He had undertaken a long and dangerous journey with me in Germany, and between us we had discovered the whereabouts of the captive King Richard and helped to secure his release and return to England. I had been a mere stripling then and even King Richard was now long dead, but the abbot – although become frail and very elderly, and entirely bald but for a few silver wisps of what had been his tonsure – was still hale and whole and delighted to see me, and he remembered our German adventure with startling clarity. Abbot John welcomed us to Boxley with true Christian kindness late that October afternoon and while I washed the dust of the road off my face and hands, he set his monks to finding nourishment and accommodation for the two hundred and thirty-three Rochester townspeople. We had had the Devil’s own luck on the five-mile journey from the wood outside Rochester to Boxley – or God’s mighty hand had shielded us on our pilgrimage to His House, if you prefer – for we got into the trees just in time.
