As it was now late afternoon, the coroner decided to spend the night in Honfleur and, equipped with a parchment carrying the sheriff's seal which declared the king's coroner to be on official business, claimed a night's lodging for them in the small castle which protected the port. Advice from the commander led them next morning to requisition horses to take them to Rouen, rather than attempt to be ferried up the winding loops of the Seine on a small boat, as beyond the reach of the tides, progress would be slow and subject to the vagaries of the wind and current. The journey was about forty miles and obviously could not be covered within a day, especially given Thomas's poor horsemanship. They set off on an overcast morning and plodded the well-beaten track all day until they reached the village of Bourg-Achard, slightly over halfway. An uncomfortable night was spent in the only tavern, which housed a particularly savage species of bedbug, and they were only too ready to leave at dawn for the second leg of the journey. By afternoon they had reached the Seine opposite the city of Rouen, which was on the northern bank, but as there was no bridge over the wide river they had to wait for a ferry to take them and their horses across.
A disappointment awaited them at the castle when they reached the imposing structure at the centre of the bustling city, the capital of Normandy and effectively the seat of the King of England more than London or Winchester. After negotiating his way past several clerks and secretaries by the exhibition of Henry de Furnellis's warrant, de Wolfe reached one senior enough to tell him that the Chief Justiciar was not in the city but had left two days before to be with the king at some outpost about twenty miles up the Seine, at a place called Andeli. Again they were too late to set off that day but enjoyed better hospitality than the previous night, John having a bed in the knights' quarters, while Gwyn was happy to eat, drink and play dice in the garrison barracks. Thomas, ever keen to savour the religious life of new places, went to pray at the ancient church of St-Oeun and was invited by fellow priests to eat and sleep in their dorter, though much of his night was taken up with attendance at Matins and Prime.
The horses they had borrowed at Honfleur had also rested and fed well, and by the eighth hour they were again on the road running along the north bank of the Seine. The whole area showed the intense military activity that was now almost permanent, since King Richard had sailed from Portsmouth with his army and fleet of a hundred ships almost two years earlier.
Obsessed with regaining the territory that he had lost to Philip of France, largely through the treachery and incompetence of his brother John, the Lionheart had ranged up and down the length of France, steadily pushing back Philip's borders.
There had been some reversals, such as the attack on Dieppe, where Philip himself had led three hundred of his knights to ransack the town and burn ships in the harbour, but generally Richard's unceasing efforts were succeeding. As the coroner's trio rode southwards, they passed wagons full of equipment and supplies, much of it paid for by the taxes extorted from England. Troops of soldiers marched in both directions, many of them Welsh mercenaries who were the mainstay of the army, especially the archers. Others were foreigners, including some dreaded 'Brabancons', little better than bandits — and John had heard that the king had even employed some Saracens, so impressed had he been with their wild courage in Palestine.
'Where are we going to find Hubert Walter?' asked Gwyn when they were a dozen miles out of Rouen. 'If I remember him aright from the Holy Land, he may well be huddled in some tent with the common men-at-arms.'
'They said in Rouen that this place Andeli is little more than a village, so someone there will surely direct us to the King of England.'
And so it proved to be, when they reached a picturesque hamlet at the apex of a huge bend in the river, where white chalk cliffs broke through dense trees along the north bank. Men-at-arms were camping out at various spots, sitting around cooking fires or tending to their equipment. Mounted heralds and knights rode past between the village and a high eminence to the south, where a craggy ridge of cliff stood high above the river.
'That's where he'll be,' announced John confidently, and as they climbed a track busy with military traffic his guess was soon confirmed. Along a neck of land three hundred feet. above the water below, they saw a collection of tents and pavilions bedecked with flags and banners and surrounded by the more mundane paraphernalia of an army camp. Sentries were posted at intervals along the approaches, but John's impressive appearance, aided by a display of the heavy red seal dangling from the sheriff's parchment, got them waved through each checkpoint. Several older men even recognised him as 'Black John' from the years he had spent campaigning under the Lionheart and his father, the equally fearsome King Henry. At the centre of the circle of canvas pavilions, the largest flew a red banner with three golden lions, and nearby was another with the episcopal flag of Canterbury.
'Best leave our mounts over there,' suggested Gwyn as they approached, pointing at makeshift stables of hurdles and poles, where a score of tethered horses were being fed and watered. Alongside, two farriers were shoeing other horses, and another pair of armourers were sharpening weapons on grinds tones being turned by young boys. Though a truce with the French had been in force since January, it was a fragile peace, and the activity in the camp was a reminder that the potential front line was only a few miles down the road to the Vexin and Paris.
De Wolfe sought out the camp marshal, who turned out to be a grizzled old knight from Sussex, with whom he had campaigned in Ireland years before. After a few nostalgic reminders, the marshal, who was responsible for the organisation of the camp, arranged for the care of their horses, then took them to a mess tent, where to Gwyn's delight food and ale were in abundance. When they had eaten and John and the old campaigner had indulged in a few more reminiscences, the coroner explained why they had come chasing Hubert Waiter across the Channel. 'I need to speak to him urgently, before he goes rushing off somewhere else. I don't have the time to go chasing him down to Aquitaine or Gascony!'
The marshal promised to send one of the clerks from the archbishop's ménage over to see him, and then stamped away to find a page who would guide de Wolfe to one of the larger tents where a number of knights were billeted.
'Your officer here can find a place with the sergeants,' he added, but then looked doubtfully at Thomas. 'I'm not sure what to do with a priest. Perhaps the archbishop's clerk can fix him up with the other shaven pates!'
Both John and Gwyn felt totally at home in this busy place, so redolent of the atmosphere and memories of the two decades in which they had fought their way around much of the known world. It was less attractive to the timid Thomas, though he relished the thought of being attached, albeit temporarily, to the retinue of the Primate of England, even though this particular archbishop was more of an administrator and soldier than a Vicar of God. As they waited for someone to fetch them, Gwyn stared around him with a frown. 'What in hell is our king doing here, camped on a bloody cliff miles from anywhere?'
De Wolfe looked into the distance with a practised military eye, scanning the great curve of the river as it flowed past the foot of the cliffs.
'Richard does nothing without a purpose, Gwyn. He's the best soldier the world has known since Alexander, so they say. I'll wager he's going to fortify this place to block the Seine against Philip Augustus.'
Eventually, a fat clerk came from the archbishop's tent and settled the three visitors in their various lodgings for the coming night. When John explained that he needed to see Hubert Waiter about the murder of one of his new law officers, the cleric, who was a canon from St Albans, took the matter with the seriousness that it deserved.