The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘No, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘Because there was no stranger.’

  ‘There was, there was.’

  ‘Only in your imagination.’

  ‘His donkey had cast a shoe.’

  ‘I think you went into the forest that morning.’

  ‘I was in my forge with the stranger.’

  ‘You met Martin Reynard and you came to blows.’

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Is that how it started? With a fight? Then you got carried away and did not realise your own strength until it was too late and Martin was dead. So you hurried back to the forge and made up this tale about the stranger with the donkey.’

  ‘He came to my forge, Brother Benedict! I swear it.’

  ‘Then why has he disappeared into thin air?’

  ‘He came, he came.’

  ‘Do you want to burn in hell?’

  ‘No!’ howled the other and burst into tears. ‘Please – no!’

  Brother Benedict put both arms around him and rocked him like a mother nursing a baby. The sobbing slowly abated and Boio wiped the tears from his eyes. He sat up and put his face close to the monk.

  ‘I am no murderer,’ he said gently. ‘That is God's own truth.’

  ‘I know, my son. But I had to make sure.’

  ‘What else did the lady Marguerite say?’ demanded Ralph angrily.

  ‘Much more in the same vein.’

  ‘She is a viper!’

  ‘I have met nicer human beings, certainly,’ said Golde.

  ‘And she had the gall to pour scorn on you?’

  ‘Until I decided to strike back. The lady Marguerite soon curbed her arrogance then. I kept my calm as long as I could but no woman is going to crow over me like that with impunity. She is like so many of her kind: willing to wound but unable to face the prospect of retaliation.’

  ‘What did the lady Adela do throughout it all?’

  ‘Keep her composure.’

  ‘Was she not as offended as you?’

  ‘I think she was, Ralph, but she took care not to show it. Though there was a merry twinkle in her eye when I finally routed my attacker.’

  Ralph chuckled. ‘I wish I had been there to see it!’

  ‘It could only have happened with you absent.’

  ‘Why is that, my love?’

  ‘Because you were the main target of her attack.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  When she recounted some of the things which had been said or implied about him, Ralph's fury surged again and he paced their chamber restlessly, pounding a fist into the palm of one hand and muttering expletives under his breath. The idea that his wife had been shown such disrespect was galling enough but the comments about him were quite intolerable. He was all for tearing off to find the culprit so that he could confront her. Golde counselled tolerance.

  ‘Calm down, Ralph,’ she said. ‘If I had known that it would rouse you to this pitch, I would not have told you.’

  ‘I will not have my wife insulted.’ Ralph was scarlet with indignation.

  ‘Let me fight my own battles. I usually win in the end.’

  ‘That is true,’ he conceded with a wry grin. ‘But did that malevolent hag really say those things about me?’

  ‘Malevolent she may be, but no hag. The lady Marguerite is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen and I suspect that you would own as much if you were not so annoyed at her.’

  ‘She is very beautiful, Golde. I admit it.’

  ‘Any man would be attracted to her.’

  ‘At first, perhaps, until her true character came to light. The lady Marguerite may be beautiful on the outside but she is ugliness itself on the inside.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I almost envied the lord Philippe when I first clapped eyes on her but I pity the fellow now.’

  ‘They are two of a pair, Ralph.’

  ‘Yes, you may be right.’

  ‘Drawn together by their mutual desire.’

  ‘Why, so were we, my love. Have you so soon forgot?’

  ‘Their desire is of a different nature. Political ambition.’

  ‘I hate people who lust after power.’

  ‘We are travelling with two of them.’

  ‘Which is the worse?’ he mused. ‘The noisy husband or the conceited wife? The crusty old soldier or the young siren?’

  ‘Each is as bad as the other. They are well matched.’

  ‘Yet the lord Philippe did not wish to bring her with us.’

  ‘Can you blame him?’ she said. ‘His wife will not let him rest until he has fulfilled his greatest ambitions. She drives him on relentlessly and expects to be the consort of a sheriff before too long.’

  ‘That, alas, is not impossible.’

  ‘Would the King be taken in by him?’

  ‘If he garners recommendation enough.’

  ‘But the lord Philippe is such a boor.’

  ‘That never stopped others from becoming sheriff,’ Ralph said with bitterness. ‘Indeed, it might almost be one of the qualifications for such high office. Think of some of the sheriffs whom we've encountered along the way – not least that oaf in your home town of Hereford.’

  ‘I would prefer to forget him!’ she sighed. ‘He was one of the most despicable men I have ever met.’

  ‘Wait until you get to know the lord Philippe better.’

  ‘Is he so objectionable?’

  ‘The signs are all there.’

  Ralph sat on a stool and rested against the wall with his hands clasped behind his head. He surveyed her with smiling affection, then nodded sagely.

  ‘Beautiful on the outside – and the inside.’

  ‘How do I compare with the lady Marguerite?’

  ‘She pales into invisibility beside you, my love.’

  ‘Don't lie.’

  ‘Why not? I do it so well.’

  She gave him a playful nudge then lowered herself on to his knee. Slipping an arm around his shoulder, she recalled some of the charges earlier made against her and pondered.

