘It’s a novel idea, certainly. The Chief Justiciar has commissioned me to root around for evidence that the Count of Mortain is still planning a revolt, so maybe we could make the excuse that these bands of armed robbers might also be offering themselves as mercenaries for him.’
Ralph took a huge swallow of ale before answering. ‘I don’t think we need an excuse to give it a trial, John. The King’s Peace is being broken on the king’s highways. I’m now the only royal representative in Devon, so I reckon I’m entitled to do what I think necessary to keep order.’
They fell to deciding on how to organize their vigilante operations, already keen to clear certain areas of the ‘forest’, a term which was not confined to dense woodland, but any wild land not under cultivation. Nesta became uneasy about John’s obvious eagerness to take part in anything that involved the use of sword and mace.
‘Don’t go getting yourself maimed or killed, Sir John!’ she admonished sternly. ‘God and all his saints saw fit to preserve you for three years when you were on their business in the Holy Land, but you can’t expect their benevolence to extend to chasing armed robbers!’
FIFTEEN
September slid into October and the days shortened, but the transformation of John’s new house in St Martin’s Lane was still going on. It was near completion, however, and he took advantage of Matilda’s absence for a week to take Nesta to look at what had been done. His wife had been invited to her brother’s manor in Tiverton for a family gathering to celebrate his fiftieth birthday — and pointedly, de Wolfe was not included in the guest list, much to his relief.
The front of the house was quite unchanged, apart from new limewash on the panels of cob. Nesta wondered what had taken so long and cost so much, until John took her inside. As they entered the hall, she gave a gasp of wonder at the farther wall, which had been completely replaced by new stonework. A large fireplace occupied the centre, with an arched stone mantle over a deep recess, in which was placed a large iron basket to hold the logs. Above the arch, a conical stone funnel stood proud of the wall, tapering to a narrow flue that vanished through the roof, to take all the smoke away from the hall. A wide stone hearth had a raised rim to prevent burning wood from falling out on to the floor.
High up at one side of the chimney, was a narrow opening, like a small arrow-slit from a castle wall.
‘What’s that for?’ Nesta asked.
‘It goes through into the solar, which as you’ll see, is built on the outside of the wall,’ answered John. ‘It’s for Matilda to spy on me, when I’m trying to seduce young women down here!’
Nesta giggled and gave him a look that he could only describe as roguish.
He hastily changed the subject. ‘What do you think of the floor? She only let me have my fireplace if she could have flagstones!’
The old earth had been covered by massive slabs of a slatey stone, shipped from Cornwall. On them sat a long oak table, with a bench on each side and a heavy chair at either end. In front of the hearth, were a pair of ‘monk’s settles’, wooden chairs hooded up the sides over the top, to keep out draughts. The solitary glassless window facing the lane was firmly shuttered and the other walls carried sombre tapestries depicting biblical scenes, which Nesta guessed were Matilda’s choice, as John would have preferred pictures of battle.
‘Come around to the yard,’ he commanded and when they came out of the side passage, she saw that a room had been built on massive legs, so that it projected under a gable from the top half of the house. A flight of stairs led up to its door and at ground level, another small room had been inserted between the supports.
‘That box is for her lady’s maid!’ he explained, scornfully. ‘She insists on having some poor wench to help with her gowns and frizzle her hair!’
‘Has she found one yet?’
‘No, nor do we have a cookmaid, which is a damned sight more important. She’ll have to live in the kitchen shed there, but at least I’ve had it made a bit larger and more comfortable than the old one.’
Nesta declined to go up and look inside the solar, as this would be where John slept with his wife and somehow, she preferred not to see such an intimate place. They left the house in a rather subdued mood, each wondering what the other was thinking, but Nesta’s cheerful spirit soon revived and by the time they got back to the Bush, she was offering to look out for a reliable cookmaid for the new house.
That evening turned into something of a celebration, as Gwyn came down with Agnes to check on Molly’s progress as a cook. The master mason and carpenter came in later with their senior journeymen, to announce that they would be clearing up and removing their tools from St Martin’s Lane that week, so John decided to invite them all to eat at his expense to mark the end of their labours and the rebirth of the Bush’s fortunes.
After they had all eaten and approved Molly’s fresh salmon and roast pork, followed by frumenty,5 the best ale in Exeter flowed freely and an impromptu party developed. Old Edwin revealed a hidden talent in playing merry country tunes on the three-holed pipe and Gwyn, with a gallon of ale and cider inside him, used his deep bass voice to bellow the words of many songs picked up over campfires across Europe.
The regular patrons of the Bush readily joined in the fun, as since his return, their hero Sir John de Wolfe was the city’s most popular man. Soon, the few women present were hauled to their feet as they danced the jigging steps of rural England, laughing and chattering as those at the tables banged out the rhythm with empty ale jugs. With autumn logs crackling in the firepit, the scene in the dark taproom began to look like some scene from Celtic mythology.
John looked on with amiable approval and even ventured a couple of ballads of his own, carefully censored because of the respectable women there — the Bush was rarely used by whores, as Nesta discouraged that trade, leaving it to disreputable inns like the Saracen, two streets away.
Then Agnes dragged him to his feet and they laughingly attempted the simple steps of the dance, mostly hand-holding, advancing, retreating and turning. John was no dancer and only the loosening of inhibitions caused by the ale persuaded him to take part. Then Agnes, who had a very shrewd head on her plump shoulders, waited until one of the masons had released Nesta, then steered John into the landlady’s path. Smiling happily, she cavorted with him around the firepit and even his saturnine features creased into an almost foolish grin as they stamped and pranced to the obvious approval of the others, who clapped in time to Edwin’s piping and the thump of a small drum that someone had produced.