Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

‘Whatever it is, he’s not too keen on chasing trail robbers from the roads,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘We’ve had to go out with Ralph a few times on his behalf.’

‘It keeps us from growing rusty,’ countered John. ‘And it’s something to do to pass the time.’

John was becoming restless at his own inactivity. He had been back in Exeter now for a year and apart from some sporadic involvement with their wool business, had no real occupation. This was a common problem for knights who had neither a manor to administer nor a war to fight. Some of them even turned to banditry, but many more found little to occupy themselves — and of these, many were relatively poor, as an honourable rank does not fill an empty stomach. De Wolfe had even been considering entering the king’s service again, but that would mean leaving Devon and almost certainly going to France to join the royal armies. Though he had no objection to this, he was now so enamoured of Nesta that it would be a great wrench to leave her. He looked at her now, smiling at him across the table, pretty and happy in her summer kirtle and lace coif.

‘Why so solemn, John?’ she asked gaily. ‘It’s a lovely day, the ale is perfect and Molly has a fine salmon to cook for our supper!’

He gave her one of his lopsided grins. ‘Not solemn, cariad — just wondering how to spend the next thirty years? Maybe I should take up my lance and go tourneying again, now that the king has made it legal.’

Old King Henry had forbidden jousting and tournaments, concerned at the loss of life amongst his knights and the fear that it trained them to be more proficient at rebelling against him. However, one of the first acts that Richard had made after his return, was to authorize five sites in England where they could be held on payment of steep entrance fees — another ploy to raise money for his war against Philip.

Nesta sat pondering John’s reply about the next thirty years, as it reminded her of the hopelessness of their relationship. She loved him and knew that he probably returned her love — but to what end? He was the mature son of a Norman knight, married to a woman from another notable Norman family — a marriage that was irrevocable in the eyes of the Church, one that only death could dissolve. And she was but a Welsh widow, a mere alewife of no social status whatsoever. There was no future for them other than an illicit affair, with furtive love-making and a dalliance virtually confined to the inside of a tavern. John could never be seen in public with her or even acknowledge her, outside the circle of those who frequented the Bush.

She sighed and wondered whether she should have left Exeter when Meredydd was taken from her — perhaps gone home to Gwent and lived with her mother and sisters, then found a nice local man and settled down to have children. But then Nesta rebelled and mentally straightened her back. Today was today, she was going to enjoy her romance while it lasted and be damned to the consequences.

She looked across at de Wolfe, wondering what he was thinking. Not as uncomplicated and unimaginative as many people thought, he was also troubled about his liaison with Nesta, but in a different way. He both loved her and lusted after her, enjoying every moment of her company. But he felt that he was cheating her, standing in the way of her getting on with her life. Like her, he knew they could never marry and that he was blocking her chances of becoming a wife and mother. He was not concerned about his own image or reputation — after almost eight months, most of Exeter knew that she was his mistress. Many of the others of Norman blood, both knights and rich merchants, openly had lovers, even bastard children. Some of the canons and parish priests had the same illicit habits and no great notice was taken of it.

Of course, Matilda kept up a barrage of invective against him, but her vindictiveness over the ‘Welsh whore’, as she usually called Nesta, had been overshadowed by a different hatred. This was her burning rage against her husband for his part in getting her wonderful brother so ignominiously dismissed as sheriff within days of being appointed. She had endlessly made it plain that for that, she would never forgive him. With this as the background to his life, what was to happen very soon, was all the more remarkable.

Richard the Lionheart was now firmly re-established as King of England, even to the extent of holding a second coronation at Winchester in April — to which he failed to invite his wife, Berengaria, who never set foot in the country of which she was queen. After landing at Sandwich in Kent with his mother in March, he was to spend only two months in the country, leaving with his fleet and army from Portsmouth in May, never to return.

Within days of landing, he had put on his armour and hurried to Nottingham, the last of Prince John’s castles to hold out. The others had all surrendered, the castellan at St Michael’s Mount having dropped dead of fright on hearing of the king’s return!

Henry de la Pomeroy had also fled to the Mount, where to avoid the king’s retribution, he had ordered his physician to open the veins in his wrists, so that he expired! At Nottingham, Richard fought his way into the barbican, then erected a gallows in full view of the defenders and hanged several men captured earlier, which rapidly caused the remaining men to surrender.

Under the expert guidance of Archbishop Hubert Walter, all the machinery of state regained its former pattern. The royal courts continued their rounds, the king’s justices sitting at the Eyres of Assize and commissioners of lesser rank coming more frequently to clear the gaols of remand prisoners who had not either died or escaped. The day following John’s ruminations outside the Bush, he learned of the arrival of a pair of these commissioners, due to hold a Court of Gaol Delivery the following week.

John had gone up to the castle to make a social call on the constable and the sheriff, mainly to catch up on recent gossip. He sat with the constable in the chamber of Henry de Furnellis, where the sheriff was bemoaning the fact that he would prefer to be back at his manor in Somerset, supervising the coming harvest.

‘I never wanted this damned job, John,’ he grumbled. ‘My feelings of duty to the king persuaded me, but only on condition that it was temporary. My health is not good and I have petitioned the Chief Justiciar to relieve me of the task and appoint someone else.’

Ralph Morin said that they would all be sorry to see him leave, but he gave John a surreptitious wink, as they had often talked about having a younger, more active man as sheriff.

‘Perhaps these commissioners who came today may have some news for me before they hold court next week,’ said Henry, hopefully. ‘They are at the bishop’s palace at present, and I’m invited down to eat with them tonight.’

‘Who are they this time?’ asked Ralph.

‘Simon Waring, the abbot of St Albans, who’s staying with the bishop — and Sir Philip de Culleforde, a baron from Wiltshire. He’s lodging at the New Inn.’

‘How have you found the new bishop?’ asked John, who had heard that Henry Marshal, enthroned in May, had been inclined towards Prince John when Dean of York.

The old sheriff held up his palms and shrugged. ‘He’s no jolly friar, John. A serious man with a serious face and somehow, a coldness about him. A different man to his brother William, that’s for sure.’

This William was the Marshal of England, perhaps the best-known fighting man in the country, both on the tourney field and the battlefield. He had served two kings well and would serve two more during his long life. No doubt it was his influence with the king that gained his brother the bishop’s mitre.

When John left Rougemont and walked back to his house in St Martin’s Lane, he gloomily expected the usual frosty reception from his wife, who rarely spoke to him these days, except on the rare occasions when they were together in public, when she assumed a facade of normality for the benefit of her friends. But somewhat to his surprise and perhaps with a little apprehension, he found her in a more benign mood, as if she was concealing some pleasant secret. As they sat down to the usual light supper that Mary provided, he wondered what new spite Matilda was going to unleash on him.