  ‘Ralph,’ she said at length.

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘There may be a grain of truth in what she said.’

  ‘The lady Marguerite?’

  ‘In some senses I do hold you back.’

  ‘That is why I married you.’

  ‘I am serious. You are ten times the man that the lord Philippe is yet he is more likely to attain high office. Is that partly my fault?’

  ‘No, Golde.’

  ‘Should I be urging you on to fulfil your promise?’

  ‘Not if you wish to stay married to me.’

  ‘But you would make a fine sheriff.’

  ‘I would rather be a loving husband,’ he said firmly, ‘and, in my experience, a man cannot be both. Look at the lady Albreda in Exeter. Neglected and ignored because her husband is too busy coping with his shrievalty even to notice her. And the same goes for all the other wives of sheriffs whom we have met. They enjoy status but little beyond it.’

  ‘That would suit some women.’

  ‘You are not one of them, Golde. Nor would I subject you to that kind of existence. A sheriff may have power and wealth but he also has the most awesome responsibilities. I wish to be spared those.’

  ‘As long as I am not blighting your career.’

  ‘You are my career!’ he said with a laugh. ‘When I am able to enjoy it, that is. For the moment, the King of England comes between us but that will soon change.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I hope.’

  Heedless of the fact that they would have to return to Warwick after dark, Gervase Bret and Brother Benedict left the town by the north gate and goaded their horses into a steady canter. They only had a few miles to ride but the evening light was already beginning to fade and the breeze was stiffening. Gervase did not mind. Benedict's account of his visit to the prisoner convinced him that they must act swiftly to help the man. Nobody else would do so.

  ‘Who was this myster
ious stranger?’ Gervase asked Benedict.

  ‘I have no notion.’

  ‘Why does Boio remember so little about him?’

  ‘I am surprised that the poor soul remembers anything. They have him chained hand and foot and locked away in a fetid dungeon. He has been denied food and water and there was the most fearsome wound on his scalp. He has been cruelly treated.’

  ‘There may be much worse to come.’

  ‘That is why I am anxious to help him.’

  ‘Did you report your conversation to the lord Henry?’

  ‘Most of it,’ said Benedict with a private smile.

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘That does not surprise me,’ said Gervase. ‘He has already made up his mind that the blacksmith is the murderer. The lord Henry would not believe for a second that this stranger with the donkey exists.’

  ‘To all intents and purposes, he does not,’ said the monk, a rare frown eclipsing his customary smile. ‘Unless we can somehow trace him.’

  ‘We will.’

  They rode on along the hard track until the road curved between an outcrop of elms, now shorn of their leaves but still blocking out the view with their looming bulk. When the road straightened and the trees thinned out, the riders saw the forge up ahead, a straggle of buildings which leaned against each other for support like drunken revellers too unsteady on their feet to attempt movement. Forge, stable, house, barn and shed were in a fairly dilapidated state but they seemed a natural habitat for the shambling blacksmith. Reaching their destination, the two men reined in their horses and dismounted before approaching the forge. The door was unlocked and the whole place had a deserted air but, as soon as they went in, they sensed that they were not alone.

  ‘Is anyone here?’ called Gervase, one hand on his dagger.

  ‘We come as friends of Boio!’ added Benedict.

  ‘We are trying to help him.’

  There was a grating noise from the rear of the forge, then a figure slowly emerged from behind a pile of logs. Large frightened eyes studied them closely before she came out of her hiding place completely. Gervase and Benedict held their ground but said nothing. The woman was only in her twenties but her ample girth and rough attire added years to her. She had a plump face with a snub nose and might even have been accounted comely if it had not been for the thick eyebrows. When she came forward into what was left of the light, they saw that a hare lip further disfigured her appearance. It also distorted her speech.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  Gervase pointed to himself and his companion in turn.

  ‘My name is Gervase Bret and this is Brother Benedict. We are guests of the lord Henry at the castle. That is where Boio is being held.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘On a charge of murder.’

  The woman gaped. ‘Boio would not kill anyone.’

  ‘That was the impression I had,’ said Benedict.

  ‘He is the kindest man I have ever met.’

  ‘You are his friend?’

  ‘I clean his house,’ she mumbled, almost blushing. ‘From time to time. When I came today, there was no sign of him and the fire had burned itself out. That meant trouble. Boio never lets the fire die.’

  ‘When did you last call here?’ said Gervase.

  ‘At the start of the week.’

  ‘Were you here when Martin Reynard called?’

  She nodded and took an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘What about the stranger with the donkey?’ asked Benedict.

  ‘Donkey?’

  ‘Do you know anything about the man?’

  ‘No. Who was he?’

  ‘That is what we are hoping to find out. When I saw Boio today, he swore to me that this man had called here early one morning to have his donkey shoed. It is vital that we find him,’ said Benedict. ‘The stranger's testimony may help to save the blacksmith.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let us find evidence that he was here first,’ said Gervase, looking around. ‘Boio spoke of a bottle which the man gave him in payment for his services. A bottle of medicine. Have you seen such a thing?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I have not been here long.’

  ‘If it existed, where would Boio keep it?’

