The Lions of the North d-4

by Edward Marston

  “That is kind,” said Ralph seriously. “I will mention that to his widow. It might bring a crumb of comfort.” He saw the shrewd look in Hubert’s eye. “Why are you staring at me like that? If you are going to tell me yet again that I stink of fish, I shall get up and walk away.”

  “My nose detects something other than fish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are keeping something from me.”

  “Why on earth should I do that?”

  “For reasons of your own. I will not pry, my lord. But let me say this.

  I am not a fool. You found my lord Tanchelm searching the harbour for information. I now learn that he was equally inquisitive here.”

  “Why, so was Golde,” said Ralph airily. “She visited the harbour with my lord Aubrey, then he showed her every nook and cranny of the minster.”

  “There is a difference.”

  “Is there?”

  “She saw only with the eyes of an innocent traveller.”

  “What are you saying, Canon Hubert?”

  “I believe that my lord Tanchelm’s death may somehow have been connected with his strange curiosity. I do not wish to know any details. They do not concern me. But I would say one thing.”

  “Well?”

  “I am part of this, my lord. Use me.”

  “In what way?”

  “Any way that will help. I, too, can ask questions. And I can get to people and places beyond your reach. Use me.”

  Ralph’s face was inscrutable but his mind was whirring. He had underestimated his rotund colleague and that was a mistake. Canon Hubert had caught the whiff of subterfuge. Having come to get certain information by stealth from him, Ralph now wondered if a more direct approach was possible. Hubert might prove an unlikely ally.

  “I have no comment to make on Tanchelm,” he said. “His reasons for being here lie in the coffin with him.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “But there is a favour I would ask.”

  “It is yours.”

  “How trustworthy is Brother Francis?”

  “Brother Francis?”

  “Is he discreet?”

  “I have always thought so.”

  “Sound him out for me.”

  “Why, my lord?”

  “Just sound him out.”

  Canon Hubert beamed. “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ralph rose from the bench. His companion sniffed again.

  “The stink of fish has gone, my lord.”

  “Has it?”

  “Yes,” said Hubert. “You smell of horse again.”

  The castle was small but well fortified, and its position on the ridge allowed it to command an excellent view in all directions. Halfdan was seen a mile away by the sentry above the gate. Long before he reached the palisade, he was told to stop and state his business. When Halfdan announced that he would speak only with Nigel Arbarbonel, the guard was minded to send him on his way with an earful of abuse and a torrent of threats, but the visitor was persistent and held his ground, claiming that he had something to impart of a personal nature to the castellan. The guard decided that he might be one of the many paid informers used by his master. He was admitted.

  Nigel Arbarbonel was duly summoned.

  “How do I know this is not some kind of ruse?” he said.

  “I swear a solemn oath, my lord.”

  “Only an idiot would trust your word.”

  “Then keep me here as a hostage,” volunteered Halfdan. “If anything happens to you, let your men kill me.”

  Nigel sensed that his unprepossessing guest was telling the truth.

  His offer was certainly an attractive one.

  “Tell me more about this girl,” he said.

  “She is very comely, my lord.”

  “What is her name?”

  “She would not say.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen, eighteen. Not much more.”

  “The right age,” mused Nigel. “Firm and healthy?”

  “Yes, my lord. And of good family. She has breeding.”

  “Is she a virgin?”

  “No question of that.”

  “I will not look at her else.”

  “She is a maid, my lord. Take my word. She has the bloom still upon her. I envy the man who relieves her of her maidenhood. She is beautiful.”

  “I will come,” he decided.

  “And how much will you give us for her?”

  “I do not know until I have seen the girl.”

  “Murdac told us you would pay handsomely.”

  “Why, so I will if she fits your description.” He took Halfdan by the throat. “If she does not, I will cut your tongue out so that you cannot lie again. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the other, backing away.

