The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  His interest quickened. ‘It has to be the same man.’

  ‘They remembered him well.’ Asmoth looked pleased, recalling the relief she had felt on hearing their words.

  ‘When did they see him, Asmoth?’

  ‘On the morning that Boio said.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the road north. Wenric lives not far from Kenilworth.’

  ‘Would he and his wife swear that they met this man?’

  ‘Yes. They know Boio. They want to help.’

  ‘Did they say where the stranger was heading?’

  ‘Coventry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To sell his medicines.’

  ‘Is he a healer of sorts?’

  ‘He told Wenric he could perform miracles.’

  ‘You are the one who has performed the miracle, Asmoth,’ said Gervase warmly. ‘This may change everything. If this Wenric and his wife are reliable witnesses, the lord Henry will have to listen to them. What sort of man is Wenric?’

  ‘A cottager.’

  ‘On whose land?’

  ‘That of Adam Reynard.’

  Gervase's excitement was checked. The word of a mere cottager would not impress the constable of Warwick Castle and the fact that Wenric had a dwelling and, at most, only a small acreage on property held by Adam Reynard also cast a cloud. Going on the man's repute, Gervase had the feeling that Reynard would never allow one of his cottagers to contradict the more damning evidence of Grimketel. Asmoth saw the change in his manner and grew anxious.

  ‘Did I do the right thing?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Asmoth. You did.’

  ‘And it will help Boio?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘But we have witnesses now. They talked to the stranger.’

  ‘We may need more than that,’ he warned her, ‘but at least we know where to look now. If this Wenric saw the stranger, it may be that someone in Kenilworth also remembers him. This is no weather for travelling around the country. There is a strong chance that the man may still be in Coventry, if that was where he was heading. We have all sorts of possibilities,’ he said with gathering confidence, ‘and I will exploit them to the full. We brought menat- arms of our own. If the lord Henry will not spare a posse to track down the stranger, we may be able to find him on our own. You were right to come, Asmoth. Nobody could have done more to help Boio than you have.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I am only sorry that it was such an ordeal to get here.’

  ‘I would have walked ten times as far.’

  Asmoth gave a weak smile and the hare lip rose to expose a row of irregular teeth. For the first time Gervase noticed the dimple in her cheek. He recalled what Benedict had said about the nature of her relationship with the blacksmith. Asmoth had not taken such pains on his behalf out of simple friendship. She loved him.

  ‘Where is he?’ she said, eyes roaming the bailey.

  Gervase pointed. ‘Over there. Below the wall.’

  She followed the direction of his finger and saw the entrance to the dungeons. It was close to the outer wall. The ground sloped sharply away in that corner of the bailey and the cells had been built at the bottom of the dip, nestling against the wall and partially underground. Small windows admitted only meagre light and ventilation. Thick bars made it impossible for anyone to climb in or out. Asmoth gave a shudder and turned her gaze away. Gervase saw the desperation in her face.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ he said. ‘Let me get you food.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Something to drink at least.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can have it sent from the kitchen.’

  ‘I do not need it.’

  ‘Then rest before you leave,’ he advised.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I will tell the guards to let you shelter in the gatehouse until you are ready to set off again.’

  ‘No,’ she begged. ‘They will only laugh at me.’

  ‘Not if I speak to them sharply enough.’

  ‘Let me stay here.’

  ‘In the porch?’

  ‘In the chapel,’ she said. ‘It will be quiet in there and nobody will mock me. Please let me go in. I can pray for Boio.’

  Gervase was touched. Reluctant to leave her alone, he was yet keen to pass on what he had learned from her to Ralph and to Benedict. The chapel was the one place in the castle where she would be safe from prying eyes or the sniggers of the guards. He opened the door to let her in, then felt a squeeze of gratitude on his arm. Gervase nodded, closed the door behind her then hurried off towards the keep. The sleet was now dying away. He took it as a good omen.

  Asmoth waited only a few minutes before she opened the chapel door to peer out. Seeing the bailey was deserted, she crept furtively out and, keeping to the wall, trotted in its shadow until she reached the dungeons. With no heed for her comfort or cleanliness, she slithered down the steep bank then crawled along in the ditch at the bottom and looked into each of the windows in turn. When she came to the last she saw a dim figure in the straw. From beneath her cloak she brought out something concealed in a piece of cloth and dropped it through the bars.

  She was off again at once, scrambling up the slope then pulling herself to her feet before hurrying towards the gate through which she had come into the castle. Asmoth did not even hear the cruel jeers of the guards as she swept past them and went out into the town.

  * * *

  Boio was still asleep when something fell through the window of his cell and landed on the floor with a thud. The noise brought him awake but it took him time to work out what caused it. Sleep had restored him and he felt something of his old strength coursing through him again but the burns on his flesh were still smarting. The medicine had not taken those away. Snow and sleet had blown in through the window to dampen the straw beneath it. Boio was about to move towards a drier patch near the door when he noticed something directly below the aperture. It was a piece of cloth and he had no idea how it had got there.

