The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why did it happen?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the marketplace. When your bear picked up that barrel you say you lost control. Why was that?’

  ‘He is getting old and wilful.’

  ‘Yet the two of you work so well together.’

  ‘Ursa resents that sometimes,’ said the other. ‘He gets fed up with doing the same tricks. If I turn my back he gets into mischief.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To strike back at me. To show me that he can do what he wants from time to time. I could have flayed him for what happened out there in the marketplace today.’

  ‘At least it was only a barrel of fish.’

  ‘That was bad enough.’

  ‘He crushed that big barrel as if it was made of straw. Just think what he would have done if he'd held a man in his arms. Or a child.’

  ‘Ursa would never do that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He only grabbed that barrel to annoy me.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It is a game he plays. Causing mischief.’

  ‘And what other kind of mischief has he caused?’

  ‘Oh, all kinds,’ said the dwarf, giving the bear an affectionate slap. ‘In Worcester he kicked over a pail of milk. In a village nearby he climbed on the roof of a barn. When we went through a wood he chased the pigs and we had the swineherd after us with a stick.’ The old man laughed. ‘Hold fast to your donkey, my friend. They can be stubborn animals but they will not get you into trouble the way a bear can.’

  ‘What is the worst trouble he has given you?’

  ‘That is easily told. It was this very week, not long after we came into Warwickshire. We spent a night in the Forest of Arden,’ said the dwarf with a shiver, ‘sleeping in a ditch, shielded from the wind. When I woke up, Ursa was not there. He had wandered off in the dark. It took me an hour to find him. I was going to beat him soundly for giving me such a fright but I was so pleased to see him that I cried my eyes out. I thought I had lost him for ever,’ he whispered, caressing the bear's arm. ‘Why did he run away from me like that?’

  ‘And where did he go?’ asked the old man. ‘A powerful animal, on the loose for an hour or more. He might have caused all manner of damage. I am glad that I did not bump into him. He might have hugged me to death.’

  As they lay entwined in each other's arms, Ralph and Golde talked at length about Philippe Trouville and his wife. The pair were unwelcome additions to the party. Ralph had his reservations about Canon Hubert but he far preferred the latter's pomposity to Trouville's boisterous self-assertion and the lady Marguerite's haughtiness. The fact that the couple were now estranged gave Ralph a perverse satisfaction. Golde was more interested in what happened to the man's first wife.

  ‘We know what happened,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘The lady Marguerite. When she came into his life, the lord Philippe went astray. She would turn the head of any husband.’

  ‘Does she turn yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We have been through this before.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘You are only fishing for compliments.’

  ‘Have you none to spare?’

  He gave her a warm hug. ‘It seems that you and the lady Adela got on much better alone together.’

  ‘We did. She is a remarkable lady.’

  ‘A tolerant one too, with a husband such as hers.’

  ‘She worships the lord Henry.’

  ‘I fear that he would not settle for anything less than adoration.’

  ‘They are very close.’

  ‘That is what I was hoping to hear.’

  ‘There is no scandal in their marriage, Ralph,’ she warned. ‘They met, they fell in love, they married. There was no more to it than that. The lady Adela dedicates her whole life to being a good wife.’

  ‘Good wives are attentive to their husbands.’

  ‘Is that a veiled complaint against me?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I am simply saying that the lady Adela may be able to help us. If you can charm the information out of her, that is.’ He pulled her close. ‘My thinking is this. The lord Henry seems very anxious to make the wheels of the law turn swiftly. Why? Does he have a reason to want Boio out of the way so quickly?’

  ‘I can hardly put that question to his wife.’

  ‘Put one that is linked to it, Golde.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Why did Martin Reynard quit his household?’

  ‘Has the lord Henry not told you?’

  ‘He has merely hinted,’ said Ralph. ‘The lady Adela may be able to furnish more detail. From what I hear, Reynard was a ladies' man. He would never have dared to flirt with the lady Adela but he was certain to have courted her favour. Find out what she knows about him.’

  ‘I do not see how this will help.’

  ‘Gervase and I have only been looking at the alleged murderer so far. It is time to examine the victim more clearly. The lord Henry wants this whole matter dispatched with indecent haste so that it can be forgotten. Martin Reynard may be the key to our understanding.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The reason he left the household here may be the same reason which got him killed. Will you do this for me, Golde?’

  ‘I will try.’

  ‘It will have to be tomorrow. As early as possible.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, my love. We must try everything.’

  ‘Is it so important to save this man?’

  Ralph took Golde in his arms and looked seriously into her puzzled eyes.

  ‘What would you do if I was wrongfully accused?’

  ‘Anything in my power,’ she answered warmly.

  ‘The principle is the same here.’

  When midnight came the guards in the dungeons were relieved by two of their colleagues. The newcomers did not look forward to their term of duty in the dank corridor. Before they settled down, they checked on their solitary prisoner, unlocking his door and thrusting a torch into the cell to cast a dancing light on him. Boio was fast asleep in a corner, curled up in the straw like an animal, apparently still fettered and manacled.

