When mistress and maid had left for St Olave’s, the coroner lost no time in leaving for the Bush, giving Mary a crushing hug and kiss of thanks on the way out.
In the tavern in Idle Lane, business was quieter than it had been on his last visit. His customary bench was empty and, after a few words with a couple of acquaintances on his way across, he sat down and waited for Edwin to bring over a jar of ale. As the old soldier slid it on to the table, he failed to make his usual salutation, but rolled his one good eye towards the back of the room and made a grimace that de Wolfe took as some sort of warning. Puzzled, the coroner took a few mouthfuls and waited for Nesta to appear, but after five minutes there was still no sign of her. He turned around and saw the Welsh woman standing at the door that led to the kitchens. She had been looking across at him, but as soon as their eyes met she turned abruptly and vanished through the door.
Edwin passed him, collecting empty tankards from the tables. ‘You’re in the shite, Cap’n. You want to keep your legs crossed for a bit,’ he muttered conspiratorially.
It dawned on John what had happened. ‘How in hell did she find out?’ he muttered to the old pot-man.
‘A carter from Dawlish came in this morning. He started talking about warhorses and the fool let drop that yesterday he had seen your Bran tied up outside the house of Thorgils the Boatman. Mistress Nesta was not amused!’
Never one to shirk a confrontation, he got up and pushed his way through the stools and benches to the back, followed by knowing glances and nudged ribs among the patrons, most of whom seemed to know exactly what was the problem.
He bent his head to go out into the cold darkness of the yard behind the inn. As well as the usual stables, privy and wash-house, there were two kitchen huts, each throwing out red light from their cooking fires. Silhouetted in the doorway of one was the trim form of Nesta, standing motionless. He strode over and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her into the gloom of the yard.
She jerked away, but let his hands remain on her, leaning back to stare up at him in the flickering light. ‘You bastard!’ she said. The light was just sufficient for him to see the glint of a tear in each eye.
He sighed and pulled her against his chest. Again she resisted, but the strength of his arms was overpowering and she suddenly relaxed against him. ‘I’m sorry, John. I can’t help it.’
He rocked her from side to side, ignoring the serving-girls, who were peeping from inside the kitchen door. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, love,’ he said contritely, ‘but you know what I’m like, you’ve known it from the start.’
The redhead sniffed, rubbing her face against his tunic. ‘I get jealous, now and then. It’s stupid, I’ve got no claim on you, John.’
He bent to kiss the top of the linen cap that covered her auburn curls. ‘You are the one I love best, Nesta,’ he said in Welsh. ‘The one I always come to, my best friend as well as lover.’ She slipped her arms around him in the darkness, but said nothing. ‘The others are just a passing dalliance, Nesta. A rare adventure that I can never resist when the chance arises. I admit, Hilda is a girl from my youth, I like her very much but she knows I’m a leaf in the wind that passes her door now and then and blows away as quickly. It’s not like that with you.’
She raised her face and managed a smile. ‘You’re a lecherous old ram, Black John.’ She used the name by which he was known on campaigns and the battlefield, told her by Edwin, who was proud of de Wolfe’s military reputation. She moved away and took him by the hand, drawing him back to the lighted door of the inn. ‘You’re a disgrace, John, but I’ll have to put up with you, I suppose. I’m going to see the blacksmith tomorrow, to see if he can forge me a chastity-belt for you!’
‘He’ll need to stock up on iron, then, to make one to fit me, woman!’
Now all smiles, they went hand in hand into the taproom and, for a moment, John feared that the assembled patrons, who had been watching the back door, would break into a round of applause. After another quart of best ale, and some beef and bread taken before the fire, the reconciled pair climbed the wide ladder in the corner to the upper floor, where they spent a hour in Nesta’s bed, partitioned off from the common lodgings where pallets or bundles of straw accommodated the guests of the Bush Inn.
At around midnight, Devon’s coroner crept up to the solar in his house in Martin’s Lane to slip under the blankets and furs at one edge of their bed and listen to the snores of Matilda on the other.
The next morning, the ambush party set out from Exeter. Eric Langton went out of the city at the same time but, as he had claimed, his slow nag would get to Dunsford well after the others. De Wolfe wanted to be in place before Giles Fulford arrived, to get the best vantage-point to see what he did.
Dunsford was almost directly west of Exeter, on the road to the stannary town of Chagford, where tin-mining was carried on right under the edge of Dartmoor. Dunsford was in fertile farming land, which climbed up and down small steep valleys, with woodland and forest breaking it up into many separate manors and villages. The coroner’s party consisted of Gwyn and the two servants from Canons’ Row, the stocky young groom David and another powerful Saxon called Wichin. Decent horses had been allotted to them by John de Alencon from among the pick of the stables in the Close, and Gwyn had seen to it that they were armed with thick staves and daggers. The only swords were with John and his officer, clanking at the sides of their saddles. The coroner wore a round metal helmet with a nose-guard over an aventail of chain-mail that tucked under the collar of the thick leather cuirass that he wore under his cloak, but he had no other body armour, feeling that a full mail hauberk was too much for the arrest of a couple of adventurers.
The day was crisp and cold, but the wind had dropped and thin clouds scudded high in a pale blue sky as they trotted along. As the vicar had estimated, they came within sight of Dunsford in about an hour and a half. The church was just below the crest of a ridge above the valley and was visible from a distance. Gwyn wondered how they were to avoid becoming a public spectacle and maybe frightening off their quarry. The same problem had occurred to de Wolfe and he reined in at the side of the track before they reached the village. ‘We’ll split up here, not to be so noticeable,’ he said. Privately, he was not confident that this would help: most hamlets were so isolated and self-contained that the appearance of a solitary stranger, let alone four, would rapidly become a matter of considerable curiosity to the inhabitants.
The two servants, closer to village life than the coroner, had a suggestion. ‘We can say we’re miners on our way to Chagford,’ said Wichin. ‘We could stop for some ale and a piece of bread – there’s surely some old dame who sells suchlike here. That could pass the time until they come without causing too much suspicion.’
‘What about us?’ asked Gwyn of his master.
‘We can either ride into the woods and wait outside the village for a time or maybe seize the bull by the horns and go into the church, pretending to be officials.’
‘We are officials!’ pointed out his henchman. ‘But maybe we should have brought that little runt Thomas. He’s good at worming his way in with parsons.’