Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

They avoided further discussion while they ate and drank after their journey, the visitors saying that they would stay in the New Inn, the city’s largest hostelry in the High Street, where visiting judges were usually accommodated.

When John de Wolfe arrived, he too was surprised by the rapid response to the messages to the Chief Justiciar about both his success in combating outlaws and in dealing with the killer of the royal messenger, as well as the news that Prince John had flaunted the royal protocol in appointing his own sheriff. De Wolfe was already acquainted with both of the visitors, from various campaigns in Ireland and France, as well as at tournaments. Walter de Ralegh still had a Devonshire accent and because of his local knowledge, was often sent by the Curia Regis on matters concerning the west of England. When the platters and cups were cleared away, Walter got straight down to business.

‘The Curia is concerned about the increasing level of violence all over the country and the lack of any proper means to deal with it. Hubert Walter has plans to set up Keepers of the Peace and other measures, but that’s in the future, when the king is back in circulation.’

‘It’s bad down here, Sir Walter,’ said Ralph Morin. ‘The roads are getting so unsafe that it’s dangerous for folk to travel anywhere.’

‘Don’t think you’re alone in that, the Justiciar gets pleas from all over the country complaining of the same thing. But not having a sheriff here makes things worse.’

‘We now have a self-appointed one!’ said John cynically.

Walter de Ralegh turned his rough, weather-beaten face towards de Wolfe. ‘Not for long, John! Where is the bloody man? We’ll soon deal with him.’

‘De Revelle has settled himself in the old sheriff’s room here, but he’s not shown up today,’ advised the constable. ‘The clerk he’s brought with him says he’s starting his duties tomorrow.’

De Ralegh scowled. ‘What in hell is he doing settling in a royal castle, like a cuckoo in another bird’s nest? Have him here in the morning, we’ll soon stamp on another of Prince John’s little schemes!’

The reign of Richard de Revelle as Sheriff of Devon was very short and not particularly sweet. When next morning he arrived at the castle from the house he was leasing in North Street, he had already heard from his steward about the unexpected arrival in the city of Walter de Ralegh and Henry de Furnellis, but had no idea of their mission. He knew both of them slightly, but as they were staunch supporters of the king, he had kept his distance from them ever since his sympathies had moved to Prince John.

It was with considerable surprise that he entered his chamber in the keep to find it already occupied by four men. Sir Walter was sitting in his own chair behind the table and the constable, Henry de Furnellis and his own brother-in-law occupied stools alongside him.

Richard’s habitual arrogance and self-assurance soon surfaced. ‘What are you doing in my room?’ he demanded.

Walter jabbed a finger towards an empty chair. ‘Sit down, de Revelle. Firstly, it’s not your room, it belongs to the king — as will all Devonshire again be very soon.’

De Revelle’s mouth opened to protest, then the significance of the remark came home to him. Rapidly, he began to reassess his fortunes in the light of a possible change of politics.

‘The process of King Richard’s release is under way,’ continued Walter. ‘Queen Eleanor should by now be at the Emperor’s court in Mainz with the bulk of the ransom money, so his return home is only a matter of time — a very short time!’

‘I’m delighted to hear it!’ said de Revelle, after some rapid thought. ‘I am the caretaker sheriff at present, but would be honoured to continue to serve the king in that post.’

De Ralegh glowered at him and thumped the table with a big fist. ‘Not a chance, de Revelle! You are not the sheriff, you never were the sheriff — and if I have any say in the matter, you never will be the bloody sheriff!’ He lifted a parchment from the table, which had a heavy seal dangling from ribbons at the bottom. ‘This is a warrant signed and sealed by Archbishop Hubert Walter, Chief Justiciar of England, appointing Sir Henry de Furnellis as Sheriff in this county, as from the day of Christ Mass. It was issued by the Justiciar on behalf of the king, for whom he is acting in every capacity.’

‘But the county belongs to Prince John!’ howled de Revelle.

Walter de Ralegh jabbed a finger at the speaker. ‘A word of advice, de Revelle! As soon as the king is released, all lands he unwisely gave to his brother will be forfeit. John’s remaining castles will be attacked and seized and the prince himself will probably be charged with treason, along with those who are known to support him. If I were you and you wish to save your neck, I would try to forget you’d ever heard of the Count of Mortain!’ The tall judge got to his feet and pointed at the door. ‘Now go, de Revelle! You have no business here. Go to your manors, hunt, eat and sleep, but stop meddling in affairs of state that will only bring ruin upon you!’

Richard went pale, then red as his chagrin at being so summarily dismissed, wounded his pride and his vanity. He stalked to the door, sweeping his green cloak around him. As he passed John, he glared at him venomously. ‘This is your doing, de Wolfe! I’ll never forget it!’

It was now early September and much had happened since the depths of winter. One warm afternoon, Nesta had moved two trestle tables and benches outside to flank the front door of the Bush. A pair of carpenters and a blacksmith sat on one, with John de Wolfe, Gwyn of Polruan and Nesta on the other. The only view was that of a bare patch opposite, where weeds covered the charred remains of the fire of some years ago, but it was pleasant to sit in the sun with a jug of ale and chat about the state of the world.

‘Any news from across the Channel?’ asked Gwyn, leaning back against the wall of the inn, with a quart pot in his hand.

‘Ralph Morin’s usual source passed through yesterday,’ replied John. ‘A courier from Winchester said that our king is making slow but steady progress against Philip’s army in Touraine and that he is planning to build a huge castle on the Seine.’

‘What about his traitorous brother?’ demanded Nesta. ‘He seems to have faded from sight since May, when the king pardoned him yet again.’

De Wolfe scowled at the memory. ‘Yes, the Lionheart said he was like a naughty child and it was those men who led him astray who should be punished. But I don’t trust him, he won’t easily give up plotting to unseat Richard.’

After the collapse of John’s rebellion in March, the main instigator, Hugh of Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was fined heavily and went into exile in Normandy, where he died in disgrace. His brother, Robert Brito (who had refused to go to Germany as a hostage for the king) was thrown into the cells of Dover castle and was starved to death.

John himself had fled to Normandy and allied himself openly with King Philip, until he had crawled back to Liseaux to seek his brother’s forgiveness. As Walter de Ralegh had foreseen, the Curia Regis had stripped him of his English possessions, including Devon, even before the king was released from Germany into his doughty mother’s custody in February.

As the sun warmed them, they gave up talking politics in favour of things nearer home. Their sheriff, Henry de Furnellis, was liked well enough, but they were rather irked by his lack of enthusiasm for keeping the peace.

‘He’s not a well man,’ said John, in mitigation. ‘He suffered wounds in Ireland when we were there, but his main problem is this shaking fever he gets at intervals, picked up in the marshes of southern France, due to their foul air.’