  ‘Shall we wake him up for sport?’ said one man.

  ‘Let him sleep,’ said the other. ‘It is his last night on earth.’

  ‘We will need a thick rope to stretch that neck.’

  ‘Forget about him until tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The night holds other pleasures for you first.’

  They exchanged a coarse laugh then went out again, locking and bolting the door before putting a stool apiece either side of the brazier. They held their palms over the flames then rubbed them.

  ‘I will need warm hands for my office,’ said the smirker.

  ‘She will warm your hands, feet and pizzle.’

  ‘I will glow in the dark.’

  ‘Do not leave me alone here all night.’

  ‘Rutting must not be rushed.’

  ‘Have your fill of it, Huegon, but be back well before dawn.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And make sure you are not seen.’

  ‘Have I ever been caught in the past?’

  ‘No. You blend with the night.’

  Huegon smirked again. ‘I blend with my mistress.’

  ‘I will look for the wicked smile on her face tomorrow.’

  They chatted amiably for a long time until Huegon felt it was safe to leave his post. If he were caught, the penalty would be severe but the risk was well worth it. The comely wench who awaited him could not be denied. He went up the stairs, let himself out and looked around the bailey. It was empty and windswept. Sentries were posted on the ramparts but their gaze was turned outward. They did not notice the shadowy figure who ran nimbly across the grass. Huegon was still smirking as he went in
to the keep.

  Hunched over the brazier in the dungeon, his companion remained at his post and tried to fend off envy. There had been other nights when he had been the one to take his pleasure while Huegon stayed on guard. Each man helped the other. To pass the time he took a coil of rope from a hook on the wall and amused himself by plaiting it into a noose, holding it up to inspect it and imagining the huge body of the blacksmith twitching impotently in the air.

  A scuffling sound took his attention to the floor and he saw a rat darting past. He hurled the rope at it but the animal had vanished into the drain. Drawing his dagger, the man set it on the table so that he could have it to hand if the rat returned but the creature had somewhere else to go. Time passed and fatigue set in. The tedium of his work added to the man's drowsiness and he eventually dropped off to sleep.

  An hour slid past. He was snoring quietly when the noise started. The clang was muffled but it brought him instantly awake. When he rose to his feet the noise suddenly stopped. He gave a shrug and decided that the prisoner was merely rattling his chains in despair. Then he smelled the smoke. At first he thought it came from the brazier but his gaze soon turned to the door of Boio's cell. Smoke was rising from beneath it. The guard flew into a panic. If there was a fire in the cell the prisoner would be burned alive and he would be held responsible. Fearful of opening the door alone, he was afraid not to do so. To summon help would be to admit that he condoned Huegon's desertion of his post. He had to deal with the emergency himself.

  Grabbing his dagger, he rushed to draw the bolts and unlock the door of the cell. Smoke was now thickening. When he pushed open the door he saw that straw had been piled up behind it and that it was smouldering. Before the guard could decide what to do, firm hands seized him and flung him so hard against the wall of the cell that his helm was dislodged and all the breath was knocked out of him. When he looked up in wonderment at a prisoner who was no longer manacled and fettered, a mighty forearm swung and knocked him senseless.

  Boio moved quickly, stamping out the fire then fetching a bucket of water to dowse its last flickers. The guard was alone but he would call for help when he became conscious again. Seeing the coil of rope outside, Boio used it to tie the man up, tearing a strip from his own tunic to act as a gag. When the guard was securely bound, the prisoner locked him in the cell and threw the key into the drain. In his hand was the file which had eaten its way through his bonds then was used to create the sparks which ignited the straw. He held it tight. It was his talisman.

  The bailey was in pitch darkness when he emerged furtively into the fresh air. Overpowering the guard had been simple enough but escape from the castle would be more difficult, even though he had been there a number of times and had a good knowledge of its design. The gates were locked and sentries were posted. Boio was trapped. He lay behind the cover of the slope and cudgelled his brains until an idea finally seeped out of them. With luck it might work.

  A smile spread slowly in the darkness.

  Only a token guard was on duty throughout the night. Attack was not feared because the county was quiescent and far too distant from the Welsh border to attract raiding parties. Yet sentries were strictly maintained by Henry Beaumont, partly as a means of training his garrison to remain alert and partly to supply the gates with porters in the event of unexpected nocturnal visitors. Two men were on the rampart at the southern end of the castle but they did not stay there. Pinched by the cold and jaded by the dullness of their task, they slipped down to the guardhouse at the base of the wall to steal some rest. Its open door allowed one of them to keep an eye on the bailey.

  ‘How much longer until dawn?’ moaned the other.

  ‘Hours,’ said the watchful one.

  ‘I hate sentry duty, even in summer.’

  ‘Do not let the lord Henry hear you say that. He believes that it is good for discipline and does wonders for the soul.’

  ‘Why is he not out here with us then?’

  ‘There is an easy answer to that.’

