The Wildcats of Exeter (Domesday Series Book 8)

by Edward Marston

  ‘You will have to guide me, Ralph,’ he said.

  ‘There will be little need of that.’

  ‘You and the others are veterans. I am a novice. What must I do?’

  ‘Look and listen,’ advised Ralph. ‘You will soon pick up the rudiments of our trade. We are here to sit in judgement and to collect taxes. That means we shall be very unpopular.’

  ‘I am used to that. It is in the nature of conquest. After twenty years, the Saxons still do not accept us.’

  ‘It is not the Saxon population who cause the problems,’ warned Ralph with a faint grimace. ‘It is our fellow Normans. Devon has more than its share of robber barons, Hervey. We must call them to account.’

  ‘A final reckoning?’

  ‘Indeed. A Domesday Book.’

  They skirted a copse and crested a rise to be given their best and most striking view of their destination. Exeter was a handsome, prosperous, compact city, encircled by a high wall above which the tower of its cathedral, the massive fortifications of its castle and the roofs of its taller buildings rose with evident pride. Situated on the River Exe, it occupied a strategic position and was easily defended from attack. Seeing it so close once more reminded de Marigny of his earlier visit.

  ‘There is something I did not mention,’ he said, keeping his voice low so that nobody but Ralph could hear him. ‘An aspect of the siege too indelicate to discuss in front of Golde and Canon Hubert.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Ralph.

  ‘The reason they held out for so long was that they were emboldened by the presence of Gytha, mother of their late king, Harold.’

  ‘Earl Harold. He was no king but a vile usurper.’

  ‘The Saxons recognised him as their monarch and his mother shared in the lustre of his name. They flocked to her banner accordingly.’

  ‘A forlorn enterprise.’

  ‘Give them their due, Ralph,’ said the other. ‘They held us at bay for eighteen days and might have done so even longer had we not come to composition. But what I felt too improper to recall earlier was this. One of those hairy Saxons was bolder than the rest.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Mounted the ramparts to show his defiance to our army.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He lowered his breeches, bared his buttocks and let out such a fart of contempt that it was heard a mile away.’

  Ralph was torn between anger at the insult and amusement at the sheer bravado of the man. He found it difficult not to laugh.

  ‘Was the rogue caught and punished?’

  ‘I do not know, Ralph.’

  ‘Farting at the King? He should have been soundly whipped for his effrontery.’ He began to shake with mirth. ‘Then given a second beating for his backsidery. It was a savage weapon to use against us.’

  The two of them laughed all the way to Exeter.

  Joscelin the Steward prided himself on his efficiency. Tall and slim, he cut an elegant figure as he glided around the castle to check on the preparations for the guests. He was relatively young to hold such a position – still in his late twenties – but he discharged his varied duties with a quiet industry that left no room for complaint. Baldwin de Moeles, sheriff of Devon, came to rely on his steward more and more, delegating tasks to him which would normally have been outside his remit. Joscelin coped admirably with all that was thrown at him. No matter how onerous the work that was piled upon him, he managed to retain his poise and good humour.

  He was in the kitchen when the guests arrived. As soon as he caught a glimpse of them through the window, he abandoned his inspection and headed for the courtyard. Ralph and the others had dismounted. Relieved to be out of the saddle at last, they were stretching their legs and taking stock of their surroundings. Joscelin sailed across to them, surveying the company as he did so and forming a favourable impression of them. There was a sense of order and discipline about them which was apparent even at a cursory glance.

  ‘Welcome to Exeter, my lord!’ he said, identifying Ralph Delchard as the obvious leader and heading for him. ‘I am Joscelin the Steward and I will see to all your needs while you are here in the city.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ralph. He introduced his wife, Gervase Bret and Hervey de Marigny before indicating the two monks. ‘Canon Hubert and Brother Simon will sit with us on the commission but they will not lay their heads beneath the same roof. They will be staying as guests of Bishop Osbern and would appreciate a guide to take them to their host.’