  Crawling towards it, he reached out to touch the material and found that it was wrapped around a piece of solid iron. Unwinding the cloth with growing curiosity, he took out something which caused his spirits to lift at once. It was a large file. What he was holding was a tool which he had actually made himself for use in the forge. Only one person would have known where it was kept and had the courage to bring it to him. The sound which roused him from his sleep was now explained. As he fondled the ribbed iron, tears of affection came into his eyes. She cared, she thought about him, she held faith.

  He raised the piece of cloth to his lips and kissed it.

  When he was told about Asmoth's visit to the castle, Ralph Delchard was circumspect. Brother Benedict also counselled prudence. Both men were heartened to learn of the new evidence concerning the traveller with the donkey but they were also alive to its inherent weakness.

  ‘We need something more solid than the word of a cottager and his wife,’ said Ralph. ‘The lord Henry would discard them out of hand and I do not wish to go to him again until we have marshalled more of a case in the blacksmith's defence. Our host will not be easily convinced.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Benedict, nodding sagely. ‘Indeed, I would go further. I think that we need to produce this mysterious stranger himself before we can even hope for a serious hearing. But it proves one thing,’ he added. ‘Our journey to the forge was indeed worthwhile.’

  ‘Something else has been proved,’ said Gervase.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Your judgement of that woman was correct, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘Asmoth?’

  ‘She is much more than his friend.’

  ‘I knew it at once,’ said the monk, cheeks turning to red apples as they rounded in a smile. ‘Life within the enclave does not make us quite as unworldly as you might suppose. We learn to watch and listen. I do not miss much when it comes to a bond between a man and a woman.’
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br />   Ralph grinned. ‘Golde and I will have to be more careful.’

  ‘You are blessed in each other, my lord.’

  ‘I'll wager that you will not say the same of the lord Philippe and his wife. You detect no blessing there.’

  ‘I detect a form of love.’

  ‘Love of ambition.’

  ‘You slander them unfairly,’ said Benedict with reproach. ‘Their marriage may not exactly be akin to your own, nor, I suspect, to that which Gervase and his wife enjoy, but in their own way the lord Philippe and the lady Marguerite are admirably suited.’

  ‘Two hearts hewn from the same piece of granite.’

  ‘They were drawn together by the mystery of desire.’

  ‘You might not think that if you had lingered at the table last night,’ said Gervase. ‘Heloise let fall a confidence which took our breath away. She told us that the lord Philippe had been married before.’

  ‘That is no news,’ scoffed Ralph. ‘The lady Marguerite said as much to Golde. A man of that age was almost certain to have been wed before.’

  ‘Did the lady Marguerite say what happened to his first wife?’

  ‘Not according to Golde.’

  ‘I am not surprised.’

  ‘Why is that, Gervase?’

  ‘Because the lady died by her own hand.’

  Benedict was horrified. ‘She committed suicide?’

  ‘That is what Heloise told us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We were too shocked to ask.’

  ‘Poor woman, to be driven to such a terrible extreme!’

  ‘Who can blame her?’ said Ralph, adjusting quickly to the news. ‘If I was married to a man like that, I think that I would prefer to kill myself.’

  ‘My lord!’ scolded Benedict.

  The arrival of the other guests brought the conversation to an abrupt end. It was not something which could be discussed openly. While they ate their breakfast, the three men nursed their individual thoughts about the wife's untimely death. None of them felt any urge to talk at length with Philippe Trouville, and the man himself, tested by a jarring night, munched his food in a ruminative silence. All that he wished to do was to get to the shire hall and lose himself in the business of the day so that he could block out his memories of the testing night he had just endured with the lady Marguerite. Archdeacon Theobald, also privy to the revelation about the suicide, kept that knowledge completely hidden behind a quiet impassivity.

  When breakfast was over the commissioners adjourned to the town to begin their first session. Gervase carried his satchel of documents and Benedict was amply supplied with writing materials. Ednoth the Reeve was already at the shire hall, ordering a servant to stoke up the fire and taking a last look around the room to make sure that all was in readiness. The appearance of the commissioners sent him off into a display of hand-washing unctuousness. Ralph pointedly ignored his ingratiation.

  ‘Where are the first witnesses?’ he asked.

  ‘Waiting in the antechamber, my lord.’

  ‘Do they know what is expected of them?’

  ‘I have explained it thoroughly.’

  ‘I hope so. We have no time to waste here.’

  ‘They stood before your predecessors,’ Ednoth reminded him, ‘so they have experience of speaking under oath. Shall I send them in?’

  ‘When we are ready.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  He backed away but hovered near the door. Ralph glowered.

  ‘Leave us, Ednoth.’

  ‘Can I be of no further help?’

  ‘Wait with the others.’

  The reeve was slightly peeved and withdrew into the antechamber with a hurt expression. Ralph took his seat at the table with Gervase and Trouville either side of him. Their scribe sat at a right angle to them at the end of the table, thus able simultaneously to watch the faces of those who came before the commission and to catch any signals he might be given by his colleagues. When they had all settled into their seats Ralph gave them a brief lecture on how the proceedings would be conducted, then he looked towards the door, noting that it had been deliberately left a few inches open.

