Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

He had never raped a woman, though he had had plenty of willing ones. He had never robbed anyone, for looting in war was legitimate. What other transgressions could have been responsible for his present state? Yes, he had been jealous on occasions and covetous of other men’s wives — who hadn’t? If avarice, extortion and embezzlement were heinous sins, then why was his brother-in-law apparently so comfortable with himself? He should be frying in hell by now.

At the end of it all, John was driven back on his love life to explain his present unease. He had been constantly unfaithful to Matilda all his married life, but he would be hard pressed to think of a man of his acquaintance who was different. In his many years away at the wars, he had lechered and whored like anyone else — and since he had been home, he had dallied with the delicious Hilda of Dawlish whenever he had the chance, as well as their maid Mary and a certain widow in Sidmouth — and a few more he could hardly recall. And, of course, Nesta, sweet Nesta, was the culmination of them all. So that must be the answer, he concluded gloomily — his infidelity had been punished by taking away his first son before it was even born, leaving him in limbo between an absent wife and a mistress whose attitude towards him seemed to have become strange.

Thankfully, these dismal thoughts were brought to an end by Guy Ferrars yelling up ahead and waving his arm at the village of Ringwood to indicate that this was where they would spend their last night before Winchester.

With a sigh, he switched his mind from women to the prospect of a good meal, a few quarts of ale and a palliasse in the hall of the manor house.

Early the next evening they entered the bustling city through the West Gate and the two Ferrars and their steward made their way to an inn which they habitually used on their visits to Winchester. Their men-at-arms were given a few pence and told to fend for themselves until the morning. John de Wolfe and his companions found another tavern which provided straw-filled mattresses in a barn behind the main building, and after a meal in the taproom below, John sat with his officer having a few jars of ale and gossiping with other patrons.

Thomas had wandered off on a nostalgic tour of the city he knew so well and which had been the scene of his downfall. In truth, he was somewhat apprehensive of being recognised and perhaps reviled by old acquaintances, so he slunk along in the shadows of the approaching dusk, his eyes wary for any familiar face. He went cautiously into the cathedral and knelt in a dark corner, crossing himself and praying. The little clerk’s eyes were full of tears for what might have been, if he could have stayed long enough to gain a prized prebend. He might have become a canon in the place where he had studied, been ordained and taught, until the wiles of women and his own misguided foolishness had brought about the catastrophe that had all but ended his life.

As the twilight deepened, Thomas made his way back to the inn at the bottom of High Street, and wearily laid himself down on his bag of straw, pulling his thin cloak over him. He was still awake when the other two came to their own pallets, aching after a long day in the saddle, but the old campaigners were snoring within minutes of lying down fully clothed on their thin mattresses.

The morning came all too quickly for the tired travellers, but an hour after dawn saw them eating thin oatmeal gruel and coarse barley bread in the alehouse. Gwyn grumbled about the quality of the food, but as the price of their penny bed included the morning meal, they ate it on principle, though the Cornishman vowed that he would visit the first pie stall they saw when they went out. He did this on the way up the hill to the castle, where they had arranged to meet the Ferrars in the hall of the keep.

Winchester Castle was larger than Rougemont and far busier, so they had to push their way through the throngs of people in the vaulted chamber to reach the baron. He was standing with his son and steward, talking to a sombrely-dressed cleric who was one of the Justiciar’s chamberlains.

‘We’re fortunate, de Wolfe,’ Ferrars said as they approached. ‘Hubert Walter is here today, but leaves for London in the morning and then goes on to York.’ The itinerant Chief Justiciar combined running the political machinery of England with heading its Church as Archbishop of Canterbury. Hubert was an elusive figure, as he liked to inspect the kingdom at first hand as much as possible and was always on the move.

The chamberlain promised to expedite their audience with him, but they still had to cool their heels in the great hall for another two hours before they were taken to a chamber on an upper floor to meet the most powerful man in the country. The Justiciar was a down-to-earth man and rarely indulged in the pomp and ceremony that his rank allowed. He rose from his table to greet them, dressed in a plain brown tunic that displayed neither his political eminence nor his supreme ecclesiastical rank. The only token of his religious status was a small silver cross hanging on a chain around his neck.

He greeted Guy Ferrars first, as befitted his barony, but his arm clasp for John carried an extra warmth for an old friend and battle comrade. Hubert was a tall, strong man with a lean, leathery face tanned by his past campaigns and his constant travelling. He looked far more the soldier-statesman than Prelate of Canterbury. His businesslike manner marked him out as the genius behind England’s survival after the crippling financial crisis that the more feckless of King Richard’s wars and ransom had caused.

Gwyn and Thomas, together with Ferrars’ steward, retired to the back of the room to stand inconspicuously with several clerks, who hovered anxiously with parchment rolls for the Justiciar’s attention, while John, Guy Ferrars and his son were ushered to chairs in front of Hubert’s table. The chamberlain’s snapping fingers brought wine from a side table and then the Justiciar got down to business.

He listened intently as Ferrars bluntly outlined the problem in the Royal Forest of Devon and the coroner supplied more details of the transgressions of the foresters and the increasing boldness of the outlaws.

‘So Richard de Revelle may be up to his old tricks again?’ observed Hubert when they had finished. ‘I thought he might have learned his lesson after that trouble when I was in Exeter last.’

The archbishop had visited the city the previous autumn, when the coroner and the sheriff were locked in a dispute over jurisdiction and the courts. Both then and a few months later, de Revelle had sailed very close to the wind of treason, and only John’s reluctance to fully expose him — mainly because of Matilda’s pleas for her brother — had saved his shrievalty and possibly his neck. But Hubert Walter was well aware of the doubtful loyalty of the Sheriff of Devonshire.

‘Perhaps we should have got rid of him then,’ he observed. ‘Or even earlier, by refusing to confirm him as sheriff last year, when his original appointment was suspended for three months.’

‘The man’s been a bloody liability all along!’ rasped Guy Ferrars. ‘Can’t you just dismiss him? Surely you can persuade the Curia to throw him out.’

The Justiciar steepled his hands to his chin. ‘It’s not so easy. He has influential friends in Prince John’s camp. The Bishop down there supports him, as do some of your fellow barons, like the de Pomeroys.’

Ferrars made a rude noise, to indicate what he thought of the Pomeroys of Berry Castle. ‘They’re all part of this conspiracy to bring back John,’ he snarled. ‘Even the ringleader, Hugh of Nonant, is still plotting away, even though his fellow bishops dismissed him from Coventry. Now he skulks in Normandy, waiting his chance.’