In front of them strutted the sheriff, a groom holding his horse whilst he inspected the line of men-at-arms, to the ill-concealed irritation of Ralph Morin. De Revelle was kitted out in immaculate chain-mail, which, unlike that worn by de Wolfe and the Templars, was free of the scratches, dents and bent links of former combat. Over it he had his own white surcoat, emblazoned with a red griffin, which was repeated on his shield in the new fashion for displaying a family crest. The coroner walked his horse to the foot of the curtain wall of the inner ward, where Gwyn stood inconspicuously, holding the reins of his own big brown mare. Dressed in his usual thick jerkin of boiled leather, he had made a token gesture to possible fighting by donning a leather helmet with battered metal plates riveted around the crown and over his ears. He stared at the sheriff with scorn, as de Revelle fussed up and down the line of men-at-arms. ‘You’d think he was preparing to storm Jerusalem! I wonder if he knows which end of the sword to hold?’ he grunted scathingly.
The coroner, though no admirer of the sheriff, felt he should give him what little honour he deserved. ‘Come, man, he was in Ireland for a year or so at one time.’
‘Yes, in the company of Prince John. It would be hard to know which of them made the worst mess of it.’
It was true that, back in ’eighty-five, King Henry had given his younger son the responsibility of subduing Ireland, with catastrophic results due to the prince’s incompetence – it had been during this time that Richard de Revelle had become one of his sympathisers.
There was further flurry of activity in the bailey as Morin and the sheriff mounted their horses, the group of Templars following suit. Gwyn hauled his great body aboard his mare and pulled her round to come alongside his master. ‘This will be a slow journey with all the weight of armour on their horses,’ he grumbled. ‘They should have sent it ahead in carts or on sumpters.’
John agreed, but suspected that the sheriff wanted to make the best impression both on the citizens and burgesses of Exeter and on his Templar guests. Like Gwyn, the coroner had not worn chain-mail but also sported a leather cuirass with metal shoulder plates and had a round helmet hanging behind his saddle.
Playing the part of the great leader, the sheriff took his frisky horse to the head of the column, with the castle constable close behind. They began moving towards the gatehouse, when suddenly de Revelle held up his arm and came to a stop. Under the raised portcullis came three more riders and the coroner cursed when he saw the leader. ‘What in the name of Holy Mary is he doing here, Gwyn?’
The Cornishman glowered as Abbot Cosimo and his pair of familiars clattered across the cobbles of the entrance on to the softer ground of the bailey. De Wolfe tapped Odin with his heels and moved over to hear what was being said between the newcomers and the sheriff.
‘I decided that it might be interesting to visit the north of your lands,’ explained Cosimo, in his thin, high voice. ‘I have never been to England before and would see as much of it as I can whilst I am here. Also, not speaking English, it is more pleasant for me to remain with the Norman-French tongue for as long as possible.’
At this somewhat unconvincing excuse, Ralph Morin spoke up from behind the sheriff. ‘There may well be some fighting, if we meet up with pirates – or if the lord of Lundy opposes our will.’
The abbot’s thin lips rose slightly in a smile. ‘Never fear, sir, I shall keep well clear of any such adventures.’ As the papal envoy had previously made clear that he had the unlimited authority of the Vatican behind him for whatever purpose he chose, the sheriff bowed to the inevitable and courteously invited him to join their cavalcade. John knew full well that his brother-in-law was so thick with Bishop Marshal – another of the Prince’s men – that he would never say nay to any senior churchman. He also strongly suspected that, like the Templars, the Italian was more concerned with even the slightest possibility of his missing heretic turning up in the north than with any interest in the Devonshire scenery. He realised, too, from the suspicious glances that all these parties flashed at him, that they felt he himself still had some connection with de Blanchefort – especially since Gwyn’s antics outside the cathedral the previous day. He guessed that they still suspected he knew of the man’s whereabouts and might even have him hidden somewhere – which, of course, he did.
The column began moving again and the papal trio fitted themselves between the tail of the soldiers and the six Templars, who formed the rearguard until the coroner and his officer tagged themselves on the end. They all trotted out of the castle and down the high street, scattering children, dogs and the occasional beggar as they made their way out of the city. Most townsfolk stopped their work or marketing to look with curiosity at this band of armed men, as in those days of relative peace, it was uncommon to see so many soldiers and knights on the move within Exeter. In the early-morning light, they clattered under the arch of the North Gate and settled down to the forty-mile ride to Bideford.
Though a herald or king’s messenger could cover fifty or even sixty miles in an average day, using changes of horse, the usual distance for unburdened riders was about thirty, so it was about noon the next day when the posse reached Bideford, the little town on the banks of the river Torridge. They had spent the previous night at a manor near Great Torrington, the soldiers sleeping in two barns of a small manor belonging to the local lord, Walter FitzGamelin. As seasoned old campaigners, the Templars, with de Wolfe, Gwyn and Ralph Morin, were content to lie out in the hay with them, as did the abbot’s sinister attendants, but the Italian and Richard de Revelle enjoyed the rather reluctant hospitality of FitzGamelin in the hall of the manor-house. Sudden inflictions of visiting officials were never welcomed by manors and villages, especially when food for two score men and beasts had to be provided without recompense, but it was not nearly so bad as when a cavalcade of royalty or a major baron passed through, which might bankrupt a small community. Nevertheless the local manorial tenant had to provide hospitality without protest, even if with ill grace.
The same applied to Richard de Grenville at Bideford, but at least he knew in advance of their coming and of his further obligation to provide some of his own knights and men-at-arms. As with all honour holders, he held his lands from the king, either directly or through a baron, bishop or abbey, and as a condition of his grant, he was obliged to provide services and men in time of conflict or when otherwise needed.
As it happened, de Grenville was not particularly put out by the visitation. His little empire was quite affluent, with the dues from the port, the town markets and his several manors, so he could easily afford to assist the sheriff for a few days. Also he had little love for William de Marisco, who was one of his nearest neighbours, though separated by twenty miles of sea. His maritime customers had lost many ships in past years, and this was never good for trade. Although some had been taken undoubtedly by a whole range of pirates, from Turks to Welsh, he was convinced that Lundy had been responsible for a few and the hope that de Marisco might be brought to heel caused him to contribute willingly to the expedition.
When the party from Exeter arrived at the simple motte and bailey castle of Bideford, the troops were settled in some of the outhouses and sheds built against the inside of the stockade walls, whilst the knights and the abbot enjoyed the better accommodation in the hall. This was not the small keep on the mound at one end of the bailey, but a larger wooden building at its foot, where de Grenville and his family resided.