  ‘Yes, he lies abed with the lady Adela and—’

  ‘Stay!’ interrupted the other.

  He stepped quickly outside and scanned the bailey. His friend followed him out. It was as dark and deserted as ever.

  ‘I thought I saw a figure moving across the grass,’ said the first guard. ‘There is nobody there now.’

  ‘Perhaps you saw a ghost.’

  ‘I thought it might be that lunatic monk.’

  ‘Brother Benedict?’

  ‘He goes to the chapel at all hours of the night. It may have been him. Or nobody at all. Fancy sometimes plays tricks with my eyes. Let us go back inside away from this wind.’

  They stepped back into the guardhouse but their respite did not last long. The sound of a loud splash made them start. It was as if something very heavy had dropped into the river outside. One of them took a torch from its holder and they scrambled up the steps to the rampart. Looking over the wall, they stared down at the water, convinced that someone had jumped from the castle into the river.

  ‘Call the others,’ said the man with the torch.

  ‘Who but a madman would go swimming in this weather?’

  ‘We will find out. Call them. I will open the gate.’

  More men were summoned and extra torches were brought. They went running through the gate and over the bridge to the other side of the river, moving along the bank to see if anyone was trying to clamber up it. An uneventful night had at last delivered some interest for them. They were so caught up in the excitement of their search that they did not see the burly figure who stole out through the open gate, crossed the bridge and trotted off in the opposite direction.

  Boio was soon swallowed up in the blackness of the night.

  Chapter Nine

  Gervase Bret was in the chapel when he heard the commotion. During his time as a novice at Eltham Abbey, the habit of prayer had been firmly inculcated in him and, though he had chosen not to take the cowl, preferring instead a secular existence which permitted such delights as marriage and freedom of movement, he remained regular in his devotions. He was not alone as he kneeled before the altar. Brother Benedict, who seemed almost to have taken up residence in the chapel since their arrival at the castle, was also there, lying prostrate on the cold paving stones in an attitude of complete abnegation. When the noise filtered in from the bailey, Gervase heard it at once but the monk seemed beyond reach, lost in communion with his Maker and impervious to any sound but that which would signal the end of the world.

  When Gervase went out of the door the full clamour hit him. The whole bailey seemed to be alive. Voices yelled, soldiers ran to and fro, horses were brought from the stables, hounds were loosed from the kennels and the castle gates were being flung wide open to allow a mass exodus. Standing in the middle of it all, imposing order on the chaos, was the tall figure of Henry Beaumont, wearing helm and hauberk and directing operations with a brandished sword. He barked commands at Richard the Hunter, who nodded obediently and ran to his horse. Gervase was baffled. Something more than a day's hunting was afoot. Dodging a troop of riders, he hurried across to the constable.

  ‘What has happened, my lord?’ he said.

  ‘The prisoner has escaped!’ hissed the other.

  ‘Boio?’

  ‘He got out of the dungeons in the night and made off.’

  ‘But how?’ said Gervase. ‘Was he not closely guarded?’

  ‘He should have been!’

  ‘And securely locked in his cell?’

  ‘One of the guards on duty last night saw fit to leave his post,’ growled Henry, puce with rage. ‘He will not do that again! While one guard was away the other was tricked into opening the cell door.’

  ‘What did Boio do?’

  ‘Overpowered him then left him bound and gagged.’

  ‘But how can that be, my lord? The prisoner was shackled. Brother Benedict was shocked when he saw the way you had him chained up.’

  ‘And right
ly so! He is a dangerous felon.’

  ‘Hobbled by those fetters, he would hardly be able to move.’

  ‘He had got free of them.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘And from his manacles.’

  ‘Was the man's strength so great?’

  ‘He did not tear his bonds asunder. A file was used.’

  ‘But how could he get hold of such a thing?’

  ‘That is what I wish to know,’ said Henry vengefully, ‘and the first person I will question is Brother Benedict.’

  Gervase blenched. ‘You cannot suspect him, surely?’

  ‘I can and do, Master Bret.’

  ‘Benedict is a holy man.’

  ‘With foolish notions about the prisoner's innocence. Apart from the guards he is the only person who went into that cell with Boio. The sleeves of his cowl would easily hold a file.’

  ‘You malign him, my lord.’

  ‘Who else could have helped the prisoner?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  But even as he spoke, Gervase realised that there was another possibility. The image of Asmoth came into his mind, so anxious to do what she could for Boio that she had scoured the area to find someone to verify the existence of the stranger with the donkey who had called at the forge. Gervase recalled his own visit to the place. It was filled with tools and implements of all kinds and would certainly contain a file. The woman had walked through snow and sleet to bring her information to him. Gervase wondered if she also brought something else. His eye travelled across to the windows of the dungeons.

  A howl of outrage took his attention back to the chapel. Two guards were holding Benedict and hurrying him across the bailey. The monk was struggling to shake them off and invoking divine assistance. When they reached Henry, the men released the quivering monk.