The Lions of the North d-4

by Edward Marston

  “Pray heaven that we find Olaf.”

  Gervase looked ahead. “I think that we may have done just that, Inga. Keep riding and be of good heart.”

  Trees and bushes fringed the track and he had caught a glimpse of movement off to the right. Inga saw nothing but she heard the whinny of a horse behind the foliage. Resisting the impulse to flee, they trotted calmly on with hearts beating and palms moist. Gervase felt a stab of guilt at having brought her with him but it was far too late to amend that mistake now.

  The ambush was swift. Harnesses jingled, bushes parted and the track was suddenly boiling with bodies. Eight armed men surrounded them in a matter of seconds and held them in a ring of steel. Roughly garbed, they wore long hair and grinned through thick, matted beards.

  Gervase tried to ignore the sword points all around him.

  “Take us to Olaf Evil Child!” he asked.

  The men burst out laughing. One of them grabbed Inga and lifted her bodily from the saddle. When Gervase tried to intercede, the hilt of a sword was smashed down on his head. Knocked from his horse, he lay on the ground in a daze with blood oozing from his wound. Inga’s screams soon faded in the distance.

  As he strode across the courtyard, they were riding in through the gate with an escort of six men. Ralph Delchard stopped to greet them with a wave. Herleve and Golde brought their horses to a halt in front of him. Grooms immediately ran up to take each animal by the reins.

  Ralph helped his hostess down from her saddle with a courteous hand.

  Golde was taken by the hips and swung gracefully to the ground.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “For a ride,” said Herleve. “Golde is a breath of fresh air to me. It is months since I left the castle for any reason and it might have been months before I left it again. Your dear Golde encouraged me to go and it has been a joy.”

  “She is a persuasive lady,” said Ralph.

  “I have found that out.”

  “We visited the Abbey of St. Mary,” said Golde.

  “Outside the city walls?”

  “Yes. Little is yet built but the site is vast.”

  “It will be a landmark in years to come,” said Herleve.

  “Castles are better landmarks than abbeys,” argued Ralph with a provocative grin. “They impose a stability and tell you much more about the character of a place. Besides, why do you need an abbey in York when you already have a minster and too many churches?”

  “No city can have too many churches,” said Herleve with a sweet smile. “An abbey performs other functions. It is for those who prefer the cloistered existence.”

  “Brother Simon!”

  “Each man serves God in his own way.”

  “I could take issue with that remark.”

  “But you will not,” said Golde tactfully. “Especially when you are talking to one of the patrons of the abbey.”

  “Patrons?”

  “Oh, I merely lent my name to the endowment,” said Herleve. “It is my husband who has supplied the money.”

  Ralph raised an eyebrow. “Aubrey, a religious man?”

  “I have enough interest for both of us.”

  “You are certainly well informed about the abbey,” said Golde. “You knew as much as the masons working on it.”

  “The project fascinates me, Golde. I have been involved from the start. My husband has been generous to a fault. Not only has he provided funds for the abbey, he has found other patrons to make endow-ments.”

  “This is a side of Aubrey I have never seen,” said Ralph, “and I will tease him mightily about it. I did not know that he raised money for a monastic establishment.”

  “At my prompting, I must confess.”

  “Did you have to hold a dagger to his throat?”

  “It was Aubrey who held the dagger,” replied Herleve. “In a manner of speaking, that is. When we had a banquet here at the castle some weeks ago, he bullied our two guests into pledging their support of the abbey.”

  “Were they reluctant patrons?” said Golde.

  “Very reluctant.”

  “How did he talk them into it?”

  “Aubrey knows how to get his own way.”

  “Who were the two unfortunates?” said Ralph.

  “Nigel Arbarbonel and his half-brother.”

  “Robert Brossard?”

  “Yes. You know him.”

  “I know of him,” said Ralph, “and I have met Nigel Arbarbonel. He did not strike me as a man who would rush to endow an abbey several miles from where he lives.”

  “Such is the power of my husband’s tongue.”

  “Aubrey opens his mouth and an abbey rises up!”

  The women laughed, then took their leaves and headed for the keep.

  Ralph was about to collect his horse from the stables when he thought of something.

  “One moment,” he called after them.

  “Yes?” said Herleve, stopping to turn.

  “I wondered if you knew Brother Francis.”

  “Very well.”

  “Has he ever been to the castle?”

  “A number of times.”

  When he came out of his daze, Gervase Bret pulled himself up into a sitting position to take his bearings. Inga and the two horses had vanished. He remembered the ambush but had only the haziest recollection of the men involved. One thing was obvious. They were not part of Olaf Evil Child’s band. The thought of what they might do to Inga made him rise quickly to his feet but he soon regretted the sudden movement.

  His head pounded and he began to sway violently. His hat had taken the sting out of the blow, but the sword hilt had still opened his scalp and blood was streaming down the back of his neck. Folding his hat, he held it against the wound to stem the flow. His mind slowly cleared and his legs began to declare their loyalty. Straightening up, he tried to consider his options. They were not appealing.