  Joscelin flicked his fingers and a servant trotted across to him to receive his instructions. After bidding farewell, Hubert and Simon rode out of the castle on the heels of the servant. Another gesture from the steward brought a soldier to his side. The man was told to take charge of the escort, to see to the stabling of their horses and to show them to their lodging. In less than a minute, Joscelin had cleared the courtyard of all but Golde and the three commissioners. Ralph was struck by his easy authority and imperturbable manner.

  ‘I hope that we meet with the same willing co-operation from everyone in this county,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Do not count on that, my lord,’ said Joscelin tactfully. ‘Commissioners from the King mean taxes on property. You may encounter resistance.’

  ‘That is nothing new, my friend. We are inured to it.’

  ‘What manner of man is the town reeve?’ asked de Marigny.

  ‘Saewin?’ said the steward. ‘He is a good man and a diligent reeve. Saewin also has another distinction. He is one of the few Saxons in whom you can place absolute trust.’

  ‘Take care what you say,’ warned Ralph with a jovial nudge. ‘My wife is the daughter of a Saxon thegn and Gervase here, too, has Saxon blood in his veins. They will take you to task for any aspersions you may cast upon their forebears.’

  ‘I meant no disrespect,’ said the other calmly, ‘but you must remember our history. Exeter was the site of a major rebellion soon after we took possession of this island.’

  ‘I know it well,’ said de Marigny with a nostalgic grin. ‘I was part of the army which laid siege to this city. It took us almost three weeks before we persuaded Exeter to submit.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ continued Joscelin, ‘but that was not the end of the matter. When you departed with the rest of the army, four more attempts were made to stir up a revolt and expel us. It has made the lord sheriff view the Saxon population with some degree of suspicion. However,’ he said, waving an arm towards the inner bailey, ‘you are completely secure here and I will be happy to escort you to your apartments. A feast has been prepared in your honour and the lord sheriff will be there to give you a more formal welcome to the city.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ralph.

  ‘He had intended to be here when you arrived, but the investigation took him out of the castle this afternoon.’

  ‘Investigation?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. A man was brutally murdered last night.’

  Golde was shocked, Gervase curious and Ralph alerted but it was Hervey de Marigny who pressed for the salient details.

  ‘Has the killer been apprehended yet?’ he said.

  ‘No, my lord,’ replied the steward.

  ‘Is his name known?’

  ‘The lord sheriff is at present seeking to identify him.’

  ‘Who was the victim? Norman or Saxon?’

  ‘Norman, my lord. And well respected in the county. His name was Nicholas Picard.’

  ‘Picard?’ echoed Gervase with slight alarm. ‘But he is involved in one of the major land disputes we have come to settle. Only last night, I was studying the documents relating to his case. Nicholas Picard was to have been called before us on several counts.’

  ‘That will no longer be possible,’ said the steward discreetly. ‘But you will glean fuller details from the lord sheriff over the banquet. He knows far more than I may tell you. Come,’ he added, ‘you must be tired after your journey and in need of rest. Please follow me.’

  ‘Lead on,�
� said Ralph.

  The four of them were led across the courtyard, noting how neat and tidy it was kept and how well-drilled the guards appeared to be. Exeter Castle felt completely safe, yet its garrison seemed to be poised to fight off an imminent assault. The visitors suddenly became aware of how isolated the city was and how they were part of a small Norman minority in a city that was still essentially Saxon in tone and atmosphere.

  Golde felt once more the pull of conflicting loyalties, her instinctive sympathy for the indigenous population offset against the vow of obedience she had given to her husband and the ties of love which bound the two of them so indissolubly together. It put her in an anomalous position and she wondered whether it had been altogether wise to accompany Ralph on this particular assignment. Holding her arm as they walked towards the inner bailey, he sensed her misgivings.

  ‘What is the matter, my love?’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘Something is troubling you.’

  ‘I am fatigued.’

  ‘Are you not glad that we have arrived?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Glad but … unsettled.’

  ‘You cannot be both, Golde.’

