For a moment, he considered sneaking in through the back door to spy out the situation, but then his pride got the upper hand. With a muttered oath at his own foolishness, he strode to the heavy oak front door, over which hung a large bundle of twigs to indicate the tavern’s name to its illiterate patrons.
With his dog at his heels, he ducked under the lintel and went inside. Immediately, nostalgia overtook him as he savoured the eye-smarting atmosphere of woodsmoke, spilt ale, stale sweat and cooking. When his eyes adjusted to the haze and the dim light from the shuttered windows, he saw that there were only a dozen or so people in the single big room: it was mid-afternoon and still quiet.
The murmur of conversation dropped as he walked to his favourite bench near the empty hearth. Heads turned, then drooped away to whisper to each other. The coroner’s liaison with the inn-keeper was common knowledge, as was their recent rift, and his sudden reappearance was good fodder for gossip, but the other customers were careful not to whisper too loudly. They knew that the short-tempered knight was quite capable of cuffing the head of anyone he suspected of making personal remarks about him.
He dropped down on to the bench with Brutus against his knees under the rough table. Almost immediately, a clay pot containing a quart of ale was banged down on the scrubbed boards. ‘Good to see you again, Cap’n,’ wheezed the old potman, his one good eye swivelling independently of the horrible whiteness of the other, which had been speared, years before, at the battle of Wexford. De Wolfe had been in the same Irish campaign and old Edwin had great respect for him. De Wolfe grunted at him, though he was fond of the aged rascal, who was often a useful source of news.
‘You’re the only serving man here, these days, I hope?’ he rasped.
Edwin grinned back, tapping the side of his pockmarked nose. ‘She’s not taken on any more young men from Dorset, that’s for sure. Learnt her lesson, I reckon.’ He looked furtively towards the back of the smoky room as he hissed the words.
‘Where is she, then?’ De Wolfe asked, gruffly to hide his unease.
‘Upstairs, Cap’n. She spends a mortal lot of time in bed these days — on her own, though!’ he added, with a leer, then limped away, his twisted leg another legacy of his days as a man-at-arms in Strongbow’s army. John sat supping the ale, which was widely acknowledged to be the best in Exeter, thanks to Nesta’s prowess in brewing. He turned on his bench to survey the room, half relieved that the auburn-haired landlady was not yet in sight. Most of the other drinkers, the majority of whom he knew well, were studiously avoiding his gaze, though one or two caught his eye and gave a nod.
As usual, there were a few strangers too, mostly merchants and craftsmen passing through the city. In a far corner, a few clustered around a table in the company of a couple of whores, who used the inns to pick up their clients. In a community of only a few thousand people, de Wolfe knew most of the harlots by sight, but one was new to him. She was a handsome, if somewhat raddled, girl of about twenty, noticeable because of her bright red wig, her low-cut scarlet kirtle, and the boldly striped hood of her green cloak, the trademark of a Southwark whore. He wondered why she was plying her trade so far from London. Still, he had had no need of strumpets since he had returned from the wars three years ago and his interest in her was merely passing curiosity.
His eyes moved to the back of the low chamber, where Edwin was drawing off ale and cider from a row of casks wedged up along the rear wall. Near him was a wide ladder that led to the upper floor beneath the roof. The sight of it triggered his nostalgia again. How many times had he climbed it, following Nesta to her tiny room, partitioned off from the open sleeping floor where the overnight guests rented a penny mattress? He had spent so many pleasant afternoons up there — and a few nights when he could arrange an alibi. He had even bought his mistress a fine French bed, a luxury indeed in a time when most folk slept on a palliasse on the floor.
The time went on, and de Wolfe was on his third jug of ale. There was still no sign of Nesta and soon his bladder complained of the quantity he had drunk. Rising, he went out through the back door and relieved himself against the rickety fence beyond the wash-house. On his return, he stopped alongside Edwin, who was pouring ale slops from a leather bucket back into one of the casks. ‘No sign of the mistress, then? Does she often stay abed this long?’
‘No telling what she’ll do these days, Crowner. She’s lost some of her spirit, I reckon, since that young bastard ran off with her money. She leaves much of the running of the tavern to the two wenches and myself.’
John rumbled in his throat, a sound that might have meant almost anything. ‘I’ll just finish my jar, then be off.’ He decided he would stay until he heard the distant cathedral bell ring out for Vespers.
‘Shall I tell her you were seeking her?’
De Wolfe shook his head, his face grim. ‘If she’s not down in a few minutes, forget I was here,’ he said. When he slumped back on to his bench, even Brutus seemed to gaze up at him forlornly.
A few feet above his head, the landlady of the Bush was oblivious of his presence below her. She lay on the French bed in her shift, having pulled off her working gown and linen coif so that her mane of dark red hair flowed over the folded sheepskin that did service as a pillow.
As she stared up at the woven hazel branches that supported the thatch, her mind wandered for the thousandth time over the events of the past few weeks. Life seemed so flat and empty, a dull routine of brewing, cooking and chivvying the tavern servants. The brief excitement of Alan of Lyme had soon turned into shameful betrayal when he had run off with a week’s takings and one of her maids. Her dalliance with him had been born partly of flattery from a smooth-tongued younger man but also as an act of defiance against John, whose devotion to his duties had come before his devotion to her.
She shifted uneasily on the woollen blankets, as she also admitted to herself that the break from him had been an acknowledgement of the hopelessness of their affair. He was a Norman knight and the second most senior law officer in the county, married to the sister of the sheriff. Though the marriage was a hollow shell, there was no way in which it could be broken — and even if Matilda were to die, what king’s coroner would marry a lowly tavern-keeper?
Nesta tried to convince herself that she had ended the affair mainly for his sake, to rid him of the encumbrance of a common ale-house woman, but her heart told her that this was not true. She had been piqued that he had stayed away so much and for so long, and the sudden appearance of a good-looking young man, with his blandishments and flattery, had caught her at a vulnerable time.
Now she was regretting it deeply, especially as she had rejected John’s clumsy attempts at reconciliation when Alan had decamped with her money and her prettiest servant. Her pride had provoked her into sending the coroner away, with a bitter message about their future. He had not been near her since and the passing weeks had made any hope of mutual forgiveness fade to nothing.
She was still young, barely twenty-eight, and knew she was as attractive a widow as could be found anywhere in the city. Had she so wished, she could have found a decent man without difficulty — one who would marry her and help her run the inn, as her Meredydd had done when they first came to Exeter. But the zest had ebbed from her life and as she lay staring up at the dusty rafters, she wondered if she should sell up and go home to Gwent, back to her own people.