She sighed and wondered whether she should have left Exeter when Meredydd was taken from her — perhaps gone home to Gwent and lived with her mother and sisters, then found a nice local man and settled down to have children. But then Nesta rebelled and mentally straightened her back. Today was today, she was going to enjoy her romance while it lasted and be damned to the consequences.
She looked across at de Wolfe, wondering what he was thinking. Not as uncomplicated and unimaginative as many people thought, he was also troubled about his liaison with Nesta, but in a different way. He both loved her and lusted after her, enjoying every moment of her company. But he felt that he was cheating her, standing in the way of her getting on with her life. Like her, he knew they could never marry and that he was blocking her chances of becoming a wife and mother. He was not concerned about his own image or reputation — after almost eight months, most of Exeter knew that she was his mistress. Many of the others of Norman blood, both knights and rich merchants, openly had lovers, even bastard children. Some of the canons and parish priests had the same illicit habits and no great notice was taken of it.
Of course, Matilda kept up a barrage of invective against him, but her vindictiveness over the ‘Welsh whore’, as she usually called Nesta, had been overshadowed by a different hatred. This was her burning rage against her husband for his part in getting her wonderful brother so ignominiously dismissed as sheriff within days of being appointed. She had endlessly made it plain that for that, she would never forgive him. With this as the background to his life, what was to happen very soon, was all the more remarkable.
Richard the Lionheart was now firmly re-established as King of England, even to the extent of holding a second coronation at Winchester in April — to which he failed to invite his wife, Berengaria, who never set foot in the country of which she was queen. After landing at Sandwich in Kent with his mother in March, he was to spend only two months in the country, leaving with his fleet and army from Portsmouth in May, never to return.
Within days of landing, he had put on his armour and hurried to Nottingham, the last of Prince John’s castles to hold out. The others had all surrendered, the castellan at St Michael’s Mount having dropped dead of fright on hearing of the king’s return!
Henry de la Pomeroy had also fled to the Mount, where to avoid the king’s retribution, he had ordered his physician to open the veins in his wrists, so that he expired! At Nottingham, Richard fought his way into the barbican, then erected a gallows in full view of the defenders and hanged several men captured earlier, which rapidly caused the remaining men to surrender.
Under the expert guidance of Archbishop Hubert Walter, all the machinery of state regained its former pattern. The royal courts continued their rounds, the king’s justices sitting at the Eyres of Assize and commissioners of lesser rank coming more frequently to clear the gaols of remand prisoners who had not either died or escaped. The day following John’s ruminations outside the Bush, he learned of the arrival of a pair of these commissioners, due to hold a Court of Gaol Delivery the following week.
John had gone up to the castle to make a social call on the constable and the sheriff, mainly to catch up on recent gossip. He sat with the constable in the chamber of Henry de Furnellis, where the sheriff was bemoaning the fact that he would prefer to be back at his manor in Somerset, supervising the coming harvest.
‘I never wanted this damned job, John,’ he grumbled. ‘My feelings of duty to the king persuaded me, but only on condition that it was temporary. My health is not good and I have petitioned the Chief Justiciar to relieve me of the task and appoint someone else.’
Ralph Morin said that they would all be sorry to see him leave, but he gave John a surreptitious wink, as they had often talked about having a younger, more active man as sheriff.
‘Perhaps these commissioners who came today may have some news for me before they hold court next week,’ said Henry, hopefully. ‘They are at the bishop’s palace at present, and I’m invited down to eat with them tonight.’
‘Who are they this time?’ asked Ralph.
‘Simon Waring, the abbot of St Albans, who’s staying with the bishop — and Sir Philip de Culleforde, a baron from Wiltshire. He’s lodging at the New Inn.’
‘How have you found the new bishop?’ asked John, who had heard that Henry Marshal, enthroned in May, had been inclined towards Prince John when Dean of York.
The old sheriff held up his palms and shrugged. ‘He’s no jolly friar, John. A serious man with a serious face and somehow, a coldness about him. A different man to his brother William, that’s for sure.’
This William was the Marshal of England, perhaps the best-known fighting man in the country, both on the tourney field and the battlefield. He had served two kings well and would serve two more during his long life. No doubt it was his influence with the king that gained his brother the bishop’s mitre.
When John left Rougemont and walked back to his house in St Martin’s Lane, he gloomily expected the usual frosty reception from his wife, who rarely spoke to him these days, except on the rare occasions when they were together in public, when she assumed a facade of normality for the benefit of her friends. But somewhat to his surprise and perhaps with a little apprehension, he found her in a more benign mood, as if she was concealing some pleasant secret. As they sat down to the usual light supper that Mary provided, he wondered what new spite Matilda was going to unleash on him.
But in the event, it was the sheriff’s supper that night with the two judges, which would bring news of a great change in the life of John de Wolfe.
The following afternoon, John was in the farrier’s opposite his home, preparing to get Bran saddled up for a canter around Bull Mead to give the old horse some exercise. Before he could leave, a young soldier appeared with a message from Ralph Morin, urgently requesting his presence at the castle within the hour ‘for a meeting on the king’s business’.
Intrigued, he loped up to Rougemont and found his friend in the sheriff’s chamber. Two other men were present and Henry de Furnellis introduced them as the commissioners who were to preside in the Shire Hall, Sir Philip de Culleforde and Abbot Simon Waring. The latter was a jovial-looking monk, with a bland round face, but a pair of steely eyes that suggested a hard core under the soft skin. De Culleforde was a tall, handsome man of about fifty, with a calm, unruffled manner. He was a member of the King’s Council and had the ear of Hubert Walter and the king himself. They all sat on benches around Henry’s table and his chief clerk appeared with glass goblets, filling them from a large flask of good wine. He then stood behind his master in case he was needed, as he was the only one of the Exeter men who could read and write. When they had all settled, the sheriff took the lead.
‘When I petitioned the Chief Justiciar about my desire to be relieved of this shrievalty, I had no idea that it would be acted on so quickly and so decisively,’ he began. ‘But these two gentlemen have brought instructions from Archbishop Walter — and hence from the king himself — which have left me both happy and also bewildered.’
De Wolfe wondered what in God’s name the sheriff was talking about, but he was soon to be enlightened, as Henry picked up three parchment rolls from the table, each having impressive seals dangling from them.