De Ralegh scowled. ‘What in hell is he doing settling in a royal castle, like a cuckoo in another bird’s nest? Have him here in the morning, we’ll soon stamp on another of Prince John’s little schemes!’
The reign of Richard de Revelle as Sheriff of Devon was very short and not particularly sweet. When next morning he arrived at the castle from the house he was leasing in North Street, he had already heard from his steward about the unexpected arrival in the city of Walter de Ralegh and Henry de Furnellis, but had no idea of their mission. He knew both of them slightly, but as they were staunch supporters of the king, he had kept his distance from them ever since his sympathies had moved to Prince John.
It was with considerable surprise that he entered his chamber in the keep to find it already occupied by four men. Sir Walter was sitting in his own chair behind the table and the constable, Henry de Furnellis and his own brother-in-law occupied stools alongside him.
Richard’s habitual arrogance and self-assurance soon surfaced. ‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded.
Walter jabbed a finger towards an empty chair. ‘Sit down, de Revelle. Firstly, it’s not your room, it belongs to the king — as will all Devonshire again be very soon.’
De Revelle’s mouth opened to protest, then the significance of the remark came home to him. Rapidly, he began to reassess his fortunes in the light of a possible change of politics.
‘The process of King Richard’s release is under way,’ continued Walter. ‘Queen Eleanor should by now be at the Emperor’s court in Mainz with the bulk of the ransom money, so his return home is only a matter of time — a very short time!’
‘I’m delighted to hear it!’ said de Revelle, after some rapid thought. ‘I am the caretaker sheriff at present, but would be honoured to continue to serve the king in that post.’
De Ralegh glowered at him and thumped the table with a big fist. ‘Not a chance, de Revelle! You are not the sheriff, you never were the sheriff — and if I have any say in the matter, you never will be the bloody sheriff!’ He lifted a parchment from the table, which had a heavy seal dangling from ribbons at the bottom. ‘This is a warrant signed and sealed by Archbishop Hubert Walter, Chief Justiciar of England, appointing Sir Henry de Furnellis as Sheriff in this county, as from the day of Christ Mass. It was issued by the Justiciar on behalf of the king, for whom he is acting in every capacity.’
‘But the county belongs to Prince John!’ howled de Revelle.
Walter de Ralegh jabbed a finger at the speaker. ‘A word of advice, de Revelle! As soon as the king is released, all lands he unwisely gave to his brother will be forfeit. John’s remaining castles will be attacked and seized and the prince himself will probably be charged with treason, along with those who are known to support him. If I were you and you wish to save your neck, I would try to forget you’d ever heard of the Count of Mortain!’ The tall judge got to his feet and pointed at the door. ‘Now go, de Revelle! You have no business here. Go to your manors, hunt, eat and sleep, but stop meddling in affairs of state that will only bring ruin upon you!’
Richard went pale, then red as his chagrin at being so summarily dismissed, wounded his pride and his vanity. He stalked to the door, sweeping his green cloak around him. As he passed John, he glared at him venomously. ‘This is your doing, de Wolfe! I’ll never forget it!’
TWENTY-TWO
It was now early September and much had happened since the depths of winter. One warm afternoon, Nesta had moved two trestle tables and benches outside to flank the front door of the Bush. A pair of carpenters and a blacksmith sat on one, with John de Wolfe, Gwyn of Polruan and Nesta on the other. The only view was that of a bare patch opposite, where weeds covered the charred remains of the fire of some years ago, but it was pleasant to sit in the sun with a jug of ale and chat about the state of the world.
‘Any news from across the Channel?’ asked Gwyn, leaning back against the wall of the inn, with a quart pot in his hand.
‘Ralph Morin’s usual source passed through yesterday,’ replied John. ‘A courier from Winchester said that our king is making slow but steady progress against Philip’s army in Touraine and that he is planning to build a huge castle on the Seine.’
‘What about his traitorous brother?’ demanded Nesta. ‘He seems to have faded from sight since May, when the king pardoned him yet again.’
De Wolfe scowled at the memory. ‘Yes, the Lionheart said he was like a naughty child and it was those men who led him astray who should be punished. But I don’t trust him, he won’t easily give up plotting to unseat Richard.’
After the collapse of John’s rebellion in March, the main instigator, Hugh of Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was fined heavily and went into exile in Normandy, where he died in disgrace. His brother, Robert Brito (who had refused to go to Germany as a hostage for the king) was thrown into the cells of Dover castle and was starved to death.
John himself had fled to Normandy and allied himself openly with King Philip, until he had crawled back to Liseaux to seek his brother’s forgiveness. As Walter de Ralegh had foreseen, the Curia Regis had stripped him of his English possessions, including Devon, even before the king was released from Germany into his doughty mother’s custody in February.
As the sun warmed them, they gave up talking politics in favour of things nearer home. Their sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, was liked well enough, but they were rather irked by his lack of enthusiasm for keeping the peace.
‘He’s not a well man,’ said John, in mitigation. ‘He suffered wounds in Ireland when we were there, but his main problem is this shaking fever he gets at intervals, picked up in the marshes of southern France, due to their foul air.’
‘Whatever it is, he’s not too keen on chasing trail robbers from the roads,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘We’ve had to go out with Ralph a few times on his behalf.’
‘It keeps us from growing rusty,’ countered John. ‘And it’s something to do to pass the time.’
John was becoming restless at his own inactivity. He had been back in Exeter now for a year and apart from some sporadic involvement with their wool business, had no real occupation. This was a common problem for knights who had neither a manor to administer nor a war to fight. Some of them even turned to banditry, but many more found little to occupy themselves — and of these, many were relatively poor, as an honourable rank does not fill an empty stomach. De Wolfe had even been considering entering the king’s service again, but that would mean leaving Devon and almost certainly going to France to join the royal armies. Though he had no objection to this, he was now so enamoured of Nesta that it would be a great wrench to leave her. He looked at her now, smiling at him across the table, pretty and happy in her summer kirtle and lace coif.
‘Why so solemn, John?’ she asked gaily. ‘It’s a lovely day, the ale is perfect and Molly has a fine salmon to cook for our supper!’
He gave her one of his lopsided grins. ‘Not solemn, cariad — just wondering how to spend the next thirty years? Maybe I should take up my lance and go tourneying again, now that the king has made it legal.’
Old King Henry had forbidden jousting and tournaments, concerned at the loss of life amongst his knights and the fear that it trained them to be more proficient at rebelling against him. However, one of the first acts that Richard had made after his return, was to authorize five sites in England where they could be held on payment of steep entrance fees — another ploy to raise money for his war against Philip.
Nesta sat pondering John’s reply about the next thirty years, as it reminded her of the hopelessness of their relationship. She loved him and knew that he probably returned her love — but to what end? He was the mature son of a Norman knight, married to a woman from another notable Norman family — a marriage that was irrevocable in the eyes of the Church, one that only death could dissolve. And she was but a Welsh widow, a mere alewife of no social status whatsoever. There was no future for them other than an illicit affair, with furtive love-making and a dalliance virtually confined to the inside of a tavern. John could never be seen in public with her or even acknowledge her, outside the circle of those who frequented the Bush.