  ‘Yet I am.’

  ‘That does not make sense,’ he argued. ‘Do you still feel guilty about being the wife of a Norman? Is that it?’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I thought you had learned to live with that disability.’

  He squeezed her arm and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Golde relaxed. Her doubts vanished and she thought only of the more pleasant aspects of their stay in Devon, reminding herself that she was merely a passenger and had no official function. It was not her place to introduce any personal qualms. Golde was there to support her husband and to share the few private moments they would contrive together.

  The keep was a tall, square, solid structure, perched on the high mound which was a characteristic feature of a Norman castle. They went up the steps which had been cut into the grass and entered through the door. A staircase faced them but they were not allowed to ascend it. Blocking their way and beaming inanely at them was a short, round individual with an unusually large head from which hair sprouted wildly like weeds in a neglected garden. He was dressed in the garb of a Saxon peasant and wore a full beard. In his hand he bore a stick with an inflated pig's bladder at the end of it.

  When the group appeared, he let out a cackle of joy and brought them to a halt with a wave of his stick. Without warning, he then pretended to fall down the steps before he pulled himself to his feet, went through the door and somersaulted down the mound. They watched in amazement.

  ‘Who, in God's name, was that?’ spluttered Ralph.

  ‘Berold,’ explained the steward.

  ‘Berold? Is he a madman?’

  ‘Of a sort, my lord. He is a jester.’

  Chapter Two

  Canon Hubert and Brother Simon did not feel entirely safe until they entered the cathedral precincts and saw black Benedictine cowls moving about with Christian assurance. Travel was a source of great discomfort to Hubert, whose portly frame was always balanced precariously on his long-suffering donkey, and it was a continuous agony for Simon, who had committed himself to the monastic life partly in the hope that he would escape lay company and the affairs of the workaday world in perpetuity. Thrust into royal service, the two of them were caught between a sense of duty and a profound discomfort. While Hubert veered towards self-importance and regarded each new assignment as a recognition of his considerable abilities as a jurist, his companion viewed their work as a kind of martyrdom and prayed daily for release.

  The cathedral church of St Peter soared above them like a huge protective hand and their spirits were immediately lifted. It was a Saxon foundation, distinguished more by its sheer size than by any architectural merit, but they surveyed it with a mixture of relief and awe. A certain amount of rebuilding had taken place in recent years, but there had been no major additions to the basic structure and its essential simplicity set it apart from the elaborations of Canterbury Cathedral and York Minster, both of which the newcomers had visited in the course of their duties.

  They felt at home. As they made their way to the cloister, a figure emerged through the stone arch and came towards them with measured tread. Dean Jerome was a tall, spare man in his forties with a long, rather lugubrious face and a tonsure so perfectly suited to the shape of his skull that he seemed to have been born with it. He introduced himself, bade them welcome and showed them where they could stable their mounts. His voice was deep and reassuring.

  ‘We have been looking forward to your arrival,’ he said.

  ‘Brother Simon and I are grateful to be here,’ said Hubert. ‘The journey was interminable and the conversation not always fit for monastic ears. Now that we have found you, we feel cleansed.’

  ‘That is as it should be, Canon Hubert.’

  ‘I bear a letter of greeting to Bishop Osbern from our own dear Bishop Walkelin of Salisbury,’ said the other, tapping the leather satchel slung from his shoulder. ‘I hope to be able to deliver it in person.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ said Jerome. ‘We had notice of your coming in a letter from the King himself, and Bishop Osbern left instructions that you were to be admitted to him as soon as you reached us. Let me first show you to your lodging then I will take you both to meet him.’

  Hubert was delighted at their reception. No less a person than the dean himself had taken the trouble to greet them and the bishop was treating them like visiting dignitaries. Simon was thrilled to be included in the audience. The spectral monk was accustomed to fade into anonymity whenever they encountered a prelate, leaving Hubert to speak for both of them. To be summoned to the presence of so illustrious a bishop as Osbern of Exeter was an honour to be savoured.