  Nigel Arbarbonel shouted orders to his men, and six men were soon in the saddle behind him. He nudged Halfdan.

  “Lead me to her,” he said. “You have whetted my appetite.”

  Riding in the company of Olaf Evil Child was an education to Gervase Bret. When he travelled with his colleagues, they moved steadily along a main highway with a sizeable escort. Olaf and his band shunned the roads altogether. Scouts were sent on ahead to reconnoitre. When the others moved, they did so in short bursts, galloping across open ground until they found fresh cover, then resting until the next stage of their journey had been ratified by the scouts.

  They had been kind to him. Olaf had dressed his wound and loaned him a horse. Ragnar Longfoot had confirmed that Inga was a good friend and he was most anxious to rescue her. During the search, Gervase tried to stay beside Olaf.

  “How did you get your name?” he asked.

  “From my father.”

  “Sweinn Redbeard?”

  “He did not like me at first.”

  “Your own father?”

  “When I was born, I was puny,” said Olaf. “So I am told. My father could not believe that such a strong man as he could produce such a weak son. It was an insult he could not bear. He gave me a name that made me sound frightening. Olaf Evil Child. There is strength in a name like that.”

  “It does not become you.”

  The other laughed. “It serves its purpose.”

  They were waiting in a grove until the scouts signalled their next advance. There was no sign of weakness in Olaf now. Gervase had observed his physical power and his strength of mind. He was a natural leader. The others deferred to him at all times and he never had to enforce his primacy.

  Olaf saw the wave from the distant hilltop.

  “They have found something! Come on!”

  Gervase was too slow to keep up with him this time. Olaf set off at a gallop with his men behind him in a tight cluster. They went up the wooded slope until they reached the crest. Gervase was the last to arrive.

  The man was on the ground, cowering before Olaf’s spear.

  “Where is she?”

  “I do not know,” blubbered the captive.

  “Where is the camp?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Would you rather die here?”

  “No, no!” he pleaded. “Spare me.”

  Gervase was overtaken by the certainty of recognition.

  “He was part of the ambush,” he said. “Who is he?”

  “One of Murdac’s men.”

  “Murdac?”

  “Yes,” said Olaf. “Pray hard for your young friend.”

  “Why?” said Gervase.

  “She could not have fallen into worse hands.”

  Murder made him suspicious of everyone. Ralph Delchard was reading significance into every word and deed of those around him and it was hampering his investigation. Innocence should be presumed unless guilt was conclusively proven. He told himself to collect sufficient evidence before he rushed to judgement again. Aubrey Maminot was entitled to speak with Brother Francis if he wished. Nigel Arbarbonel should be allowed to endow th
e Abbey of St. Mary without being mis-trusted. The name of Robert Brossard should not be under a shadow simply because it was due to come before Tanchelm of Ghent in a property dispute. Men should not be condemned out of hand because they were half-brothers.

  Ralph saw how sceptical he had become and it made him feel slightly ashamed. Aubrey was an old friend who was giving them the warmest hospitality, yet he was being repaid with deception and distrust. If Ralph had even the remotest doubts about him, the best way to dispel them was to raise them with Aubrey himself.

  “Our work suffers while this continues,” said Ralph. “It will not be easy to take up the reins again once this crime is solved.”

  “Then take them up right now,” urged Aubrey Maminot. “My lord sheriff and I have resources enough to pursue the killer. Resume the work that brought you to York.”

  “I could not do so with a clear conscience. Tanchelm was my fellow.

  I have an obligation to solve his murder myself.”

  “Then let the others act in your stead. Canon Hubert and Gervase are worthy judges. They will manage alone.”

  “No, Aubrey. We are all of one mind. Tanchelm’s death must first be redeemed, then all three of us will sit together as before with Brother Simon as our scribe.” He clicked his tongue. “The murder enforces a double loss. A valued colleague is taken from us but so is Brother Francis. I will be sorry to lose his cheerful presence.”