  ‘Send them in, Ednoth!’ he barked.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ answered a voice.

  Half a dozen people filed into the hall and were directed to the bench in front of the table. The reeve lingered annoyingly. Ralph shot him a withering glance and he retreated towards the door.

  ‘Close it properly this time!’ ordered Ralph.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘We will have no eavesdroppers.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  The reeve vanished once more and Ralph gestured to two of his men-at-arms to stand in front of the door. Six members of his escort had followed them to the shire hall to act as sentries and to indicate the status of the commissioners. An oath taken on the Bible was a powerful incentive towards honesty but Ralph had learned from experience that the presence of armed soldiers also helped to entice the truth out of people. He ran a searching eye over the faces in front of him.

  ‘Which one of you is William Balistarius?’

  ‘I am, my lord,’ said a square-jawed man in his thirties.

  ‘And which is Mergeat?’

  ‘Here, my lord,’ said a much older man in Saxon garb.

  Ralph weighed the pair of them up then nodded.

  ‘Let us hear from William the Gunner first,’ he decided. ‘You will take an oath on the Bible that what you tell us is the truth. If you are caught lying, God Himself will punish you in time but you will have to answer to me immediately. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Stand forth, William.’

  It was not a complicated dispute. It concerned the boundary which separated one man's land from another's and which seemed to have moved substantially in the past couple of years. Left in Gervase's capable hands, the whole matter would have easily been resolved during the morning session but Ralph thought it wiser to give Philippe Trouville and Archdeacon Theobald an opportunity to show their mettle. It would be an ideal way to baptise them into their roles. When the first claimant had taken his oath, therefore, and brandished his charter in the air, he was handed over to the new commissioners for examination.

  Theobald was surprisingly impressive. A mild-mannered man whose questions were always couched in politeness, he burrowed slowly away until he began to unsettle the man who stood so proudly before him. It was not long before William Balistarius, a Norman soldier rewarded with land for services rendered to his overlord, was shifting his feet and beginning to stutter his replies. When the archdeacon had revealed weaknesses, Trouville moved in to exploit them to the full. He was relentless. Question followed question like arrow after arrow until the witness was quite bemused. What struck the others was that Trouville did not have to browbeat the man at all. Everything was achieved with the blistering accuracy of his questions and the speed of their delivery.

  There was no need for the watchful Mergeat to make more than a token contribution to the debate. His Norman neighbour was so clearly exposed as the one who had grabbed land unfairly from him by constant encroachment that the issue was never in doubt.

  Ralph took charge once more and berated the losing disputant without mercy, warning him to cede at once the land which he had illegally seized from Mergeat. ‘On pain of arrest!’ he added.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Away with you!’

  When the six of them had trooped out, the commissioners allowed themselves a smile of congratulation. A dispute which might have taken the whole of the allotted period of their first session had been settled in a quarter of the time. It gave them an unexpected respite.

  ‘Well done, Theobald!’ said Ralph. ‘You tore him apart.’

  ‘It was the lord Philippe who did that,’ said the archdeacon with admiration. ‘I merely suggested that the man might be lying to us. The lord Philippe proved it in the most effective way.’

  ‘You a
re a cunning lawyer, my lord,’ said Gervase approvingly.

  ‘The fellow was dissembling,’ said Trouville.

  ‘Yet he bore himself well at first.’

  ‘All that I did was to look into his eyes.’

  ‘His eyes?’

  ‘I could see his dishonesty.’

  ‘That is more than I could,’ admitted Ralph.

  ‘When he started to blink, I knew that he was on the run.’

  ‘With you in hot pursuit.’

  ‘The smell of his blood was in my nostrils.’

  ‘Until you had the fellow cornered.’

  ‘William Balistarius was a stag at bay,’ said Trouville with a grin of triumph, pulling his sword from its sheath and thrusting it viciously into the air. ‘My first kill as a royal commissioner.’

  His harsh laughter reverberated around the shire hall.

  * * *

  It was slow work. Though he was used to handling the file for lengthy periods and imposing its abrasive kisses on solid iron, he had never done so under such constraints. The first thing which Boio had to consider was the rasping noise. Two guards were on duty in the corridor outside his cell. The door was made of stout oak, inches thick and hardened with age, but he was not sure if it would block out all noise of his handiwork. As he rubbed away at the fetters on his ankles, therefore, he muffled the noise by covering the file with layers of straw so that his labours were almost subterranean. To further decrease the risk of being overheard, Boio sat as far away as possible from the door. It laid his neck open to the fierce draught from the window but he felt that a small price to pay for the opportunity which had been given him.

  Immobility depressed him. It was unnatural. The blacksmith was only happy when employed and, though he did not enjoy the freedom of his forge any more, he was at least using his skill and his strength again. He angled the file expertly and rubbed away at the weakest spot. When he tested the iron with an exploratory finger, it was reassuringly warm from his attentions. Blowing the filings away, he attacked the fetters with fresh determination. He was patient and methodical. However, just when he felt he was beginning to make real progress he was interrupted.