Others were further back on their plots, with a fence and gate at the front. Most were built of wood or were half-timbered with cob plastered between the frames, but a few of the newer houses were made of stone. Some were tall and narrow, others low and wide, half of them with two storeys. The city wall was visible at the end of the lane and he knew that the cousin, now a widow of comfortable means, lived about halfway along on the right. He spotted the house, distinguished by its arched gate leading into a garden plot, and not wanting to draw attention to himself by hesitating, he strode up to the gate and pushed at the stout boards. It was locked and there was no handle. Cursing under his breath short-temperedly, he rapped on it with the end of his staff until he heard slow footsteps on the other side. The gate creaked open and a man in late middle age peered out, an iron-tipped wooden spade in his hand — whether intended as a weapon or an implement was not clear.
He was unusually tall and thin, with a large purple birthmark of coarse, thickened skin disfiguring the whole of one side of his face. The apparition gaped toothlessly at the visitor, but said nothing.
'Is this the dwelling of Mistress le Bret?' demanded Nicholas. He had a deep voice, and a brusque manner even when he was in a benign mood, which was not often these days.
The servant nodded, but still seemed suspicious of early-morning callers. 'Who wants her?' he croaked.
'I am Philip de Whiteford, returning from Canterbury,' he lied. 'I am husband to Mistress Joan, who is staying here.'
These were aliases he and his wife had decided on long before; she had kept to her real Christian name as she feared she could never avoid answering to it.
The servant's strange features relaxed and he pulled the door open. 'Welcome, Sir Nicholas! Your good lady will be glad to see you.'
Obviously, the true state of affairs was no secret within the house, and Nicholas fervently hoped that the servants kept their mouths firmly shut when they left it.
He was led through a well-kept garden to an old timber-framed building with a steeply pitched roof of stone tiles. Inside, a hall occupied most of the ground floor, with a solar and a bedroom built on at the side. It was a substantial dwelling, as Joan's cousin, Gillian le Bret, was the widow of a wealthy tinmaster and on his death, five years earlier, he had left her comfortably off, for they had no children to share the inheritance.
As Nicholas entered, a small, fair woman rushed out of an inner door and threw herself at him, sobbing and laughing in turns. As they hugged each other and kissed, an older, handsome woman appeared from the solar.
Gillian le Bret watched indulgently as the pair made an emotional reunion, then went across to the old servant Maurice, who had stood uncertainly in the doorway, and whispered something to him, drawing a warning finger across her lips. He wandered off in the direction of the kitchen shed in the back yard, with orders for the cook-maid to prepare food and drink for the visitor.
Gradually, the de Arundells settled down, and Nicholas greeted Gillian with a kiss and profound thanks for sheltering Joan for the past month since she had come up from her exile in Cornwall. The widow was considerably older than her cousin, with greying hair peeping from under the white linen wimple that framed her pleasant face. When the knight and his lady had prised themselves apart again from a second embrace, Gillian managed to set them down on a long settle facing the burning logs in the firepit.
'Are you sure you went unrecognised in the city?' asked Joan. Though her pretty face was now flushed with tears of joy, she lived with the constant worry that her husband would be arrested, which inevitably would mean would be hanged or beheaded. At twenty-six, she seven years his junior, and sometimes she looked even younger. Pretty rather than beautiful, she had a determined set to her face, partly born of the troubles she had suffered these past few years.
Nicholas slid a brawny arm around her slender shoulders, which were becomingly draped in a green pelisse over a pale yellow kirtle,
'Don't fret, my love. No one was interested in a scruffy pilgrim like me. I'll have to leave in a day or two, but, until then, I'll not show my face outside the gate. As long as everyone in this household keeps a tight hold on their tongue, there'll be no problem.'
A few minutes later, their chatter was interrupted the arrival of cold meats, bread, cheese and ale. After eating, de Arundell spent the rest of the morning until dinnertime talking to Joan about his existence on Dartmoor. He told of life in the abandoned village and tales of his men, many of whom had been retainers in Hempston and were well remembered by his wife. After a hearty dinner at noon, Cousin Gillian diplomatically went off to her solar to give the pair some privacy.
'I just had to see you, Joan, apart from talking about a plan of campaign,' he began, hugging her on the settle in front of the glowing logs. 'D'you realise that I've only been with you for a few days since I went off to Outremer?'
When he returned so unexpectedly from the Holy Land, his wife had already returned to Cornwall, dispossessed by Pomeroy and de Revelle and convinced that Nicholas was long dead. After the news of his resurrection percolated down to her relative's manor in Cornwall, she had had great difficulty in getting a message to him on Dartmoor, and it was due to Gillian le Bret and her servant Maurice that contact had been made again. Since then, they had only managed two fleeting meetings such as this, both in Totnes, where the risk of his being recognised was becoming too great for him to venture there again.
'So what is to be done, my love?' asked Joan, a very practical woman despite her winsome prettiness. 'If you were not so shamefully outlawed, you could bring an action in the courts and certainly should win.' They had been over this ground many times before, and Nicholas shook his head impatiently. 'Impossible. I have no legal rights and if I dared show myself publicly to try to retrieve them, I would be dead within the day. There are too many supporters of the Count of Mortain around to risk it — to say nothing of that bastard de Revellel'
Once again, they talked the problem through, up hill and down dale, without coming to any conclusion.
'Some new approach is the only hope,' he said with anger, for this emotion was never far below the surface with de Arundell. 'I have even thought of seeking out the king in Normandy to ask for justice.'
Joan looked frightened at this. 'The risks of trying to escape the country and finding King Richard are too great, Nicholas. You are as much an outlaw in Normandy as you are over here.'
'It may be the only path open to us, Joan,' he muttered.
'But would you ever get audience with him?' she persisted. 'You are just a poor knight, with even the small manor of Hempston snatched from you now. You need a strong champion to plead your case — or even to get it noticed by those in high places.'
Nicholas moodily had to agree with her. 'What champion could I find?' he said bitterly. 'Though I was in Sicily fighting for our king as well as in the Holy Land, I never distinguished myself in anyway. I was just another country knight amongst thousands. I never even got within shouting distance of the Lionheart, I've only ever seen him from afar.'
Joan gripped his arm and hugged him to her, desolate at seeing him so despondent. 'There must be some good men somewhere,' she whispered. 'Surely all those in positions of authority are not as corrupt as de Revelle and John Lackland?'
Nicholas shrugged listlessly. 'Maybe there are — but I don't know any, Joan.'
She tried to lift him from his gloom. 'I have heard that Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar, is a fair-minded man. He virtually rules England now that the king has gone permanently to France.'
Her husband sighed. 'That may well be, dearest woman. But he might as well be on the moon for all the chance I have of putting my case before him.' The thought of Hubert Walter, who was also Archbishop of Canterbury as well as being England's chief law officer, triggered a chain of thought in Joan's active mind, which was desperate to help her husband in his dangerous predicament.