  “Yes,” said Aubrey. “He is an amiable fellow.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Exceeding well. Herleve is a patron of the abbey. I never thought to waste my wealth on a collection of black cowls but there’s no help for it. My wife must be kept content. And the abbey was the lesser of two evils.”

  “Evils?”

  “Herleve was desirous of founding a convent.”

  Ralph chuckled. “I cannot see Aubrey Maminot in the company of holy nuns!”

  “A defiance of nature! Such cruel waste!”

  “So you chose the abbey instead.”

  “Yes, Ralph,” said the other. “The monastic ideal is no more use to me than a hole in the head but I am interested in design and structure.

  When this castle was rebuilt, I helped to plan it. That is why Brother Francis is so useful to me.”

  “Useful?”

  “He keeps me informed of the building of the abbey at every stage.

  And he does so with a touch of merriment. He is the only monk I have met who does not make me feel sinful.”

  “Yes. Brother Francis is a tolerant Christian.”

  “It comes from his having lived in the world before taking the cowl,”

  said Aubrey. “The fellow bore arms in his youth. He is no pale imita-tion of a real man like your Brother Simon.”

  Ralph was reassured. Finding his host in the solar, he was glad that he had raised the subject of his jovial scribe. It encouraged him to touch on another matter that had aroused his suspicion.

  “You helped to plan this castle, you say?”

  “After it was destroyed,” said Aubrey. “I did not move the site or alter the basic shape but I introduced many improvements. The keep was reconstructed to my design.”

  “Did that include the lions’ cage?”

  “Of course. It was built into the base of the tower so that Romulus and Remus could be released onto the mound. Fresh air blows in through the bars to combat their smell.”

  “I noticed a trapdoor in the bottom of the cage.”

  Aubrey grinned. “And what did you think it was?”

  “I have no notion.”

  “A wine cellar? A treasure house? A secret room where I keep a bevy of mistresses? No, Ralph,” he said easily. “It is no more than a vault where we store the herbs to lend some fragrance to Romulus and Remus.”

  “I guessed it might have some such purpose.”

  “They guard it well. My lions would allow nobody into that vault except Ludovico and myself. It is the most well-defended part of the castle.” He grinned again. “If the keep were ever stormed, that is where I would hide.”

  Inga lay on the ground in silent agony. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, her back was aching and she was starting to feel the first twinges of cramp. Her physical discomfort was mild compared to her mental torment. Everything was lost. Instead of finding Ragnar Longfoot, she would be sold off to Nigel Arbarbonel like a side of meat in York market and subjected to the most unspeakable treat-ment. If rumours were to be believed, Inga would not be the first young woman to vanish behind the walls of his castle. Her fate was linked to that of her mother and Brunn the Priest. Intolerable pain would be inflicted on both of them.

  Even as she contemplated her own hideous destiny, she found time to spare a thought for Gervase Bret. A fearful blow had knocked him from his horse. He might still be lying on the road, bleeding to death.

  Inga felt strangely culpable. If she had not been with him, it might have been different. He offered her friendship but all she brought him was bad fortune. It was Gervase who had told her about Toki and he had done so with a gentleness and concern that touched her. But for him, she might never have known what happened to her beloved Toki.

  Rough hands seized her and dragged her backwards.

  “Sit up for him,” said Murdac gruffly. “He’ll want a proper look at you, girl.”

  “Let go of me!” she protested.

  “We’ll have you here, I think.”

  Murdac propped her up against a tree and stood back to appraise her. Jeers came from the other men. Their ribald comments and lustful glances burned into her brain. She was entirely at their mercy and she knew that there was worse to come. When she heard the approach of horses, she froze with apprehension.

  The outlaws rose to their feet as Halfdan led the way into the clearing. Nigel Arbarbonel and his men drew up in a semicircle. When he saw his prize, trussed up and helpless, he burst into harsh laughter.

