With these thoughts going round and round in his head, John eventually fell asleep as the thunder rolled away over the distant Chilterns, leaving him with the half-formed decision to somehow get back to Exeter to try to resolve the problem of his resentful wife.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was good to be away from the restrictive atmosphere of Westminster, riding at the head of a squadron of soldiers through the Hampshire scrubland. The storm of a few nights ago had cleared the air and though it was warm, there was a breeze with white clouds scudding through a blue sky, instead of the hazy oppression that had hung over the Thames valley.
De Wolfe trotted along contentedly on Odin’s back, the heavy destrier’s hairy feet thumping rhythmically on the packed earth of the high road between Farnham and Winchester. Alongside him rode Ranulf of Abingdon on a roan gelding and behind came Gwyn on his brown mare, Thomas valiantly keeping up on a dappled palfrey borrowed from the palace stables.
The score of men-at-arms rode two abreast in semi-battle order, with boiled-leather jerkins but no chain-mail. However, they all wore round iron helmets and carried either a sword or an axe at their saddlebows. The last four in line were archers, dark mercenaries from Wales with longbows across their backs and a quiver of arrows at their knee. Bringing up the rear were the sergeant who had been at the inquest and the other under-marshal, William Aubrey, a fresh-faced young knight from Essex, who had not long obtained his spurs. He was a stocky, muscular fellow, always amiable and cheerful.
‘We are making good time, John,’ called Ranulf. ‘At this rate we should be there well before sundown.’
‘Make the most of it, as going back will be miserable, compared to this,’ replied de Wolfe, never ready to be optimistic. They would be encumbered by a heavy wagon on the return journey, and even though they had been promised a horse-team, instead of the usual slower oxen, it would more than double the time spent on the road. They had slept last night at Guildford Castle, but going back would mean at least five nights on the journey.
Every few hours, they halted at a village to rest, feed and water their horses. At noon, the whole party ate the rations they carried in their saddlebags, replenished that morning at Guildford. One stop was allowed soon afterwards at a tavern in a small hamlet, where everyone, including the soldiers, downed a quart of ale.
Back on the track, they passed through interminable heathland, with bushes and small trees dotting the scrub of the sandy Hampshire soil. Only around manors and villages were there strip-fields and pasture, quite different from the greener, lush valleys that John was used to in Devon.
‘Good country for an ambush,’ he grunted to Ranulf, as he scanned the thickets and bushes which grew right to the edge of the narrow road. ‘Though I doubt any ragged-arsed outlaws would wish to try anything on a squadron of men-at-arms.’
‘And we’ve nothing to steal, even if they did!’ replied the marshal, cheerfully. ‘Coming back might be a different matter, though no one will know what we’ve got in our cart.’
Privately, de Wolfe doubted that, being well aware of the rapid spread of news by word of mouth, especially in towns as important as Winchester. He wagered that half the city would know what was being hauled out of the castle before they got to the other end of the high street. Still, he had little fear of them being attacked, unless Prince John had suddenly decided to make a play for the Crown and brought the barons sympathetic to his cause with their levies. Even this was highly unlikely, as John, Count of Mortain, had been lying low lately, following the crushing defeat of his rebellion two years earlier.
These thoughts occupied John’s mind as they trotted on towards the old capital of England, though his ruminations wandered once again to the women in his life — or in the case of Nesta, out of his life. Once again, he decided to get down to Exeter as soon as he could, to try to discover something of Matilda’s intentions. He suspected that she was deliberately keeping him in the dark, though he had done nothing particularly heinous lately — one of her main grievances had been removed when Nesta had gone off to Chepstow to be married.
In the early evening, as the sun was at last dipping towards the western horizon, they came over a rise and saw the city of Winchester below them, its castle and the cathedral the prominent points within the walls.
Another half-hour saw them clattering through the eastern gate and soon they had dismounted in the outer bailey of the castle, their tired horses being led away by a dozen grooms and ostlers who were harried into activity by the castle marshal. Gwyn decided to go with the sergeant and his men to find a meal, a game of dice and eventually a bed in the barracks. Thomas was eager to seek out old friends in the abbey and said that he would sleep in the dorter there, though John knew that he would be up half the night attending the offices that began with Matins at midnight.
John and the two under-marshals sought out the Constable, who was the custodian of the royal fortress. Rufus de Longby was an elderly knight, who received them courteously and arranged for accommodation on the upper floor of the keep, as well as accompanying them to eat in the main hall.
‘The officials from the Exchequer will not be here until morning,’ he explained. ‘But your chests will be as safe in the undercroft as the royal treasure has been these past few hundred years!’ His weak humour passed over John’s head.
‘The undercroft? Is that a secure place?’ growled the coroner, comparing it with the basement beneath the keep in Exeter’s Rougemont Castle, which was little more than a temporary gaol and storage area.
‘Wait until you see our undercroft,’ boasted de Longby. ‘It’s the cellar beneath one of the gatehouse towers and would take an army to breach it.’
Soon after dawn next morning, de Wolfe was able to confirm the Constable’s claim. After a breakfast of oat gruel, salt bacon and bread and cheese, they assembled in the outer bailey near the gatehouse, where the men-at-arms were already waiting. A covered four-wheel cart was standing by, with a sturdy horse waiting patiently between the shafts. Another stood in front of it, attached by traces, ready to add its strength to hauling the wagon.
Ranulf, who had carried out this task several times before, introduced John to Matthew de la Pole, the resident agent of the Exchequer, a portly manor-lord from Hampshire. De Wolfe thought him a pompous man, full of his own importance. Two cowed-looking clerks stood behind him, clutching some parchments.
‘You have the document of authorisation, I trust?’ snapped de la Pole, holding out a beringed hand to the coroner.
William Aubrey handed over the slim roll given him by the Keeper of Westminster, which had an impressive seal of red wax dangling from it. De la Pole, who was obviously as illiterate as de Wolfe, unrolled it and pretended to read the short instruction, then handed it to one of his clerks. This official read out in a nasal voice the standard words of release of two chests ‘into the care of Sir John de Wolfe, presently Coroner of the Verge’.
John began to realise that this made him totally responsible for the safety and integrity of the treasure and wondered what the penalty would be for any mishap. It would probably cost him his neck.
Matthew de la Pole seemed to relax a little and waved a hand towards the massive tower that formed the left side of the gatehouse. ‘Let’s get rid of these damned boxes, then. They are the last ones and I’ll be glad to see the back of them!’