Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal and his under-marshals, were the prime movers in organising this parade. The previous evening, their sergeants had hurried around all the personages required to take part, to ensure that they would be mounted and ready to go soon after dawn.
Gwyn had cleaned all of John’s equipment, polishing up the harness of his stallion Odin, so that he was well turned out when they assembled in New Palace Yard. It was not an event that called for armour and helmet, so he wore his best grey tunic and a mottled wolfskin cloak thrown back over both shoulders. His broad leather belt and baldric carried his broadsword and his head was uncovered, his black hair sweeping back to the nape of his neck.
Twenty mounted men-at-arms formed the vanguard and rearguard of the escort, with another two-score civilians in their centre. Leading these was Hubert Walter, today in his secular mode as Chief Justiciar, rather than archbishop. He was dressed in similar fashion to de Wolfe, only in a scarlet tunic under his sword belt and a close-fitting linen helmet. Behind him were a number of earls and barons, members of the Curia, accompanied by the High Steward, the Deputy Chancellor, the Treasurer and other senior ministers. John rode in the next contingent, the middle-grade officers of the Exchequer and palace, including the Keeper and the Purveyor whilst a bevy of churchmen were led by the abbot, William Postard.
A dozen outriders, mostly esquires and knights, flanked the procession, carrying gaily coloured banners and pennants that streamed in the wind to display the arms and devices of the most prominent members of the party.
They rode out in fine style through the gates into King Street, the trumpets of the military escort blaring out as they advanced up the Royal Way towards the city, where they were to pick up the contingent provided by the Mayor and his council. A small crowd gathered along the road, always glad of some diversion in their drab lives. Some cheered or even jeered, as the cavalcade trotted past, especially when some of the horses, spooked by the trumpets, shied and skittered while their riders struggled and cursed to control them.
Once through Ludgate, the crowds were denser, as the ant-hill that was the city was penetrated by the vanguard of the troops. The mayor and some of his twenty-five aldermen were waiting at the Guildhall, with the bishop from St Paul’s, his archdeacons, the two sheriffs and an escort of constables. Jealous as ever of their privileges and independence, the Mayor, Henry fitz Ailwyn de Londonstone, led his party into the vanguard of the column from Westminster, settling them by prior arrangement just behind the Chief Justiciar.
The augmented column set off for London Bridge, the crowds now shouting more enthusiastically as the leaders of their own community were seen in a favoured position in the procession.
They crossed the bridge, the weight of the rhythmically tramping horses creating tremors in the old wooden structure built by Peter de Colechurch twenty-three years earlier, and causing several nervous priests to cross themselves and commend their souls to God. Other more hardy men looked over the side at the nineteen new piers for the stone bridge that de Colechurch had started.
Passing through Southwark on the south side of the Thames, the cavalcade crossed the flat, marshy ground to enter farmland and then patchy woodland, as the land rose and the main track to the south-west aimed itself towards Kingston.
A scout had been sent ahead on a fast rounsey to warn of the arrival of the queen’s party and in mid-morning he came galloping back with the news that there was now only a couple of miles between them. After a consultation with the marshals, Hubert Walter held up a gloved hand and the cavalcade came to a halt in a large clearing with trees on either side, near the village of Clapham.
They waited, all mounted on their steeds, some of which were pawing the ground, shaking their heads, neighing and snorting with impatience.
Soon there was a distant braying of trumpets and horns, which rapidly came nearer until the Deputy Marshal gave the order for his own trumpeters to reply. These discordant blasts continued until the head of the approaching cavalcade appeared through the trees, a dozen soldiers with banners flying. John recognised the arms of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and then the large banner of Eleanor of Aquitaine, a single golden lion on a scarlet ground.
As they came into the clearing, they saw at last two stiffly erect forms riding side-by-side at the head of a short column of riders, which included several ladies and priests, more soldiers bringing up the rear, with outriders guarding the flanks.
They slowed their trotting steeds to a walk and spread out to face the reception party, the two main figures opposite Hubert Walter. One was a tall, stern-faced man wearing half-armour, a short chain-mail hauberk and a round helmet with a nasal guard. A large sword hung from his saddle, with a spiked mace on the other side, emphasising William Marshal’s role as guardian of the queen.
Eleanor also sat as straight as a poker; her handsome face still reflected the beauty she had been in her younger days, though she was now seventy-four. The trumpets ceased and the Justiciar slid from his horse and advanced to her stirrup, going down briefly on one knee, then rising and kissing the hand that she held down to him. They were well-aquainted and spoke together for several minutes, though John was too far down the line to catch anything that was said.
Then Hubert moved across to William Marshal, who dismounted and clasped his arm. Warrior and archbishop, they were old comrades from Palestine and two of the king’s most trusted servants. They moved to each side of Eleanor’s white mare and took her bridle to lead her to the end of the long row of welcoming dignitaries from Westminster. This was a signal for all to slide from their saddles and stand by their horses’ heads as Hubert and William led the queen slowly down the line. As she passed each one, they dropped to a knee and bowed their heads as Eleanor nodded in recognition when Walter murmured their names to her. Many she already knew well, either from her years as Henry’s queen or the sixteen years as his prisoner in various places in England. It was William Marshal who was sent by Richard to effect her release when Henry died.
She did not know John de Wolfe, but had heard something of him and gave him a friendly smile when he rose from his obeisance to her, before moving on to the end of the line. Then the trumpets sounded again and everyone climbed back into their saddles, the procession soon working up into a trot and covering the few miles back to the city in good time.
At Westminster, the old queen was handed down from her horse with dignified gravity and conducted by Hubert and William Marshal to the main entrance and amidst a flurry of her ladies she went up to the royal apartments, no doubt grateful for a well-earned rest.
John made his way up to his chamber to join his officer and clerk and to wash the dust from his now-healed throat with a quart of ale. He regaled Gwyn and Thomas with a description of the journey and told them that they were invited to the great feast on the following evening, as almost everyone was included in the occasion to welcome the Queen Mother back to England. She was a popular figure, both for her proud and regal appearance, her colourful past and for being a bastion of stability in an uncertain world.
The feast next day was a triumph of organisation on the part of the Steward and Keeper and their army of servants. Tables had been set across the dais at the top of the Great Hall, where the Court of the King’s Bench normally sat. These were for the high and mighty guests and were covered with linen cloths. Down the length of the hall, two long rows of bare tables accommodated the several hundred less eminent diners and in the side alcoves behind the pillars other trestles were set for the lowest orders.