  It was too far to walk back and too dangerous to go forward. If he went in the direction of York, he would be abandoning Inga to the mercies of her captors and would have to face anguished questions from Sunnifa and Brunn the Priest. If he struggled on, he could get lost in the wilderness of the North Riding and fall prey to other outlaws. On foot, he had no chance of tracing Inga. He needed help and he needed a horse.

  Gervase could not stay where he was. His first move was to get off the road and conceal himself in the bushes. He and Inga had been too visible a target as they rode along. When he decided to press on, therefore, he picked his way through cover to the side of the road, looking furtively in all directions and keeping his ears pricked for the sound of horses. Sword in one hand, he tended his wound with the other.

  He had gone just over a mile when he heard the hoofbeats. He flung himself to the ground behind a bush, then raised his head gently to see who was coming, hoping that they might be soldiers or travellers.

  Gervase was out of luck. A dozen riders in tunics and gartered trousers came galloping hell for leather along the track with their weapons drawn. He sensed hostility at once and threw himself face down once more, not daring even to breathe until they thundered past.

  When he did try to get up, he found that he could not move. Something hard and decisive was pressing down on the small of his back.

  Before he could swing his sword, a spear sunk into the ground inches from his face.

  “Who are you?” said a voice.

  “My name is Gervase Bret.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “York.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We were riding in search of someone.”

  “Where is your horse?”

  “We were ambushed,” said Gervase, one eye on the spear as it was pulled from the ground and used to flick his sword out of reach. “They took the horses. And my companion.”

  “Two of you alone on the highway?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are lucky to be alive, Gervase Bret.”

&nbs
p; “I know.”

  “Who did you seek?”

  “Olaf Evil Child.”

  There was a startled pause, then a throaty laugh echoed through the trees. The foot that held him down was now used to turn him over onto his back. Gervase looked up into a rugged face with a beard of reddish tinge. His captor appraised him with amused interest.

  “Why do you want to see Olaf?”

  “To ask him about a friend of mine.”

  “A friend?”

  “Tanchelm of Ghent.”

  Recognition dawned. “You are one of the commissioners.”

  “That is right.”

  “This is a dusty welcome to give you.” He helped Gervase up and peered at the blood on his head. “That wound will need dressing.” He took a step back and spread his arms wide. “Your search is over. I am Olaf Evil Child.” The expression on Gervase’s face made him grin.

  “Are you so disappointed?”

  “I expected you to be different somehow.”

  “With horns, claws and cloven feet? Three eyes, perhaps? A forked tail? No, Master Bret. I am only human.” His spear pointed the way.

  “Come to my camp and we will talk.”

  “I must find Inga first.”

  “Inga?”

  “My companion. A young woman. She was abducted.”

  Olaf was aghast. “You travelled alone through this countryside with a young woman beside you?”

  “She insisted on coming,” said Gervase. “She believes that a friend of hers has joined your band and she is anxious to speak with him.

  One Ragnar Longfoot.”

  “Yes, Ragnar is with us.”

  “He knows Inga. Perhaps he will help me to search.”

  “Where was she taken?”

  “A mile or so back down the road.”

  “How many men?”

  “Seven or eight. Dressed much like you.”

  “With swords or spears?”

  “Swords. One of them knocked me to the ground. Inga was carried off.” He clutched at Olaf’s arm. “I must find her before anything terrible happens to her. Do you have a horse that I may borrow?”

  “Twenty. With riders to match them. Come, Master Bret. We will all search for them.” He pulled Gervase along beside him. “And I think I know where we should begin.”

  Inga struggled hard but the men were too strong. When they reached their camp, she was thrown to the ground, then bound hand and foot.

  When one of them tried to steal a kiss, she spat in his face and he backed away. His companions hooted with laughter.

  “She likes you, Halfdan!” said one.

  “That ugly face of yours excites her,” said another.

  Halfdan wiped the spittle from his beard and leered at her.

  “She is mine first.”

  He reached forward to grab her by the shoulders but Inga bit his hand. Halfdan flung her angrily to the ground and snatched at her tunic. Before he could tear it from her, however, a voice rang out across the clearing.

  “No! Leave her alone.”

  Halfdan was caught midway between lust and obedience.

  “She is mine, Murdac,” he growled.

  “She belongs to all of us,” said another.

  “Yes,” said a third. “I am next.”

  Murdac moved in to push Halfdan away and confront the others in his band. He was a short, stocky man with swollen features and a ruddy complexion. His hand was on his dagger as he saw the mutiny in their eyes.

  “You are all fools,” he snarled.

  “She is booty,” insisted Halfdan. “We share her.”

  “And what will you get for your share?” said Murdac with disgust.

  “Five minutes of grunting pleasure and some scratches down your face! The girl is worth far more to us than that.”

  “He is trying to keep her for himself,” warned Halfdan.

  “No, I am not. I am using my brain. You only see a woman here and your pizzle does the rest. I see a hostage.” He looked around at his men. “Do you know how much we might get for her? She will bring us gold.”

  “Who from?”

  “A certain Norman lord.”

