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topics ranging from the best wood for making quarterstaffs to the usual nostalgia for homes and families from whom they were for ever banned, at least in theory. This last theme was pursued by their leader, to the concern of some of the others.
    'I've made my mind up, I'm going into the city this week,' announced Nicholas.
    This obviously worried Robert Hereward, who in their former life had been de Arundell's steward. 'Sir, I well know how badly you wish to see your good lady, but is it wise to put your head into the lion's mouth?'
    His master shook his head, Hereward recognising the obstinate look that appeared on his weathered face. 'Not only do I wish to see my wife, but I need to talk to her about our situation,' he grated. His voice shook with anger. 'I'm damned if I'm to stay an outlaw for the rest of my life, especially when those bastards de Revelle and Pomeroy are at the root of it all!'
    There was a growl of agreement from the others. 'But can you get into Exeter and stay there unrecognised?' persisted Peter Cuffe doubtfully.
    'Getting in is no problem, I'll wait outside the West Gate at dawn and push in with the press of people entering for the market. With a wide pilgrim's hat and a few badges sewn on an old cloak, the porters'll not look twice at me.'
    'And when you're in, what then?' persisted Robert Hereward, anxious for the safety of his hot-headed leader, as the penalty for discovery would be a summary hanging or beheading.
    'Lady Joan is lodging there with a cousin, using a different name. No one knows of the connection between her and a noble outlaw, so she's quite safe. She's supposed to be on a pilgrimage to pray for her sister's health at the shrine of Saint Radegund in the cathedral.'
    'And you'll be sheltered by them?' asked Peter dubiously.
    'Yes, almost no one knows me in Exeter,' said Nicholas confidently. 'We're Cornish people, even though I inherited a Devon estate.'
    He waved his mug at Gunilda for a refill and she plodded over with an earthenware pitcher of cider. 'I just hope you don't stay too long, that's all,' she growled fiercely. 'Every day makes the risk greater for you.' He shook his head as she poured the murky liquid.
    'A day or two at the most. Then I'll be back here with some sort of notion of what to do next. My wife has sharp wits and talking to her will settle my mind.'
    The old woman went round the circle of men, topping up their pots. 'Then may God and his Blessed Mother protect you, for if you were caught, this gang of numbskulls would perish without your guidance.'

    That evening a biting east wind was whistling down the narrow tunnel of Martin's Lane as Sir John de Wolfe loped towards his house, the second of two dwellings in the short alley. Opposite was the side wall of an inn on the corner of High Street, next to a livery stables, where the coroner stabled his old warhorse Odin. The house was tall and narrow, being timber-built with a roof of wooden shingles. It had an almost blank front, with a single unglazed window at ground level, covered with heavy shutters. The only other opening was the front door of blackened oak with studded metal hinges. This led into a small vestibule, with a passage around to the backyard at one end. At the other, a door led into the hall, a high gloomy chamber which occupied all the interior of the building, though a solar had been added on upstairs at the back.
    John entered the vestibule, thankful to be out of the wind, though it was still freezing inside. He took off his wolfskin cloak and sank on to a bench, wearily pulling off his boots in favour of house shoes. Going into the hall, he passed between the wooden screens that attempted to block the worst of the draughts, then advanced on the hearth, which was his pride and joy. Most houses still had a central firepit, the smoke having to rise to the roof and find its way out under the eaves, leaving a great deal behind to smart the eyes and irritate the throat. Several years before, copying