  “I’ll have her!” he insisted. “Whatever the price.”

  “She does not come cheap, my lord,” said Murdac.

  “You’ll get your money.”

  “We knew she would take your eye.”

  “She does,” said Nigel, dropping to the ground. “You could not have found me a finer gift. She is mine!”

  He strode across to Inga and stood over her with his legs apart and arms akimbo. There was a world of mockery in his voice.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Keeping company with such foul ruffians?”

  “Go away!” she exclaimed.

  “But I have come to save you, Inga.”

  Murdac blinked. “You know her, my lord?”

  “Oh, yes. I know her but I intend to know her a lot better before I have finished with her.” The others grinned. “Inga and I are old friends.”

  “I am no friend of yours!” she protested. “And you will not get away with this. They will come after you.”

  “Who will?” he taunted. “Your mother? The valiant priest? We would all quake in our shoes before him! No, Inga. Nobody will come. You are just one more traveller who disappeared on a lonely road. Everyone will think that you were caught and killed by outlaws.”

  “Caught, my lord,” said Halfdan, “but never killed. I’d have kept her alive to serve my pleasure.”

  Nigel smiled. “You see what I rescue you from, Inga?”

  “The bargain, my lord,” prompted Murdac. “It is not yet struck. How much will she fetch?”

  “This much.”

  Nigel detached a large purse from his belt and tossed it to the leader of the outlaws. Murdac opened it and dug his hands joyfully into the coins.

  “The deal is done, my lord. Take her.”

  “Yes,” said Halfdan, standing beside the tree. “And when you have done with her, bring her back to me. I’ll ride her hard when she’s been broken in!”

  The outlaws guffawed but their amusement was curtailed. Thrown with venom, a spear came out of nowhere to pierce Halfdan’s throat before sin
king into the trunk of the tree and impaling him. Armed men converged on the camp from all sides. As Murdac reached for his dagger, Eric’s club knocked him senseless. Before Nigel could draw his sword, two spears prodded his chest. Surprise gave the attackers a supreme advantage. Soldiers and outlaws were held captive.

  Olaf Evil Child came into the middle of the clearing.

  “Release her,” he said.

  Inga was delighted when Gervase Bret ran across to sever her bonds and lift her up. As she looked gratefully around at the others, she saw the face of Ragnar Longfoot.

  “I threw the spear,” he said proudly. “He will never use that filthy tongue on you again.”

  Olaf strode over to confront Nigel Arbarbonel.

  “You surprise me, my lord,” he said with sarcasm. “I did not think to find you paying for something. You and your half-brother have always taken what you want in the past. You stole Thorbrand’s holdings while Robert Brossard stole mine. No coins changed hands in those transac-tions.”

  Nigel glowered. “I’ll not be taught morality by an outlaw.”

  “It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

  “And now that you have caught me,” challenged the other, “what will you do? Put me on trial in York? They will clap you in irons as soon as they set eyes on you, Olaf. Who would take the word of an outcast over that of a Norman lord?”

  “I would!” affirmed Gervase Bret.

  “Keep out of this argument,” warned Nigel.

  “I belong in it, my lord. I was with Inga when she was abducted.

  Anything that concerns her safety involves me.”

  “I say the same!” vouched Ragnar Longfoot.

  “Take him to York!” urged Gervase. “To face trial.”

  “What is my crime?” said Nigel with a contemptuous smile. “Paying for my pleasure with a woman? You’ll not find many men to condemn me for that. They keep the city whores well fed with their own expen-ditures.”

  “Inga is no whore!” asserted Ragnar, advancing on him with a dagger.

  “You will pay for that insult.”

  Olaf raised a hand to stop him. “No, Ragnar. He is mine. I have waited long for this chance. When I chase a rat, I like to kill him myself.”

  “Brave words when you hold the advantage,” said Nigel. “How brave are you when we meet on equal footing?”

  “Let us find out, my lord.”