As John pushed through the heavy curtain over the side entrance, he met a buzz of conversation, punctuated by raucous laughter and the clatter of ale pots and dishes. Unlike the refectory in the nearby abbey, there was no respectful muting of conversation and no verses from the Gospels or the Rule of St Benedict droned continually by a monk at a lectern during the meal, though a grace was always said by one of the priests present.
A servant near the door offered him a bowl of water and a towel to wash his hands before eating. He looked around at the scene. Two rows of trestle tables ran down the length of the hall and servants were scurrying back and forth from the door to the kitchens that he had seen when he had visited the Chief Purveyor earlier that day. The benches along the tables were occupied by a few score diners and the coroner slid into a vacant place. The meal had already started and grace had been said before his arrival. He found himself between a powerfully built man in a dark-red tunic and a small priest with a completely bald head.
Almost before he had sat down, a young servant boy placed a pint of ale in a pewter tankard before him and another deftly dropped a trencher on to the scrubbed boards of the table. John grunted a greeting to those on each side and nodded to a man and woman sitting opposite. The priest ignored him, continuing to mumble Latin prayers between sucking at a chicken leg with his toothless gums, but the man on his left, a handsome fellow in his late twenties responded civilly enough.
‘You are Sir John de Wolfe, the new law officer, I believe? We heard that the king, God save him, had appointed someone to keep us in order!’
De Wolfe reached out to spear a large slice of roast pork with the eating knife he kept sheathed on his belt. He placed it on his trencher, along with a liberal covering of fried onions ladled from a pottery bowl.
‘I am indeed, though hardly new now, for I’ve been here for well over a month. And I doubt I will be keeping you in order, unless you are dead or suffer severe violence!’ As he attacked the meat with his fingers, his neighbour introduced himself.
‘I am Ranulf of Abingdon, a knight from Berkshire. For my sins, I live in the palace as an under-marshal — and have to endure the food in this place almost every day!’
John raised his ale pot to his new friend and wished him good health. ‘I know your master William the Marshal quite well,’ he added. ‘I served under him in the Holy Land and we met again not long ago when he came as a judge to settle a problem we had in Devon.’
The great William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, was a legend, both for his prowess as a warrior and his eminence in political matters under several kings.
‘He has spoken of you more than once,’ replied Ranulf. ‘I envy the good standing you have not only with the Justiciar and the Marshal, but with the king himself.’
The man opposite leaned forward, just as John was trying to get some food into his mouth. ‘You mentioned Devon, sir. I thought you had an unusual accent. I am from Blois myself, so perhaps I am more sensitive to the different dialects in England.’
They were speaking Norman-French, as did most people in the palace, above the level of servants.
‘I was born in Devon, sir, so it is to be expected,’ said John rather shortly. The speaker was a short middle-aged man, running to fat, dressed in a rather dandified blue tunic with ornate embroidery around the neck and cuffs. He had a sharp nose and small blue eyes, his face rimmed with a narrow beard which matched the cap of brown hair on top of his head.
‘Renaud de Seigneur is Lord of Freteval in the county of Blois and has been a guest here for several weeks,’ explained Ranulf, detecting some brusqueness in de Wolfe’s tone and hastening to mollify it. ‘Lady Hawise d’Ayncourt is his gracious wife.’
Ranulf smiled at the woman across the table and John looked at her for the first time. Until then, she had kept her head down and seemed intent on eating. Her face had been partly obscured by the wide linen couvre-chef, or cover-chief, that veiled her head and the silken wimple that hid her temples and throat.
At Ranulf’s words, she lifted her head to smile at de Wolfe and he realised that she was quite beautiful. Always having a keen eye for a pretty woman, the many weeks of celibacy had sharpened his appreciation even more. Her smooth oval face had long-lashed dark eyes, a small straight nose and lips that pouted slightly in a full Cupid’s bow. What little could be seen of her hair under her head-rail was a glossy black with an almost midnight-blue sheen to it. She said nothing, but there was a look in her lovely eyes that said that she found this eagle-faced man of interest to her.
‘My wife was born in England, Sir John, though her family came from Gascony,’ confided Renaud de Seigneur. ‘She has a brother in Gloucester and a sister married to a manor-lord near Hereford, so we are journeying there to visit them.’
‘I have not seen them for eight years since Renaud married me and carried me off to France!’ Hawise spoke for the first time, her husky voice matching her exotic appearance which suggested some Latin ancestry, though John detected a trace of a West Country accent similar to his own. He guessed that she was about twenty-five years of age, her husband being at least two decades older. She and her maid — a silent mousy girl who kept her eyes on her food throughout the entire meal — were the only women in the hall. Except for the families of some of the servants who lived at the back of the yards, women were not allowed in the palace, apart from the guests, who usually stayed with their husbands and tire-women in the quarters above.
Servants cleared dishes as they were emptied and brought fresh ones constantly. Herring, salt cod, eels, capon and mutton appeared, with platters of boiled beans, carrots and cabbage to bulk out the flesh. Bottler’s assistants topped up their pots with ale or cider and large jugs replenished pewter cups of red wine.
Both the food and drink were of only moderate quality — especially the somewhat sour wine — but they were adequate for daily fare. John’s subsistence was part of the perquisites of his appointment, but he supposed that those who were not on the palace staff had to pay for their keep, unless they were official invitees.
‘Are you staying in the guest chambers here?’ he asked, directing his question at Renaud, but making firm eye contact with his wife. ‘I assumed that you would eat there.’
He had not the slightest interest in their arrangements, but could not resist trying to further a dialogue with such an attractive woman.
‘We often do stay upstairs, but we sometimes find it more congenial here, hearing news and gossip and meeting interesting people,’ said Hawise. She looked from under lowered eyelids at de Wolfe and the tip of a pink tongue appeared briefly.
Her husband seemed oblivious to her mild flirting, but Ranulf looked uneasy. ‘Renaud de Seigneur and his lady are waiting for the arrival of Queen Eleanor, so that they may go with the court to Gloucester rather than risk the journey alone.’
De Wolfe cut a slice of mutton from a joint in front of him and lifted it on to his trencher. He thought of offering some to Hawise, as it was courteous for a man to supply a lady with her food, but as her husband was sitting alongside her, he thought he had best leave that duty to him, in case he was thought impertinent. Instead, he followed up Ranulf’s remark.
‘I had heard that the queen was coming. Do we know when? And will the whole court be moving with her?’ he asked.
The knight from the Marshalsea nodded, as he waved a hand to a servant to take away the remnants of his own trencher. ‘Within a couple of weeks, it is said — depending upon a fair wind from the mouth of the Seine. We have a troop of men-at-arms ready down at Portsmouth to escort her party when it arrives.’ He swallowed the rest of his wine. ‘And yes, within a few days of her arrival, I suspect that the grand dame will want to be on the move again, first down to Windsor, then Marlborough on the way to Gloucester.’