'No message from my wife?' he called at her departing figure as she went back towards the cook-shed.
'Nothing at all, Sir Coroner,' she replied. 'She's keeping you dangling, right enough!'
He sat with the pewter cup in his hand and sipped the good red wine of Aquitaine as he pondered the situation. 'Bloody woman!' he muttered to his dog. 'She's doing this on purpose, to make my life difficult. She knows now that I'm leaving for London, but how can I go not knowing what she's intending to do?' Brutus looked up at him, head on one side, but the hound had no suggestions to offer.
John sipped again and thought of Nesta. He had posed the big question to her, but she had given no answer, either. Could he just ride away to Westminster or wherever and leave her behind? She had promised him an answer when he returned, but he was almost afraid to hear it. However, the nettle must be grasped, and as soon as Mary had fed him he would go down to Idle Lane and hear her decision. He felt like someone arraigned at the Eyre of Assize, waiting for the justices to deliver a verdict that could send him to the gallows!
Mary had no chance to go out to buy fresh food at that time of the evening, so she raided her stores and found three smoked herrings hanging from a nail in the rafters of her cook-shed. She grilled these on skewers over her firepit and served them with boiled cabbage and fried onions. After two decades of eating whatever could be found during campaigns in forest, desert and ravaged countryside, John ate anything that was put before him and made no comment about this peculiar combination. Too early in the season for fresh fruit, it was followed by a bowl of nuts and raisins and a small loaf of fine wheaten bread, a change from the usual coarse ones made from barley or rye.
By now, dusk was falling, and when he had finished his solitary meal he plucked up his courage and whistled for Brutus to make the customary walk down to the Bush. As he went, he again thought of the familiarity of the route and the fact that within weeks it would be just a memory.
As he passed through the twilit lanes, men touched fingers to their foreheads and women bobbed their heads respectfully. The tall, slightly hunched figure dressed in black was a familiar sight to most people in the city, loping along with his dog at his side. They knew him for a stern but fair and honest man, which was more than could be said for many in similar positions of power and influence. Those who had already heard that he was leaving for London wondered if his successor would be as well respected as Sir John de Wolfe.
As he approached the door of the Bush, he took a deep breath and marched in, this time without hesitation, resigned to getting this over with as soon as possible. It was gloomy inside, as, like Martin's Lane, the fire was only a heap of dead ash and the sole illumination came from the flickering tallow dips in their niches around the walls. Though the shutters on the few narrow window-holes were open, the final pale light of the western sky did little to dispel the shadows, and at first he had to strain his eyes to seek out the trim figure of his mistress.
Nesta was standing by the barrels of ale, racked on wedges near the back door, dipping a jug into a large crock of cider. As soon as she saw him, she thrust it into Edwin's hand and hurried across towards him as he stood near his table. On the way, she snatched her shawl from a peg on the wall and somewhat to his surprise threw it over her head and shoulders. When she reached him, she slipped her arm through his and pulled him towards the door.
'John, let's walk. I am glad to see you safe. I was worried about you.'
Bemused, he let himself be taken out into Idle Lane, where Nesta guided his steps to Smythen Street, the dog loping along behind them.
'Where are we going, cariad?’ he asked.
'Let's walk a while. I have a fancy to see the last of the daylight from the city wall,' she replied firmly.
This was not what he expected, and he didn't know whether it boded good or ill for him. They walked steadily down towards Stepcote Hill, where the steep lane was terraced to give a foothold. As they passed the church of St Mary Steps, he attempted to broach the big question.
'Nesta, have you thought of what I said last time?' he asked anxiously.
'I have thought of little else, John — but wait until we are there.'
She pointed to the jagged top of the town wall, silhouetted against the fading light. Across the road from the church, narrow steps were built into the stonework to reach the walkway fifteen feet above. Holding up the hem of her long kirtle with one hand, she climbed up and, when they reached the parapet, set off slowly towards the Watergate away to their left. After a few hundred paces, they reached the nearest of the twin towers that straddled the gateway below. Turning so that her back was against the stonework, she held out her hands and grasped his own.
'John, I cannot come with you to London,' she said simply.
De Wolfe tried to ignore the sudden void in his chest. 'Why not, my love?' he asked, hoping that she wished to be persuaded.
'Because I am soon to be married,' she murmured, her eyes cast down as she spoke.
He dropped her hands as if they had become red hot. 'Married? How can you become married?'
This was the last thing he expected. After her fling with a servant in the tavern last year, he might have expected another affair with the good-looking Welshman. Yes, that was within his expectations. But married!
She raised her face and they stared at each other. 'Is it so extraordinary, John? I can never become your wife, we both know that. Am I to remain your leman for the rest of my widowed life, seeing you when it suits you? A lonely foreigner in a strange country for ever?'
'This is that Owain, no doubt?' he muttered grimly, already wondering whether he should seek out the stonemason and kill him.
'Of course it is Owain,' she answered. 'A good man, kind, and of my own age and kin. He has asked me to marry him and I have said that I will — and go home to Wales with him.'
'Have you lain with him?' he rasped.
Nesta stiffened a little and stared at him defiantly. 'How is that any of your business, John? You are not my husband,' she said crisply. 'But if you must know, I have not! He is a man of honour and is content to wait until the Church has bound us together.'
De Wolfe, for all his stern, stolid nature, crumpled at this. He pulled her to him, and his hand pressed her head against his chest.
'Nesta, Nesta! Does this have to be? I thought you loved me?'
'Of course I love you, John! But now I also love Owain, and he I can have, unlike you.'
'How can you love us both?'
She looked up at him in reproof. 'You should know that, sir! I have always felt that I have shared you with Hilda of Dawlish.'
It was something of a shock for him to realise that she was right. He had never suspected that she knew of his real feelings for the blonde Saxon.
'Is there nothing that I can say or promise that might change your mind?'
She shook her head, still close to his body. 'You cannot marry me or take me home to Gwent, John.'
There was iron determination in her voice that told him that nothing he could say would alter her decision. At that moment he knew that his life was going to change far more than just a move to London. His mind capitulated and his practical nature straightway began to make plans.
'Sit here, my love. We must make sense of this thing,' he said gently, guiding her to one of the stone blocks that sat behind the crenellations of the wall. Down below, Brutus had run along keeping pace with them and was now sitting looking up, whimpering slightly as he sensed that something disturbing was going on.