The lord of Berry, Henry de la Pomeroy, was entertaining some of his friends, one of these being Sir Richard de Revelle.
The main bond between Henry and Richard — apart from a venal love of money and power — was their continued, though covert, attachment to the cause of Prince John, Count of Mortain. When King Richard, the Lionheart, was imprisoned on the way home from the Holy Land, Prince John had made an abortive attempt to seize the English throne. He had been supported by many barons and high clergy, including Bishop Henry Marshal of Exeter — and amongst the hangers-on, who hoped for advancement under a new monarch, were Henry de la Pomeroy's father and Richard de Revelle.
The two manor lords were sitting in a chamber in one of the twin towers that flanked the main gate. The ladies were in another room with their companions and tire-women, having left the men alone to drink wine before one of the several large braziers set around the chamber.
They sat in heavy folding chairs with thick hide seats and backs, keeping them close to the fire. The wooden shutters on the window-slits kept out most of the wind, though even the easterly breeze had died down considerably.
'There should be no problem getting up to the moor in this,' observed Henry. 'There will still be snow on the slopes, but the valley bottoms should be clear by then, unless it turns bad again.'
De Revelle nodded, holding out his heavy glass goblet for a refill of the excellent red wine that Henry imported from Bordeaux. 'How many men will you muster?' he asked. 'I have arranged for a dozen of my retainers to come up on Monday.'
De la Pomeroy fingered his heavy jowls thoughtfully.
'I thought to take about the same number. That will be double the strength of Arundell's gang.'
'Are you sure that he can be found up in that great wilderness?' asked de Revelle, concerned both for his comfort and his safety.
'I sent one of my bailiffs up to Widecombe, to scout around and listen to the local gossip. Though there are a number of these cursed outlaw bands up on Dartmoor, it seems no secret that this Nick o' the Moor, as they call him, is the best known.'
'But is it clear exactly where he hides out?' persisted de Revelle.
'There is little doubt that he camps somewhere up in the vale of the Webburn. When we get near there, I have no doubt that my men will soon flush them out.'
Richard still looked anxious. 'Are you sure that we will have enough men for this? We want no survivors to go carrying tales to my damned brother-in-law or the Justiciar.'
His host rang a hand bell to summon a servant to bring more charcoal for the braziers. When he had gone, Henry answered his guest.
'These men of Arundell's are village clods, who ran away with him when he fled. They have no talent for fighting, whereas most of the men I will take are men-at-arms from the garrison here. Together with your fellows, they will be able to wipe out this bunch with one arm tied behind their backs.'
'When will we ride out then?' asked de Revelle.
'As soon as possible, Richard. You said that your sister forcefully informed you that her husband is setting off to seek the Justiciar immediately the roads are clear of this snow. God knows how long he'll be gone if he has to chase Hubert Walter over half the country. So we should have a clear field to complete our business before he returns, if we set out at the same time.' Richard still looked uneasy, drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. 'There'll be hell to pay when he finds out, especially if he managed to obtain the support of the Justiciar over this.'
'Kill these bloody outlaws now and then all we can be accused of is doing our duty!' reasoned Pomeroy. 'If your bloody brother-in-law has no one left to champion, the whole affair will fade away.'
Henry de la Pomeroy shrugged his burly shoulders.
He was a tougher character than the former sheriff.
'We are respected landowners who have been pestered by the depredations of outlaws, who steal and rob on our lands, Richard! We have every right, indeed a duty, to flush them out by raising a posse to exterminate them.'
He grinned wolfishly, showing his stained and chipped teeth. 'I might even claim the five-shilling bounty on each wolf's head that we collect up on the moor!'
The following night, John de Wolfe strode away towards the Bush Inn, heedless of the steady rain that had moved in overnight, washing away the remnants of the snow and making the air feel almost mild after a month of continuous frost.
'This will hamper your journey tomorrow, John,' said Nesta solicitously. 'The highway will be a morass of mud if it keeps on raining.'
She put a quart of best ale in front of him, but was unable to sit with him for the moment, as the inn was busy. He looked up at her trim figure, her delicious bosom sheathed in a green linen kirtle, over which was a long apron. He hoped that he could have at least a few hours with her later that day, up in her little room in the loft, for it might be weeks before he could touch her soft flesh again. Nesta seemed to read his thoughts, for her green eyes twinkled and she bent to give him a quick kiss before gliding off to chivvy her kitchen maids in the cook-hut in the back yard.
He sat alone at his table by the firepit, but his isolation was short-lived. The huge figure of Gwyn rolled in through the door from Idle Lane and, a moment later, Thomas de Peyne appeared, both of them sitting down opposite him.
'Bloody rain!' began the Cornishman, echoing Nesta's complaint as he signalled to old Edwin to bring him a drink. 'This will add at least a day to our journey.'
The little clerk looked smug, having been excused the torture of a long horseride. 'I'll pray for you every day, Gwyn, in the hope that that great fat backside of yours doesn't develop saddle sores.'
John gave instructions to Thomas about the conduct of the coroner's business in his absence. The clerk was to record all details of every case reported and seek the aid and advice of the sheriff if any death, rape or assault occurred. There was now a second coroner in the north of the county, who in desperate circumstances could be summoned.
After they had thrashed out the routine for putting the coroner system on hold for at least a couple of weeks, de Wolfe turned to Gwyn.
'Are you all set for an early start tomorrow? Has your family given you grief over your absences?' The ginger scarecrow grinned. 'My wife is usually glad to see the back of me every now and then. We love each other dearly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I've promised my two lads that I'll buy them new knives at Candlemas if we're back by then.'
'Candlemas? You'll not be away that long, surely?' Nesta had come back and was shocked that she might not see her lover again until the second day of February. 'I'll be looking for a new suitor by then, John de Wolfe.'
John hastened to reassure his mistress that if the Chief Justiciar could be found at Winchester, they should be back within little more than ten days. He omitted to mention that if they had to go on to London, that time could be at least doubled.
'You are going to great deal of trouble and discomfort for this Lady Joan,' observed Nesta, with a tightening of her lips which suggested the dawning of disapproval. 'I presume she is pretty? You could never resist a damsel in distress, could you?'
John grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on to the bench alongside him, throwing his arm around her shoulders and hugging her to his chest. 'Jealous, are we?' he growled, planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. 'Yes, she is fair, though not at all my type. You are my type, you Welsh hussy.'
Mollified, Nesta cuddled closer to him, oblivious of the grinning Cornishman opposite and the slightly askance glances of the celibate Thomas.
'Very well, Sir Crowner, as long as you deliver her husband to her and don't get up to any of your tricks with the fair lady.' Like Matilda, Nesta was well aware that John had a roving eye, and though she felt that during the past months he had remained faithful to her, she accepted that like most active men he would have difficulty in resisting temptation if it was placed squarely in his path,