That evening, de Wolfe decided not to go to the Lesser Hall for supper, as he knew he would be besieged by questions about the death of Simon Basset. The Westminster grapevine would have easily picked up the news from the Exchequer and he knew that Bernard de Montfort and the Lord of Blois and his wife would pester him for details. He would have liked to talk over the matter with Ranulf and William Aubrey, but that could wait until the morning — meanwhile, he would settle for Gwyn’s company and some of Osanna’s cooking in Long Ditch Lane.
The fat Saxon did them well in providing a meal at short notice, for after a mutton broth she produced a pair of grilled trout each, stuffed with almonds. With young carrots and early peas, it was a good meal and the mazer of fresh barley and wheat bread with a new cheese that followed was washed down with ale by the contented coroner and his officer.
They discussed the events of the day until it was apparent that they could not squeeze another ounce of significance from them. Eventually, after another full quart of ale, Gwyn fell asleep at the table and to avoid his gargantuan snores John climbed up to the room above and threw himself down on his mattress to think about Hilda.
Later, as the red evening sun declined to the western horizon, Gwyn woke and called up the steps from below.
‘I’m off to a game of dice in the palace barracks!’ he announced. ‘I’ll be late home, no doubt. In fact, I may not be back at all!’
After he had left, John wondered whether he had found a woman somewhere, though he knew that some of these gambling sessions went on until the early hours of the morning. Games of chance held no attraction for de Wolfe, but it takes all sorts, he thought philosophically. After all, Ranulf and William Aubrey were very keen on gaming and Gwyn had told him that the younger knights and esquires in the palace guard played for large stakes in their quarters.
John dozed on fitfully for a while, his mind slipping in and out of slumber, wrestling with the problems of three unsolved deaths which seemed to have no obvious connection. He suddenly became aware of voices below and heard Osanna speaking to someone in the main room. Then her voice called up through the stair opening.
‘Sir John, there is someone to see you!’ Even at that distance, he could sense the disapproval in his landlady’s voice. Reluctantly, he hauled himself up from the pallet, thrust his feet into his soft house shoes and went to the ladder, raking his dishevelled hair back with his fingers. As he descended, expecting to see some messenger from the palace, he was astonished to find Hawise d’Ayncourt standing in the centre of the room, her silent maid lurking near the door. Osanna had planted herself near the bottom of the steps, in an almost protective stance, looking dubiously at the elegant woman who had invaded her house.
‘Lady d’Ayncourt, this is a surprise!’ growled de Wolfe, emphasising her title to reassure Osanna that this was no local strumpet, though this should have been obvious from her bearing and rich clothing. Hawise had ventured out in the warm evening in a long gown of pale-green silk, tied with a gold cord twisted several times around her waist, the tasselled ends hanging to her knees. Over this she wore a dark-green velvet surcoat with trailing cuffs that reached almost to the ground. A necklace of pearls encircled her slim neck and a snowy linen cover-chief was held in place by a gold band around her forehead.
‘My maid and I were taking a walk on this fine evening,’ she explained in her husky voice. ‘We found ourselves in this neighbourhood and I thought I would call to satisfy my curiosity as to where you lived.’
This was a transparently false excuse, as no one in their right mind would want to come up the dismal deadend that was Long Ditch Lane. Surely the woman had not sought him out just to quiz him about the death of the Treasury canon? The alternative explanation was much more dangerous, though potentially exciting and titillating. Whatever the reason, he had common courtesies to perform.
‘Please be seated, lady. You must take a cup of wine after your long walk,’ he said, unwittingly sarcastic. Motioning to Osanna to put a stool in the doorway for the maid, he pulled forward the one good chair and Hawise lowered herself gracefully upon it.
‘Osanna, can you find some pastries in your cook-shed?’ he asked, but Hawise waved the offer away.
‘Thank you, but I have not long supped in the Lesser Hall. In fact, it was because you were absent that I sought you out.’
John busied himself at the side table with cups and a skin of red wine, thankful that he and Gwyn had not drunk it all with their meal, though they usually quenched most of their thirst with ale or cider. He was not sure whether the new protocol of courtly behaviour which was now all the rage, after being encouraged by Queen Eleanor, extended to offering wine to the maid. As he handed a pewter cup to her mistress, he raised his bushy eyebrows in her direction. Hawise d’Ayncourt shook her head firmly.
‘I have just realised that the evening is cooling quickly,’ she said. ‘I need my red brocade cape from my chamber.’ Turning her head, she gave rapid instructions to her maid to return to the palace and fetch it back to Long Ditch. Silently and rather sullenly, the girl rose and vanished without a word, closing the door behind her to leave Osanna scowling at what was an obvious ploy to get rid of the chaperone.
John was also of the same opinion, but he was not going to let his landlady stand there while he talked to a guest, however uninvited she may be. He dismissed her as gently as he could and the Saxon wife shuffled out with an ill grace.
‘John, don’t stand hovering there like a bottler,’ commanded Hawise. ‘Come and sit near me.’ She patted a bench that stood alongside her chair. As he lowered himself not too reluctantly, he caught the scent of her flowery perfume and came close to her full lips and glowing eyes, framed by exquisitely long lashes. He rocked back out of temptation’s way, sudden images of the Lord of Blois and of Hilda of Dawlish flashing through his mind.
‘Would your husband not accompany you on your walk?’ he rumbled. ‘The streets are not always safe places for ladies on their own.’
She laughed, a low throaty sound with seductive undertones.
‘Westminster is more secure than most towns!’ she countered, conveniently ignoring the fact that there had been several murders recently. ‘And in the daylight, the risk is surely small.’
‘But your husband?’ he persisted.
‘Oh, he is away, visiting some friend’s estate in Surrey,’ Hawise said dismissively. ‘He will be away all night.’
She managed to imbue these last words with heavy invitation.
John felt the hair on his neck prickle with excitement and he raised his wine cup to cover the flushing that spread across his face. He was no stranger to seduction and over several decades had had more women than there were weeks in a year. Yet none, not even the fair Hilda, were as exotic as this raven-haired beauty — and certainly none had exuded such blatant sexuality and availability as Hawise d’Ayncourt.
She put down her cup and placed a slim hand on his knee.
‘Tell me what you have been doing lately, John. We have missed you at our pleasant suppers in the palace.’
Was she angling for information, he wondered? Would her husband burst in just as she had managed to get his breeches off and blackmail him into revealing state secrets? Yet that was a ridiculous notion, he knew nothing of any use to a foreign agent.
As the whole of Westminster would be buzzing with the news of Basset’s death by tomorrow, he decided there was no reason to withhold it from Hawise, as long as he offered no details of the circumstances. He told her briefly of the event, but she did not seem very interested, except to comment that surely he was the official who had received the missing treasure into the Tower, a fact that was common knowledge. Her attitude helped to reassure him that she was there to pillage his body, rather than his mind.