There was no rancour or sarcasm in his voice, and John thought that he probably meant what he said. Before he could reply, the herald broke in with an easy but firm voice. 'I am to return with a reply as soon as possible, Sir John. Though I take it that you are in no mind other than to obey the King's wishes?'
De Wolfe had not a second's hesitation. Though the notice was short and a prolonged absence would make things difficult, to him his monarch's wish was an absolute command.
'Of course, I will be at Chepstow next week! Have you any idea how long this enterprise may take? I have many arrangements to make.'
William de Mora turned up his hands. 'I cannot be definite, but I gathered from the Justiciar that this was to be a single visit to the Welsh prince and a quick return, as I understand that William Marshal needs to be back in Normandy without delay.'
This was all John could glean about the journey, and after the sheriff had fussily shepherded the young knight away for food, drink and rest, the coroner went in a slightly dazed mood back to his house and sat by his fireside with a quart of ale to think through this sudden turn of events.
Thomas de Peyne did not get drunk that evening, but enough wine was forced on him to bring a flush to his sallow cheeks and to keep a smile on his usually melancholy features. When Nesta heard the good news, she immediately chivvied her maids into making extra pastries and a huge cauldron of mutton broth; a dozen capons were set turning on spits in the cook shed.
By the seventh hour that evening, the Bush was full of well-wishers, some of whom Thomas hardly knew. A few of the cathedral clergy came along, vicars, secondaries and some choristers, though the only senior member was his uncle, John de Alençon. Apart from Brother Rufus, the jolly fat monk who was the castle chaplain, the rest of the crowd were laymen, ranging from Henry de Furnellis to Ralph Morin, Gabriel, the two town constables and of course Gwyn and the coroner. One unexpected visitor was John's business partner, Hugh de Relaga, who turned up in an outrageous new surcoat of green velvet over a blue brocade tunic, with a floppy feathered hat to match. He had in tow a young man of about seventeen years, whom he introduced as his nephew, Eustace de Relaga.
The festivities carried on for much of the evening, though people came and went, after clapping the frail Thomas on the back and roaring out their congratulations and good wishes for the future. As dusk fell, many made their way home before curfew, though in these times of peace it was barely enforced — especially tonight, when both the enforcers, the constables Osric and Theobald, were themselves in the Bush.
Eventually, the remaining celebrants gravitated to a couple of tables near the hearth, the coroner's team being augmented only by Nesta, the sheriff, Ralph Morin, Gabriel and Hugh de Relaga and his silent relative. With some platters of savoury pastries and ample drink being replenished by old Edwin, the conversation moved on at last from Thomas's forthcoming restoration, which had been discussed up hill and down dale all evening. Henry de Furnellis, who had sunk an inordinate amount of ale, boisterously took the subject in a new direction.
'Your clerk's going to. Winchester, John, but what about your own journey to Wales — and in such exalted company?'
All eyes swivelled to look at the coroner, who had said nothing to anyone yet about his royal summons. Not even to Matilda, who had been out at her cousin's house for supper, which gave him the opportunity to get to the Bush early.
'Wales? Are you going to Wales, John?' demanded Nesta, for whom the word conjured up nostalgic visions. There was a chorus of queries from around the tables and de Wolfe held up his hand for quiet.
'I only heard this afternoon,' he explained gruffly. 'I suppose it's really a state secret, but I trust no one here is going to rush off to tell Philip of France.'
Tell him what, Crowner?' grunted Gwyn.
'That you are coming with me to Chepstow Castle to meet William the Marshal and escort him down west to pay a call on the Lord Rhys.'
There was a squeak of horror from Thomas de Peyne. 'But I am due in Winchester next month, Crowner!' he said, aghast at the prospect of missing his bishop's benediction.
'Don't fret, my lad. I'll not need you on such a journey, especially as you would never keep up, slung side-saddle over that broken-winded pony of yours! In any case, Gwyn and I will be back long before you go off to Winchester.'
The clerk's fears assuaged, the coroner told the whole story as far as he knew it — that because of his ability to speak Welsh and his familiarity with the country, he had been chosen by the Chief Justiciar on behalf of the King to accompany an embassy to Prince Rhys ap Gruffydd, the powerful ruler of most of south and west Wales, universally know as the Lord Rhys. John produced the parchment from his pouch and it was handed around the gathering. Although few of them could read a word, it was studied as reverently as if the King had penned it with his own hand.
'I don't know why the marshal is going to see him, and it's none of my business,' he added sternly. 'My task is to help make sure that he gets there and back safely.,
'You went around Wales like this once before, John,' said the excited Nesta. 'Wasn't it to guard some bishop?'
'Back in '88, that was,' broke in Gwyn. 'I was with him when we paraded around the country with old Archbishop Baldwin, drumming up volunteers for the Holy Land — and ended up taking the cross ourselves!'
De Wolfe nodded. 'That's why Hubert WaIter picked me for this,' he said. 'It's the same sort of job, nothing glamorous about it, just a bodyguard who can speak the language and find my way through the Welsh woods and hills.'
Nesta, her eyes glistening with pride at her lover's achievements, refused to let him belittle the honour. 'John, the King himself picked you and sent you his personal greetings, so you said the parchment states. You are an important man!'
De Wolfe felt that perhaps some of Matilda's revelling in fame was rubbing off on his mistress, but he was in too good a mood to complain.
'Gwyn, we have to be in Chepstow by next Thursday, a three-day journey, if we cross the Severn by boat. So we must leave no later than Monday.'
The coroner's exciting news kept the conversation going through another platter of meat pasties and another gallon of ale. There was much discussion about the politics of the ceaseless conflict between the English Crown and the independent Welsh princedoms, but as most of the news from there was weeks or months old by the time it reached Devon, no one was quite sure what the present political situation might be. When a lull came in this discussion, Hugh de Relaga shifted his portly, multi-coloured figure from his stool and dropped himself down with a bump on the bench alongside John.
'Before you go rushing off on your royal excursions, John, there's something I want to raise with you.'
The coroner expected his friend and business partner to launch into a discussion about the price of wool or the cost of shipping it abroad, but instead he beckoned to the young man, who came over and stood expectantly behind his uncle.
'Eustace is my brother's youngest lad,' he began, patting the youth affectionately on the shoulder. 'Until a year ago, he was a pupil in the cathedral school at Gloucester, and since then has been staying with me while he attended the pedagogues in a college house in Smythen Street.'
John wondered where all this was leading. He knew that Hugh's brother was a successful tin merchant in Tavistock, one of the Stannary towns on the west side of Dartmoor. He also knew that a few small centres of higher learning had sprung up in Exeter, as they had done some years ago in Oxford. Here the sons of wealthier people paid to attend lectures on subjects such as philosophy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, given by educated clerics, usually 'monks, canons or other learned clerks. Exeter, though a long way behind Oxford, was rapidly gaining a reputation for such colleges, most of the teaching being held informally in houses in Smythen Street, strangely to the accompaniment of nearby smiths and metal-workers banging their anvils.