‘You are a famous knight, John,’ she breathed. ‘Tell me of some of your adventures. My husband, dear as he is to me, is a rather dull man, he spends his life in his counting house and patrolling his estates. I never hear tales of murder and battle from him.’
She held her cup for more wine and took the opportunity to pull her chair nearer to his bench until her silk-clad legs were touching his. ‘And you were part of King Richard’s bodyguard when he came back from the Holy Land. Tell me of that and how you tried to save him from capture in Austria!’
It was not an episode of which he was proud, as he had failed his king in Vienna, but he was flattered by having an attractive woman hanging on to his every word. Part of his mind told him that he was a silly old fool and was heading for trouble, but the humours that fuelled his masculinity overrode his common sense. Hawise next wanted to know about his exploits on many battlefields, from Ireland to Normandy and from Sicily to Palestine. Her eyes glistened at his descriptions of mayhem and carnage and when she pressed him to tell her of his work as a coroner in Devon, her pink tongue flickered over her moistened lips as he described morbid scenes of hangings, cut-throats and beheadings.
Perversely, given that he knew it was unwise to encourage her, he could not resist feeding her obvious bloodthirsty fascination with violence. Her face coloured slightly and her prominent bosom rose and fell as her breathing hastened, when he told her of his discovery of a manor-lord crucified in his own forest and his head impaled on the rood screen of Exeter Cathedral.4
Suddenly, as John rose to refill their wine-cups, Hawise jumped from her chair and pulled off her cover-chief, releasing a cascade of glossy black hair. She moved towards him and threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him.
‘Oh God, you are a real man, John!’ she gasped, almost with a groan. Although her head reached only to his chin, she stretched upwards and avidly pressed her hot mouth upon his, her tongue snaking between his lips. Surprised, but far from reluctant, de Wolfe abandoned any thoughts of restraint, as desire engulfed him. Images of Renaud de Seigneur and even Hilda of Dawlish vanished in a haze of lust. His own arms came up of their own accord and a wine cup fell uncaringly to the floor as he encircled her shoulders and waist and pulled her hard against him. They returned each other’s kisses as if each was trying to devour the other and he thrilled as he felt her firm breasts pressing into his chest.
‘For pity’s sake, John,’ she whimpered. ‘Take me to your bed!’
With a growl of anticipation, his one hand slid down the waterfall of shining hair, while the other crushed her firm buttocks tightly against him. Hawise kissed him again, her serpentine tongue flickering, then she pulled away and began tugging him towards the steps to the upper floor.
Then the deliciously wanton moment was shattered by a knock on the street door! A very unladylike oath spat from Hawise’s pouting lips and she shrieked a command towards where she assumed her maid was waiting. ‘Adele, go away, damn you! Come back in an hour!’
But she was confounded from another direction, as the inner door opened and Osanna waddled in. ‘I heard a knock, sir,’ she declared, but her response had been so quick that John was sure that her ear, and perhaps an eye, had been pressed against the ill-fitting boards of the inner door.
De Wolfe was inclined to roar at her to clear off, but the intensity of their passion had been spoiled and, flushed in the face, the two would-be lovers pulled apart. Hawise grabbed for her veil, which had fallen on the table and hurriedly pulled it over her head and settled the gilded band in place. Ignoring the scowls of the landlady, she stalked to the door and jerked it open.
Adele was standing on the step, uncertain whether to obey her mistress’s command to vanish for an hour. Her doubts were solved when Hawise snatched the short cloak from her arm and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Come, girl! We are going home.’
Her poise had returned rapidly, and as she left she turned to de Wolfe, who had followed them into the lane.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Sir John, but I think we have unfinished business!’
The Chief Justiciar of England listened gravely to the coroner’s account of the events of the past few days. He had been away in Canterbury, trying to soothe the complaints of his own clergy, who were not overfond of their bishop, for they felt he was far more concerned with affairs of state than with the welfare of his diocese.
‘So do you think that the murder of Simon Basset is connected with the theft from the Tower?’ he asked, when John had laid all the facts before him.
‘I hesitate to dismiss the possibility,’ replied the coroner. ‘The canon has lived and worked here for years with no problems or stains on his reputation. Then within a few days he becomes a suspect in the crime, as he is one of the only two key-holders — and then he is fatally poisoned! The coincidence is surely too great to be ignored.’
Hubert Walter sat silently for a moment, staring out through a window at the river flowing past Westminster. They sat in his first-floor chamber adjacent to the royal apartments, with the murmur of clerks percolating through the door from the next room.
‘Matters are weighing ever more heavily upon me, John,’ he sighed. ‘The king makes increasing demands for money for his army, which becomes harder and harder to squeeze from resentful barons and merchants. This plays into the hands of the prince, who sees it as justification for his ambition to unseat Richard.’
Walter’s fingers played with the small cross hanging around his neck.
‘Then I have the old queen descending upon us soon, though I am partly thankful for that, as there is no doubt that she is a powerful restraining influence upon her wayward son.’
‘Do you wish me to accompany the court on this journey — or remain here to continue investigating these crimes?’
Hubert shook his greying head. ‘Come with us, I am sure that whoever is behind these acts is part of the court in some capacity or other. I cannot see that your staying behind can accomplish anything.’
De Wolfe was relieved by his answer, as he did not relish being marooned in an almost empty palace — and the perambulation towards the West Country held the possibility of including a quick visit to Exeter. Also, a small roguish voice in his head whispered that Hawise d’Ayncourt would be going with them.
This led his thoughts to another topic and he broached it to Hubert.
‘Your Grace, I hear various rumours about spies seeking secret intelligence from the court. It may well be overimaginative gossip, though that stabbing of the young worker from the guest chambers produced an allegation that he was concerned about something of that nature.’
John explained the fears Basil had, as related by the young novice from the abbey. ‘He claimed that he had overheard some seditious conversation, whatever that might have meant. It might have been something trivial or just an exaggeration by a fertile imagination. But the fact remains that he was stabbed to death a day later for no obvious reason.’
This was the first that Hubert Walter had heard of this and he took it seriously. ‘We are always beset by spies, John. Every embassy that visits us has some agent attached to them whose prime purpose is to gain intelligence to take home — and to be truthful, so do we when we send deputations abroad.’
‘But is there anything they can learn from just residing in the palace for a while?’ said de Wolfe doubtfully.
‘There is always some chance of picking up useful snippets. There are servants to be bribed and I fear that even some members of the Curia or their clerks and esquires can become loquacious after indulging in too much wine.’