  Slow smiles spread across their faces as they realised who their leader meant. Even Halfdan was impressed but he was loath to forfeit his pleasure.

  “I have a better idea, Murdac,” he said. “We share her first and then sell her off.”

  “No, you ox! If we touch her, she will be worthless.”

  “Why?”

  “He will not pay for damaged goods.”

  The men muttered among themselves before agreeing with the plan.

  Inga almost swooned with relief as they drifted away. Murdac was as callous as the rest but he had at least delayed her fate. It was a small mercy.

  Halfdan lingered. “Go to him at once, Murdac. Get a good price for her. I will guard her while you are gone.”

  “No,” said the other. “You would ravish her before I was a hundred yards away. You will take the message, Halfdan. I will stay here to keep the prize safe.”

  Halfdan protested but he knew he would have to obey.

  “Will he be at his castle?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Murdac. “Give him my regards.”

  “You are sure he will buy her from us?”

  “Very sure. She will not be the first girl who has vanished behind those walls. My lord Nigel is a man of taste.”

  When she heard the name, Inga went into a faint.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tanchelm of Ghent had been methodical. As he retraced the man’s footsteps through the city, Ralph Delchard came to admire both his energy and his application. Tanchelm had spoken with almost everyone of significance in York. Through the unwitting channel of Canon Hubert, he had even put indirect questions to Archbishop Thomas at the minster. The Fleming had used the disguise of innocent curiosity and the information had come flowing in.

  Some of what he had learned was irrelevant to his needs and much of it was too trivial even to remember, but Tanchelm had separated the wheat from the chaff as he went along. Ralph found his own work as a commissioner fatiguing and all-consuming. It was astonishing to him that his former colleague sat on a tribunal all day yet still found time to explore the city, to meet its denizens and to garner intelligence from a wide variety of sources.

  Ralph talked to many of those who had talked to Tanchelm. They all told the same story. He was an astute and personable man with an insatiable interest in everything around him. Nobody seemed to suspect for one second that his interest might have a deeper purpose.

  Hours of painstaking research left Ralph weary. He amazed himself by seeking out the company of Canon Hubert in the minster precinct.

  “My lord?”

  “Is there somewhere we may sit down? My feet ache.”

  “Step this way.”

  Hubert conducted him to a stone bench and they sat down beside each other, dwarfed by the minster behind them. A fastidious man, the canon wrinkled his nose with disgust as he caught an unpleasant odour.

  “Fish!” he said.

  “I have been to the harbour. They were unloading their catch.”

  “You smell like part of it, my lord.”

  “Then sit further off if it offends you.”

  “What were you doing by the river?”

  “Watching the boats come in. Talking to the sailors.”

  “Why?”

  “My lord Tanchelm did the same thing, it seems. I was searching for someone who might have spoken to him and who remembers what he said. Even the tiniest clue may be valuable.” He saw Hubert’s pained expression. “Stop sniffing away like a dog at a rabbit hole.”

  “It is such a pernicious aroma, my lord.”

  “It will wear off.”

  Ralph did not tell him what he had discovered at the harbour.

  Tanchelm’s affable enquiries had been directed at fishermen who had sailed up the Ouse from the North Sea. He wanted to know about the movements of vessels
off the coast and the state of the tides. His particular interest was in how long it would take a boat to sail around Spurn Point, up the Humber Estuary and thence into the River Ouse.

  Hubert slipped into his familiar mode of condescension.

  “While you were conversing with fishermen,” he said, “I was speaking with Archbishop Thomas. He sent for me.”

  “To excommunicate you?”

  “To ask about the murder of my lord Tanchelm.”

  “It has reached the ears of an archbishop?”

  “Everything of importance in this diocese reaches Thomas of Bayeux.

  The Church is a fount of knowledge. No man understood that better than our late colleague, for he made extensive use of the fact. That is how his name came into the hearing of Archbishop Thomas.”

  “Tanchelm?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Go on.”

  “It seems that he was conducting an inquiry here.”

  “At the minster?”

  “Apparently so.” Hubert sounded peeved. “I have to say that I took it amiss at first. Brother Simon and I had already furnished him with so much information about the minster. What need did he have of more?”

  “I have no idea,” said Ralph artlessly.

  “And why did he not mention it to me?”

  “It?”

  “His clandestine inquiry. When he had drained us of all that we could tell, he turned his attention, it now emerges, to other figures in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The provost, the dean, the treasurer, the precentor, even the master of the schools. All were quizzed about the comings and goings at the minster.” He stared pointedly at Ralph.

  “And the comings and goings in York itself. The Church never sleeps.

  Its eyes watch over the whole city.”

  “What did the archbishop say?”

  “He told me of this startling curiosity.”

  “And?”

  “He wondered if I could account for it.”

  “What did you say, Canon Hubert?”

  “The truth,” said the other. “That I could not. I did not know my lord Tanchelm well enough to discern the real nature of his interest.”

  “Did that answer satisfy him?”

  “Yes, my lord. Archbishop Thomas asked what progress had been made in the murder investigation, then promised to include my lord Tanchelm in his prayers.”