  ‘In his cupboard,’ she said, moving familiarly into the house.

  They followed her as she crossed the sunken floor of the little room. A rough wooden cupboard stood against a wall and she lifted the latch to open it. Her eyes ran swiftly over the contents.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There is no bottle here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Benedict. ‘Boio swore that he had it.’

  ‘There is nothing.’ There was a long pause as she burrowed through the jumble of items in the cupboard. ‘Unless this is it.’

  In her hand was a tiny stone bottle with a cork stopper in it.

  ‘Have you ever seen that before?’ said Gervase.

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘When did you last look in that cupboard?’

  ‘At the start of the week when I put everything away.’

  ‘Then it must have come here after your visit.’ Gervase felt quite excited at the discovery. ‘The stranger did exist and he did pay Boio with a bottle of medicine.’ He held out his hand. ‘May I see it, please?’

  Still wary of them, she surrendered the bottle. Gervase uncorked it, took a sniff then passed it to Benedict, who repeated the process.

  ‘A herbal compound,’ said the monk. ‘Though what its exact contents are, I could not guess. But this is an important start, Gervase. It is clear evidence that Boio was telling me the truth. We must take this back to the lord Henry and confront him with it. A search for this stranger can then be instituted.’

  ‘What of Boio?’ said the woman, eyes widening in fear.

  ‘He will remain at the castle for the time being,’ said Gervase.

  ‘Will they hurt him?’

  * * *

  Four guards were needed to haul him to his feet and pin him against the wall of the dungeon. When Henry Beaumont stepped into the cell, he was accompanied by his armourer, who held a sizzling poker in his thick leather gloves. Acrid smoke rose from its tip. Henry was annoyed when the prisoner did not even flinch.

  ‘Start on his arm!’ he ordered. ‘We'll see how brave he really is!’

  Chapter Five

  Adam Reynard was waiting impatiently for Grimketel's return. He was a big, pale-skinned, fleshy man of middle years with heavy jowls and protruding eyes which gave him an almost comical appearance. When he heard the approaching hoofbeats, he hauled himself to his feet, waddled across the room to fling open the front door and peered out into the evening gloom. Grimketel dropped down from the saddle of his borrowed horse and came trotting obediently across to him.

  ‘I expected you back sooner than this,’ complained Reynard.

  ‘I was delayed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I came back the long way,’ said Grimketel with a knowing smirk. ‘Through the forest. I had someone to see.’

  Reynard gave a satisfied nod and beckoned him inside. Glad to escape the chill wind, Grimketel followed his master back into the building. It was a long, low house with a thatched roof and a sunken floor. Divided into bays, it was originally the home of a Saxon thegn but was now occupied by Adam Reynard and his family. Though he was a man of property, his holdings were scattered far and wide throughout the county, a source of continual regret to a man whose corpulence needed a larger setting than the few hides on which he actually resided. Spreading his bulk in front of the fire, he rubbed his buttocks with podgy hands and looked at his visitor with anticipatory pleasure.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘He is gone.’

  ‘Dead and buried?’

  ‘Six feet under the ground,’ said Grimketel. ‘I watched them lower the coffin into the grave and stayed until they began to cover it with earth. Martin Reynard is a ro
tting corpse.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You will have no more trouble from him.’

  ‘I need not have had trouble at all if the fool had remembered that he was my kinsman. Blood is thicker than water. Martin should have known where his true loyalties lay. Instead of which,’ he said, moving a step forward as the heat from the fire grew too strong, ‘he preferred to serve that old fool Thorkell of Warwick. No doubt he was at the funeral.’

  ‘He was,’ said Grimketel ruefully, ‘and he let me know it.’

  ‘Harsh words?’

  ‘He called me vile names.’

  ‘Thorkell has a ripe tongue when he chooses.’

  ‘And he made threats against you.’

  ‘Not for the first time,’ said Reynard with a contemptuous laugh. ‘Well, I have lived with his displeasure for years and I will increase it when I take that property away from him. Thorkell will really have good reason to curse me then.’ He scratched his belly. ‘What did you find out about the commissioners?’

  ‘They are four in number.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘Ralph Delchard is their leader,’ said Grimketel, giving information he had taken great care to remember. ‘Seated alongside him will be Philippe Trouville, Theobald, Archdeacon of Hereford, and a Gervase Bret.’

  ‘I like the sound of these,’ said the other complacently. ‘Thorkell will find little favour there. Norman judges prefer a Norman landholder.’

  ‘Do not be so sure of that, master.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They are serious men who strive to be impartial.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Ednoth the Reeve.’

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘To beware of the young lawyer,’ said Grimketel, shivering slightly and wishing that his master would not hog the fire. ‘Ednoth has taken their measure. He said that the lord Ralph may thunder and the lord Philippe is like to bully but the one to watch is Gervase Bret. A shrewd, sharp-minded fellow who believes in the supremacy of the law.’

  ‘I believe in it too,’ said Reynard easily, ‘when I have the law on my side. And, in this dispute, I certainly do. I have a charter which attests my legal right to those holdings. Any lawyer will see at once that my claim is far stronger than that of Thorkell of Warwick.’