The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  On impulse, Gervase walked across to the old man and introduced himself. Pleasantly surprised to hear a royal commissioner talking in English, Thorkell was nevertheless wary.

  ‘What are you doing here, Master Bret?’ he asked.

  ‘Gathering information.’

  ‘About whom?’

  ‘Martin Reynard. Judging by the size of the congregation, he was a respected man who was well known in the town.’

  ‘Funerals are private matters. You had no place here.’

  ‘I did not come to intrude, my lord.’

  ‘Only to pry.’

  ‘Your reeve was to have appeared before us,’ said Gervase. ‘On your behalf. When our predecessors, the first commissioners, visited this town several months ago, they were impressed with the way that Martin Reynard spoke for your cause. You have lost a skilful advocate.’

  ‘I am all too aware of that.’

  ‘What interests me is whether his murder was a case of accident or design. The fact that he was killed days before our arrival here may not be entirely a coincidence.’

  ‘It was not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Instinct.’

  ‘Does that instinct tell you who the murderer was, my lord?’

  ‘No,’ said Thorkell, ‘but it tells me who it was not.’

  ‘Boio the Blacksmith?’

  ‘He would never raise a hand against any man.’

  ‘The lord Henry believes otherwise.’

  ‘He does not know Boio as I do.’

  ‘Ednoth spoke of his gentle nature. He said how kind and eventempered a man your blacksmith is. I have never met the fellow but he does not sound like a murder suspect to me.’

  ‘Have you voiced that opinion to the lord Henry?’

  Gervase nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I did.’

  ‘Unfortunately?’

  ‘It brought his anger down upon my head. He upbraided me for poking my nose into the business and told me to let justice take its appointed course.’

  ‘Justice!’ Thorkell's tone was rancorous. ‘What does the lord Henry know about justice? He should be out hunting down the real killer, not imprisoning one of my men on false evidence.’

  ‘But a witness saw Boio in the forest near the murder scene.’

  ‘Grimketel!’

  ‘Can his word be trusted?’

  ‘Not by me. Grimketel is a liar. He even had the gall to attend the funeral today. I spoke to the villain as he was leaving and demanded that he tell the truth. All I got was further lies.’

  ‘I watched you talking to the man,’ said Gervase.

  ‘I would as soon have struck the villain.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I do not believe that he saw Boio in the forest on the morning in question. It is a tale he invented. Grimketel is deliberately trying to throw suspicion on to him.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘To embarrass me and to conceal the real killer.’

  ‘You think this Grimketel is in league with him?’

  ‘It would not surprise me.’

  ‘How can his evidence serve to embarrass you?’

  ‘Boio is my man. If he is convicted, I will be tainted.’

  ‘Why should this Grimketel work against you?’

  ‘To advantage his master.’

  ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Adam Reynard.’

  Gervase was startled by the intelligence and it set his mind racing. Extensive land in the possession of Thorkell of Warwick was at the heart of the major dispute which the commissioners had come to resolve. Two claimants were contesting the ownership of the property and each seemed to have a legitimate cause for doing so. One of the claimants was Robert de Limesey, Bishop of Lichfield, currently domiciled in nearby Coventry, and the other was Adam Reynard, kinsman to Martin. In locking horns with Thorkell of Warwick's reeve, Adam Reynard would have been fighting with his own blood relation. Gervase slowly began to realise the full implications of that situation.

  ‘Is he here today?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Adam Reynard.’

  ‘No, Master Bret.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he and Martin were hardly on speaking terms,’ said Thorkell gloomily. ‘They were only distant relations but Adam tried to use the blood tie for gain and urged Martin to give him covert help. When my reeve refused, he was roundly chastised, but he felt that his first duty was to his master.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Martin Reynard's sense of duty to me may have proved fatal.’

  ‘You point a finger at his kinsman, then?’

  ‘He is a far more likely killer than Boio.’

  ‘Strong enough to crush his victim to death?’

  ‘No,’ admitted the other, ‘but rich enough to employ someone to do the office for him. I have no evidence to offer beyond my low opinion of Adam Reynard but I tell you this, Master Bret. Instead of torturing an innocent blacksmith, the lord Henry would be better employed asking stern questions of my reeve's kinsman.’

  ‘What sort of kinsman fails to pay his respects at a family funeral?’

  ‘You may well ask.’

  ‘Yet he sent this Grimketel along?’

  ‘To act as his spy, the skulking devil!’

  ‘What exactly did you say to Grimketel?’

  ‘That is between me and his master.’

  ‘You sent a message to Adam Reynard?’

  ‘He knows my opinion of him and of that wretch he employs.’

  Thorkell gestured to his men that it was time to leave and the four of them gathered around him. There was a bluntness about the thegn which convinced Gervase that he was telling the truth. Thorkell was not one to dissemble. Though his manner with Gervase was polite, he made no effort to ingratiate himself with the young commissioner and that too weighed in his favour. As the old man turned to go, Gervase put out a hand to detain him briefly.

