The only problem was Lucille, who lived in her box under the solar steps. It was only a few yards away and Mary soon realized that the French girl was well aware of what was going on. As the two were not particularly friendly, she did not trust Lucille to keep her mouth shut, especially to her mistress. Mary fed her and was civil to the girl, but partly because of language problems, Lucille never unbent towards the cook.
By late December, Mary had reluctantly decided to stop bedding her employer, confessing to him that she could not afford to risk losing such a good job and a home for the sake of an occasional tumble. John accepted with good grace and confined his activities to a quick hug and a kiss.
A few days before the celebration of Christ’s birth, Richard de Revelle reappeared, whilst journeying between his Devon manors. John avoided him, as he knew that a sneering or shouting match would be inevitable if he tackled him about his invalid appointment as sheriff. He preferred to leave it to the men in London and Winchester to react as they thought fit. Richard’s acidulous wife, Lady Eleanor, who as the daughter of an earl, looked down on Matilda in the same way that the latter sneered at John’s less affluent family, was travelling to Tiverton in a litter. John felt a little admiration for his own wife, who refused to join Eleanor in her swaying conveyance and insisted on riding a horse to Tiverton. For all her other many faults, she had been a competent horsewoman since her youth and John now hired a good rounsey for her from Andrew’s stable, fitted with a side saddle.
He saw the cavalcade off when Matilda joined it at the corner of the lane with the High Street and as they made their ponderous way towards the East Gate, he breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a whole week to himself. Lucille, who was too timid to approach a horse, let alone try to ride one, was left behind, which ruined any chance of reviving his activities with Mary.
It was four days before Christ Mass, the exact anniversary of the Lionheart’s capture in Vienna and later he and Gwyn sat rather despondently in the Bush, drinking ale and going over that fateful day in their minds.
‘We did all we could, Sir John,’ said the Cornishman quietly. ‘The two of us couldn’t have saved him against those odds.’
John had to agree. ‘I suppose not, it was a hopeless venture once we had turned around after Sicily. Looking back, I suppose we should have pressed on to the Spanish coast, it would have been a better prospect than trying to creep through central Europe.’
Eventually they left this overworked topic and went on to the other matter that had Exeter’s gossips in full spate. Nesta had joined them, looking pert and pretty in a green kirtle, with a white apron tied around her slim waist, a lock of her auburn hair peeping from beneath her linen coif. John had abandoned his headgear, now that the wound had healed to a reddened scar, buried under his own black thatch.
‘When does de Revelle think he’s taking over as sheriff?’ she asked. ‘I’ve only met the man once, but disliked him on sight when he came here trying to buy the inn, taking advantage of a newly bereaved widow.’
‘It’s supposed to be directly after Christ Mass, according to Matilda,’ said John. ‘The actual appointment will be confirmed by the Shire Court, but will be a formality, as half those freemen, bailiffs and serjeants are in Prince John’s pocket already.’
‘Gabriel told me this morning that Ralph Morin has sent a message by the courier about it to the Justiciar,’ announced Gwyn. ‘Let’s hope he gets there safely, not like that poor fellow Smale.’
Nesta hurried away to settle some argument between Molly and Edwin over where to put the decorations for the coming festival.
A pile of freshly cut ivy and holly was lying on the floor and Gwyn and John joined in the task of wreathing them around the walls and hanging them from the rafters.
‘I’ll be down here every night, now that I’ve been deserted by my wife!’ exclaimed John. ‘I’ll have to eat at home sometimes to please Mary, but I’ll be down here often for more of Molly’s good food!’ he promised.
He could have spent the festival in Stoke-in-Teignhead, but he had been down there for a few days the previous week, doing his duty as a faithful son. He felt he would enjoy himself more amongst his friends in Exeter, as Hugh de Relaga had invited him to early dinner on the eve of the festival.
When that day came, he went along with Hugh’s family to the cathedral and discharged his infrequent spiritual obligations at an early special Mass. After a lavish meal in his house at noon, which included a roast swan, they watched a Miracle Play put on by the Guilds. This was performed at Carfoix, the junction of the four main streets and was staged on the back of a large wagon draped in cloth and carrying wooden scenery. A large crowd watched as enthusiastic apprentices re-enacted the traditional stories of Adam and Eve, Noah’s Flood, and the Nativity. Dressed as angels, devils and all the well-known characters, the lads (including those dressed as women) went through the exaggerated gestures demanded of them, while a priest stood at one side, loudly reading an explanatory commentary, in both Latin and vernacular English.
That evening, John was back at the Bush, with Brutus lying with a bone in his usual comfortable spot under the table. Gwyn had for once stayed at home with his family, but the place was crowded with regular patrons, all intent in eating and drinking to welcome in Christ Mass day.
‘I’ve made a special brew for the occasion,’ declared Nesta, banging a quart pot in front of him. ‘And if you don’t eat all the food we put before you, Molly says she’ll never speak to you again!’
Instead of her usual tight-fitting coif, Nesta tonight wore a snow-white veil and wimple.
‘You look more like a nun, or better, an angel, than an innkeeper!’ said John, in a rare moment of admiration.
She bent to give him a quick peck on the cheek and whispered in his ear, ‘I may be an angel, John, but I’m certainly no nun!’ Then she glided off to attend to her other customers, leaving him to ponder her words.
As the evening wore on, a group of townsfolk came around the streets, singing and dancing. Holding hands in a wide circle, these were ‘carollers’, as they sang both religious, secular and sometimes bawdy ballads. Carols had been banned from churches as being sacrilegious, so they had to be celebrated in the streets. When they had moved on, some of the patrons of the Bush began to copy them in the taproom and a smaller circle formed where men and women, now loosened-up by Nesta’s special brew, sang and stamped lustily below the holly and the ivy hanging from the beams. John joined in willingly, grasping Nesta’s warm fingers on one side and Molly’s on the other, until fatigue and the need for food sent him back to his table. Here half a goose was put before him, followed by an oblong mince pie, shaped to mimic the cradle of Jesus. Made of minced mutton, currants and spices, it was followed by a special frumenty, a sweet porridge flavoured with fruit, cinnamon and nutmeg.
By midnight, many of the more sober customers had left to attend Mass at either the cathedral or at one of the twenty-seven churches in the city and John was left sitting with Nesta as they shared a flask of red wine as a change from ale.
‘What a difference half a year has made, John,’ she said softly. ‘You have changed my life, from the depths of despair to real happiness. Though I miss Meredydd, I feel as if my life has begun all over again.’
He nodded, his long dark face somehow looking younger as he looked down at the woman sitting close beside him. ‘I too am content, cariad. I wish I could spend all my time in the Bush, instead of only half of it!’