When he had gone, John climbed the steps to his room and flopped on his pallet, a lumpy hessian bag stuffed with hay, which Osanna renewed every few weeks, before it went damp and mouldy. For a short while, his mind revisited yet again the mysteries of the three killings. He lay on his back, staring up at the inside of the roof, where the irregular branches forming the rafters supported woven hazel withies holding up the thatch outside. The thunder still rolled and though the drumming of the rain was softened by the thick layer of reeds on the roof, it had a hypnotic quality that soon sent him to sleep, in spite of the drips of water that fell on his bed from above.
It was blessedly cool when he awoke a few hours later. The world seemed fresher and the birds were chirruping again, after having been driven into hiding by the storm. De Wolfe felt better than he had for days in that enervating heat and decided to celebrate by having a shave, two days earlier than his normal weekly scrape. In the backyard, Osanna gave him a few quarts of warm water in a wooden bucket and a lump of grey soap, made from goat fat, soda and wood ash. Stripped to the waist, he managed to get a meagre lather on to his black bristles and scratched at them with a small knife that he kept for the purpose, made of Saracen steel honed to a fine edge.
In his new mood of determined optimism, his thoughts turned to Hawise d’Ayncourt, the siren of Westminster. He was ambivalent about her, knowing full well that he should avoid any involvement with a woman he knew could be dangerous to him. Yet her sultry beauty and obvious availability was both an attraction and a challenge. He decided that if the opportunity was handed to him on a platter, it would be stupid and churlish to turn it down — but he also felt that he should do what he could to avoid such an opportunity arising by staying out of her way and not supping at the Lesser Hall.
This noble thought lasted less than five minutes, for as he wiped the last of the lather from his face with a cloth, he rebelled at such craven behaviour. He enjoyed the company of Ranulf of Abingdon and young William Aubrey, so why should he, a knight, a Crusader and a royal law officer, be frightened off by a woman, attractive though she was.
With a flourish of his towel cloth, he decided to demand a clean tunic from Osanna, who did his washing as part of the bed and board that he paid her for. She was still a little surly, but was coming round and gave him a grey tunic that she had earlier thrown over an elder bush in the yard, where she dried her washing until the rain came. He dressed, then sat with a quart pot in the main room and waited for Gwyn to return. When he arrived, he had some news.
‘The old queen has arrived at Portsmouth. William Aubrey has already rushed off with a troop of men-at-arms to join the escort and help organize the transport. She should be arriving at Westminster in about five days’ time.’
It seemed that Ranulf had remained in the palace, rather than travel to the coast, which reinforced John’s intention to take his supper in the Lesser Hall to hear the latest news. He arrived early enough to stand with a few dozen other patrons and hear a short passage from the Gospels and then a long Latin grace, this night being delivered by Archdeacon Bernard de Montfort. John was somewhat piqued to find that Hawise and her dumpy husband were not present. After having summoned up his bravado to face her after their brief but passionate embrace, he felt rather deflated at being deprived of a challenge.
Ranulf was there, with Sir Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal of the palace. When Bernard de Montfort came back from the lectern where he had read the lesson, he slid on to the bench next to John. ‘Have to sing for my supper now and then,’ he said jocularly. ‘Though thank heaven there are enough clerics in this place to make it not too often.’
As they ate their supper and drank their ale and wine, the talk naturally centred around the impending arrival of Eleanor of Aquitaine, as she was still thought of by many of the older folk.
‘Why have you not rushed off to Portsmouth to join her procession?’ asked the archdeacon, addressing the men from the Marshalsea.
‘I’ve just sent almost half of my contingent down there,’ explained Martin Stanford. ‘The rest I need for organising the move to Gloucester, which is a far bigger operation.’
He and Ranulf described the complicated procedure of trundling the whole court across the southern half of England. ‘The Purveyors have already been sent out along the route,’ said Stanford. ‘Unwelcome though they are to the population, they have to arrange accommodation and procure food for the travellers and fodder for the livestock.’
‘It’ll be something to occupy Hugo de Molis — he certainly doesn’t strain himself when we are here in Westminster,’ observed Ranulf cynically.
John turned to the genial priest from the Auvergne. ‘What about you, archdeacon? I take it you won’t be travelling with us, given that you are concerned with researching the abbey’s history here?’
His unfortunate harelip twisted Bernard’s mouth as he smiled.
‘Oh no, I’m going down to Canterbury again. I need to consult some obscure manuscripts said to be held in the scriptorium of the cathedral, so I’ll make a visit there while the queen is engaged with her business at Gloucester.’
‘Travelling alone can be a dangerous business, sir,’ warned Martin Stanford. ‘Best go with a party of pilgrims, they leave from Southwark almost every day.’
De Montfort was benignly reassuring. ‘I will have my servant Raoul with me. No doubt you have noticed that he has a frightening look about him, though in fact he is intelligent and can read and write, as well as handle a sword and mace!’
They ate their way through boiled salmon, roast duck and some slices of venison from the royal forest beyond Twickenham, finishing with a suet pudding studded with French raisins.
‘Where is Renaud de Seigneur and his lovely wife tonight?’ asked Ranulf innocently, as he nudged de Wolfe meaningfully beneath the table.
‘I understand that Lady Hawise is suffering from some slight indisposition today, so they are keeping to their chambers upstairs,’ confided Bernard de Mont-fort.
Is the woman lying low in order to avoid meeting him after their frustrated encounter? thought John. On consideration, he felt it was unlikely, given the brazen nature of Hawise. Relieved, but also disappointed at her absence, he turned the conversation back to the main topic.
‘So, Ranulf, when are we setting off on this crusade to the West Country?’
‘The queen is likely to arrive here at the end of this week. Give her a few days to rest, which will include Hubert Walter’s welcoming feast in the Great Hall, then I expect our wagons will start rolling towards the middle of next week.’
Another week of inaction, sighed de Wolfe, but at least he now had a date to look forward to, which might lead to a quick visit to Exeter — and perhaps even to Dawlish.
John left the Lesser Hall after supper and strolled towards the Deacon tavern, where he was confident of finding Gwyn behind a quart pot. He was surprised to see a small figure in a black cassock lurking uneasily outside the alehouse door.
‘What brings you here, Thomas? Have you taken up drink at last?’
His clerk squirmed with embarrassment, but jerked a finger at the door. ‘I guessed that Cornish barbarian would be in there, Crowner. But it’s you I wanted to find and Gwyn said that you would probably call in after your supper.’
The priest’s pinched face was glowing with suppressed excitement at being able to once again bring his master some information. ‘That secondary, Robin Byard, the one who told us about Basil’s fears of overhearing some conspirators, spoke to me again in the abbey refectory tonight.’
John waited impatiently for Thomas to be more specific.
‘He said that when Basil was in fear of his life, he told him that if anything happened to him, he wanted Robin to have the only book he possessed, a small copy of the Gospel of St Luke.’