William explained all this to his brother, heartily glad that these problems did not afflict his manor.
‘The barons and lords who have bigger fiefs up against the King’s forest are having increasing problems,’ he explained. ‘They can no longer trust their own woodwards, who are often under the thumb of the foresters. I hear there are new tricks that are being played, like driving deer from the chases and parks into the King’s land — the very opposite of what traditionally used to happen.’
The conversation brought John’s mind back to the duties he had waiting in Exeter, and he wondered how Thomas and Gwyn were faring on the expedition he had commanded them to undertake. He knew his officer could look after himself, but he worried slightly about the timid Thomas, who openly admitted to his own cowardice. Still, he thought, talking to a string of priests could not present much danger, and he dismissed his concerns as the hunting party gathered themselves to resume their search for the elusive animals.
In the next two hours they found nothing, but then the hounds caught the trail of a roe deer. Before long they had brought it down and the huntsmen dispatched it cleanly within seconds. They decided to call it a day and wended their way back to the manor house, with the fresh carcass slung across the houndmaster’s mare.
‘We’ve brought you tonight’s supper, Mother,’ announced William, with some satisfaction, as the women came out on the house steps to greet them. The steward and other servants went off to deliver the venison to the kitchens, and the brothers flopped on to benches in the hall. A jar of wine appeared between them as they regaled Enyd and her daughter with exaggerated tales of their prowess in the hunt. This was a fairly short story and the conversation soon came around to John’s domestic problems.
‘How will you deal with this matter of the baby, my son?’ asked his mother, concern in her voice. She offered no censure to John over the affair, accepting that this was what men did, marriage or not. She knew that even her own late husband, Simon, had a bastard somewhere in the north, a product of a long sojourn away during one of King Henry’s campaigns. Her worry was over the practicalities of the child’s upbringing, especially knowing of Matilda’s vindictive nature.
Her younger son scratched his head through his black thatch.
‘I’ve not given it that much thought yet, Mother,’ he admitted. ‘He’ll not want for anything, I assure you — including my love and affection.’
‘You seem very sure it’s going to be a boy, John,’ said Evelyn.
His sister’s prim nature made her slightly more uneasy with the situation than her mother. She had wanted to become a nun years before, until, on the death of her father, his widow had vetoed the ambition and made her stay at home to help with the household duties.
Her brother grinned sheepishly. ‘Of course it’ll be a boy! How could I ever sire a daughter? I need to teach him to swing a sword and hold a lance!’
‘Will the babe live in the inn? Is it a suitable place?’ asked Enyd, still worrying away at the problem.
John considered this. ‘I think it will serve. There’s plenty of room upstairs. I can get another room built alongside Nesta’s chamber, then hire a good woman to look after the child while Nesta runs the inn.’ He grinned. ‘At least she’ll not need a wet-nurse, as nature provided well for her in that regard!’
Evelyn pursed her lips primly. ‘You shouldn’t jest about such things, John, it’s not decent.’
His mother laughed at her daughter’s prudishness, and even William’s long face cracked into a smile. ‘The babe will certainly be well fed, as far as I remember from my one meeting with the young woman.’
‘This will be my first — and probably only — grandchild, John, so look after it well,’ commanded Enyd. ‘You should get her seen by that woman in Polsloe Priory that you told us about. She seems wise in the ways of women and childbirth.’
‘You mean Dame Madge, the nun?’ responded John. ‘Yes, that’s a good notion, Mother. She helped me several times when women’s problems were an issue.’
Dame Madge was a gaunt sister at the Benedictine priory just outside Exeter, a woman well versed in diseases of women and the problems of childbirth. When John had had cases of rape and death from miscarriage to deal with, she had proved of considerable help, in spite of her forbidding appearance and manner.
‘And don’t forget, my son, you tell Nesta that this house is always open to her at any time. She can come down here when she is heavy with child and go to childbed here, if needs be. She can scream out her labour pains in Welsh, for we’ll understand her well enough!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gwyn woke up at dawn to find himself staring at a rocky ceiling. He was used to curling up in a wide variety of places and could sleep soundly anywhere, from the heaving deck of a fishing boat to the open deserts of Outremer. However, since settling down a couple of years ago, he now usually awoke either in his family hut in St Sidwell’s — or somewhere in Exeter, if he had been out drinking after the city gates closed at curfew.
He stared at the damp rock for a moment, gathering his sleep-fuddled senses, before recollecting that he was in an outlaw’s cave about five miles north of Ashburton. After leaving the alehouse the previous evening, Martin Angot had walked with him out of the little town for about a mile up the road towards Haytor. It was almost dark by then, though a pink summer glow in the west gave enough light for them to see their way. At a bend in the lane, Martin suddenly plunged off the road and, a few hundred paces through the trees, came upon a sturdy pony on a long head-rope, contentedly cropping the grass in a clearing.
‘You’ll have to walk behind, it’s a couple more miles at least,’ he said rather thickly, as the outlaw did not have the iron head that Gwyn possessed when it came to drinking ale.
They plodded for an hour along an ill-defined track through the woods alongside a valley, then came out on moorland and began to climb towards the rocks of a jagged tor silhouetted against the sky.
A full moon now rose above the eastern horizon, and for another mile the coroner’s officer, who had given his name as Jess, followed the rump of the pony up towards the high moor.
There was a hoot ahead which was a fair imitation of an owl, though Gwyn was well aware that it came from a human throat. Martin Angot called a soft reply and a moment later the figure of a sentinel loomed up from behind a rock, a lance in his hands.
‘Who’s this, Martin?’ he demanded.
‘A new recruit — an abjurer who lost his way,’ jested the blond man.
The guard waved them on, and in a few minutes they came upon a deep dell set into the edge of the escarpment. Behind a barrier of piled moor-stones the glowing ashes of a fire remained, one fed only with dry wood to avoid smoke. A few crude shelters made of stones and wood, with turf roofs supported on branches, were propped against the rocky faces of the dell, and at its apex was a wide, shallow cave. Snores from the shelters and the cave drew Gwyn’s gaze to about a score of sleeping men, wrapped in cloaks and rough blankets. Martin slid from his pony and pulled off the oat sack he used for a saddle. Giving the beast a slap on the rump to send it out of the dell for the night, he muttered, ‘It’ll not go far, there are others tethered around the corner. Find a space in the cavern — at least it’s better than a ditch or pigsty,’ he grunted, making for one of the turfed shelters. ‘I’ll take you to the chief in the morning — he’ll either accept you or slit your throat.’