  When they had deposited their satchels at their lodgings, they were conducted across the cloister to the bishop's quarters. Dean Jerome tapped on a door and waited for the invitation to enter. As he went into the room, he beckoned the others after him.

  ‘Our guests are here, your Grace,’ he said deferentially, indicating each in turn. ‘This is Canon Hubert and this, Brother Simon.’

  ‘A hearty welcome to you both!’ said the bishop. ‘I thank God for your safe arrival in Exeter. We are pleased to have you as our guests.’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Hubert with an obsequious smile.

  ‘Yes,’ added Simon nervously. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I trust that your journey was without incident?’ said Osbern.

  ‘Happily, yes,’ replied Hubert.

  Unhappily, no, thought Simon, recalling his ordeal amid the bushes.

  ‘It is a tiresome ride,’ said the bishop, ‘and must have left you both fatigued. Do sit down and rest your aching bones.’

  The visitors lowered themselves on to an oak bench along one wall and beneath a crucifix. Bishop Osbern was opposite them, seated at a table where he had been studying the Scriptures in preparation for a sermon he was due to deliver. He was an elderly man of medium height but he exuded such a sense of religiosity that he appeared to fill the whole room. His round face had a beatific smile which robbed him of a decade or more. A network of blue veins showed through the luminous skin of his high forehead. But it was the kindness and compassion in his blue eyes which most impressed the travellers. They knew that they were in the presence of a truly holy man.

  Hubert was pleased to have the opportunity of meeting someone who had been chaplain both to Edward the Confessor and to King William yet bore such a daunting pedigree so lightly. For his part, Simon was so overwhelmed by his proximity to a legendary churchman that he did not hear Dean Jerome leave the room and close the door behind him.

  ‘This is your first visit to Exeter?’ enquired Osbern.

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Hubert, answering for both of them.

  ‘It is a pleasant town though not without its faults. My predecessor, Bishop Leofric, came here almost forty years ago to find the minster in a
sorry condition. All that remained of a monastic community was a set of mass vestments and a few sacred books. Leofric had to start afresh, renovating a dilapidated building and creating an establishment of canons and vicars. There was little enough money to spare on such worthy projects,’ said Osbern with a sigh, ‘but Leofric put what there was to the best possible use. He is buried in the crypt and I offer up a prayer of thanks for his episcopate whenever I visit his tomb.’ A smile played on his lips. ‘But there was one idiosyncrasy.’

  ‘What was that, your Grace?’ said Hubert.

  ‘When Bishop Leofric installed canons, he made them subject to the Rule of St Chrodegang.’

  Hubert frowned. ‘A curious decision, indeed.’

  ‘You are familiar with the Rule?’

  ‘No, your Grace,’ muttered Simon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hubert, grateful for the chance to display his intellectual credentials. ‘Chrodegang was bishop of Metz over three centuries ago. He had a distinguished political career, but his ecclesiastical achievements were even more impressive. He founded the abbey of Gorze and devised the Rule by which his name is remembered.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Osbern. ‘The canons of his cathedral lived a community life devoted to the public prayer of the Church but in close association with diocesan officers. They were also – and this is what makes the Rule so odd in my view – authorised to own property individually. I incline strongly to the more stringent dictates of Benedict.’

  ‘So do we, your Grace,’ said Hubert.

  ‘A vow of poverty leaves no place for ownership of property.’

  ‘We are glad that you have righted your predecessor's error.’

  ‘It was not an error, Canon Hubert,’ said the other tolerantly, ‘but merely a difference of emphasis. God may be worshipped in many ways, all of them equally valid. I have knelt in prayer beside a Saxon and a Norman King of England. Their language, upbringing and attitudes separated them but their devotions united them as one.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace. But I forget myself,’ said Hubert, realising that he was still holding something in his hand. ‘Bishop Walkelin sends his warmest greetings and bids me deliver this to you.’ He crossed to the table to place the letter upon it. ‘He has fond memories of your last meeting.’