  ‘One last question, my lord.’

  ‘Ask it quickly. I have other business in hand.’

  ‘Why did your reeve quit his position at the castle?’

  ‘I begin to wish that he had not. It might have been his salvation.’

  ‘If the lord Henry held him in such high regard, why let him go?’

  ‘He did not, Master Bret.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He expelled him from the castle.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘A personal matter,’ said Thorkell wearily. ‘I did not enquire into the details and Martin was too hurt to talk about the rift.’

  ‘Were you not curious?’

  ‘No. All that concerned me was that I was acquiring an able and experienced man. Martin Reynard may have left the castle under a cloud but he was beyond reproach in my service. The lord Henry was a fool to release such a man,’ he said sharply. ‘His loss was my gain.’

  Pulling his cloak around him, he turned on his heel and led his men out of the churchyard, picking his way between the gravestones before disappearing around the angle of the church itself. A pensive Gervase watched him go. The few minutes in the company of Thorkell of Warwick had been a revelation. Before he could reflect on what he had learned, however, there was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find himself under the disapproving gaze of Henry Beaumont.

  ‘What are you doing here, Master Bret?’ he asked.

  ‘Every death deserves the tribute of a passing sigh.’

  ‘The lord Philippe warned me that you would be coming.’

  ‘Does my presence require a warning, my lord?’

  ‘You never even met Martin Reynard.’

  ‘I have now.’

  There was a long silence. While Henry searched his face and tried to divine his real purpose in attending the funeral, Gervase made a mental note to be more careful what he said in front of Philippe Trouville now that he knew the latter would report it to their host. Their profitable session together in the shire hall had not bonded the commissioners in the way Gervase assu
med. Trouville's discretion could not be counted on. It was more important for him to befriend the lord Henry than to show loyalty towards his colleagues.

  Most of the mourners had now departed and only the family members remained at the grave, paying their last respects and being comforted by their parish priest. Gervase glanced across at them.

  ‘Martin Reynard has left much suffering in his wake,’ he said.

  ‘He was loved and respected by all.’

  ‘Your household was well represented here, my lord.’

  ‘Martin was part of it for many years.’

  ‘Until you dismissed him.’

  Henry winced slightly. ‘That is a matter for regret.’

  ‘There must have been a serious falling out,’ said Gervase artlessly.

  ‘Who told you that? Thorkell of Warwick?’

  ‘He was the beneficiary of your argument with Martin Reynard.’

  ‘Do not believe everything that Thorkell tells you,’ said Henry quietly. ‘He is very old, often confused. And he is embittered.’

  ‘By what, my lord?’

  ‘My refusal to let him visit the murderer.’

  ‘Thorkell does not believe that Boio is the murderer.’

  ‘That is the reason I forbade him access.’

  ‘And is it the same reason you turned down my request?’

  ‘No, Master Bret,’ said Henry. ‘I resented your interference in a matter where you can be of no help whatsoever. Thorkell at least does have a personal involvement here. Boio is a freeman on his land. He will be very sorry to lose his blacksmith.’

  ‘Especially if there is some doubt about the fellow's guilt.’

  ‘Not in my mind.’

  ‘What did he stand to gain from Reynard's death?’

  ‘Do not apply your lawyer's dictum of cui bono? here,’ said Henry with impatience. ‘It is not relevant. Boio is a halfwit. He does not think in terms of gain. Anger was motive enough for him. Martin argued with him and the blacksmith flared up. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘Is that what he has admitted?’

  ‘Not yet. But he will.’

  ‘Under duress, most men will admit to anything.’

  ‘I have given him a second chance.’

  ‘Second chance, my lord?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, glancing in the direction of the castle. ‘When I interrogated him with the aid of his priest, Boio was stubborn and would confess nothing. I resolved to loosen his tongue by other means. But your scribe persuaded me to let him speak with the prisoner, to offer him solace and sound him out at the same time. Brother Benedict is a wise and plausible man. I have a feeling that he will get the truth from the blacksmith. You see, Master Bret?’ he added with a thin smile. ‘I am not the cold, heartless monster you take me for. I believe in giving every man a fair chance to clear his name.’

  His words had the ring of a taunt.

  Boio had been given water with which to bathe his wound and clean himself up, and fresh straw had been brought to his cell, but these were less acts of kindness to the prisoner than preparations for lord Henry's next visit, concessions to his sensitive nostrils. The dungeon still bore a noisome stench but it was nowhere near as overpowering as it had been. When Brother Benedict was shown into the cell, he was in no way troubled by the foul smell and daunting coldness, luxuriating in both as tribulations he cheerfully welcomed. Boio was alarmed to see his visitor, fearing that the monk had been sent to administer last rites before summary execution. The blacksmith began to gibber his innocence but Benedict calmed him with soft words in his own language and won his confidence by feeding him the scraps of bread and chicken which he had concealed in the sleeve of his cowl.

  Boio was gradually reassured. He munched the food hungrily and gratefully. Benedict introduced himself, explained what brought him to the town and bided his time. Only when he felt that the prisoner was starting to relax did he even try to begin a proper dialogue with him.

  ‘Do you believe in God, my son?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Boio.

  ‘Have you prayed to him since you have been in here?’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘What have you prayed for, Boio?’

  ‘To be let out.’

  ‘You did not pray for forgiveness?’

  ‘Forgiveness?’

  ‘For your sins. And for this terrible crime.’ He leaned in close. ‘It was a terrible crime, Boio, and you must confess it before God.’ ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ said the other simply.

  ‘Tell the truth.’

  ‘It is the truth.’

  ‘You are accused of murder.’

  ‘I did not do it.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘As God is my witness,’ said Boio, wiping the back of his arm across his mouth. ‘I am not a murderer. I would never deliberately take anyone's life. Even if I hated them.’

  ‘If that is a lie, you will burn in hell for it.’

  ‘No lie. No lie. No lie.’

  It was the frightened whimper of a child. Benedict was touched. He could see that the blacksmith was in a state of quiet panic. The man did not know what was happening to him and lacked the intelligence to defend himself properly. As he looked into the big, bewildered face, the monk could not believe that he was being misled.

  ‘Let me ask you once more,’ he said. ‘Did you commit murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you attack Martin Reynard?’

  ‘No, no, I swear it.’

  ‘Did you have an argument with him?’

  Boio's mouth opened to issue a denial but the words did not leave his lips. He seemed to be struggling with a dim memory. He put a hand to his forehead as if to aid the process.

  ‘I think that I did,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You only think?’

  ‘It is what they say about me. It may be true.’

  ‘They also say that you murdered a man. Might that not also be true?’

  ‘No!’ said the other hotly. ‘I may forget some things but I would not forget that. I did not like Martin Reynard. He was unkind to me and to … But I did not murder him. Why should I?’

  ‘You tell me, Boio.’

  ‘I would never do that.’

  ‘Not even when someone made you angry?’

  ‘No, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘So people do make you angry sometimes?’

  A long pause. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘I turn away from them.’

  ‘Does the anger go away?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘But not always?’ Boio shook his head. ‘What do you do then? When the anger does not go away, what do you do then?’

  ‘I walk in the forest, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘It is peaceful in the forest.’

  ‘Have you ever met Martin Reynard there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone says that you have.’

  ‘He is wrong.’

  ‘You were seen in the forest near the place where he was killed.’

  ‘That cannot be.’

  ‘The man has given a sworn statement.’

  ‘I was not there.’

  ‘It was shortly after dawn.’

  ‘I was not there. I told Father Ansgot. I was in my forge that morning. With the donkey. I had to shoe the donkey for the stranger.’

  ‘What stranger?’

  ‘He did not tell me his name.’

  ‘And he was riding a donkey?’

  ‘A miserable beast, no more than skin and bone.’

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  Boio screwed his face up in pain. ‘I cannot remember.’

  ‘Your life may depend on it.’

  ‘I know, Brother Benedict. I have tried and tried.’

  ‘Try once again. For me. Will you?’ Boio nodded and the monk patted him encouragingly on the arm. ‘Was the man old or young?’

 
; ‘Old, I think.’

  ‘Did he dress well?’

  ‘His cloak was tattered.’

  ‘Yet he could afford to have his donkey shoed.’

  ‘He had no money.’

  ‘Then how were you paid?’

  Boio consulted his memory again and there was another delay.

  ‘He gave me a bottle,’ he said at last.

  ‘A bottle? What was in it?’

  ‘Medicine. That was it, Brother Benedict. He had no money so he gave me the medicine instead. He said it would cure aches and pains.’

  ‘Was he some kind of doctor?’

  Boio shrugged. ‘That is all I can tell you.’

  ‘Which way did he ride? Do you remember that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone else see this man at your forge?’

  ‘No, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘But he was there.’

  ‘Yes. With his donkey.’

  ‘And he can vouch for you? He can confirm that you were at your forge when this other witness claims you were in the forest?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Boio with excitement. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

  ‘Did you tell this to the lord Henry?’

  The blacksmith's face crumpled. ‘He did not believe me.’

  ‘But it is the truth?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘This is not some story you invented?’ said Benedict, watching him through narrowed lids. ‘Come now, Boio. Be frank with me. If a man really did call at your forge that morning, I think you might remember a little more about him than you have. What did he say? What sort of voice did he have? Where had he come from? How did he treat his animal? What was his trade? What kind of man was this stranger?’ His tone sharpened into accusation. ‘You cannot tell me, can you?’