The Lions of the North (Domesday Series Book 4)

by Edward Marston

  “Choose your weapons, my lord.”

  “Sword and dagger.”

  “What happens if I lose?”

  “I'll throw you over a horse and take you into York. Aubrey Maminot will pay handsomely for your pelt.”

  “Inga must not be touched.”

  Nigel scowled. “If I win, she is mine.”

  “Never!” insisted Olaf.”

  “I'll see that no harm comes to her,” said Gervase.”

  “So will I!” vowed Ragnar.”

  Nigel Arbarbonel stared across at her, loath to relinquish such a prize. To have her as his prisoner would feed all his fantasies. There was such a crude amalgam of lust and anger in his eyes that Inga could not meet his gaze. She was glad when Gervase put a protective arm around her.

  “Well?” pressed Olaf.”

  “She will go free,” promised Nigel sourly.”

  “And if I win?”

  “There is no hope of that!”

  “We shall see, my lord. But if I do, I want it known that you were not murdered. You were killed in fair combat on your own terms. Order your men to bear honest witness.”

  “That eventuality will not arise.”

  Nigel looked across at his men and they grinned back. Confident of their master's success, they gave their word that Olaf would not be branded a murderer.

  “I, too, will bear witness!” said Gervase.

  “So will I!” added Inga. ”

  “There!” mocked Nigel. “You have the word of a royal commissioner and that of a girl. Will that content you?”

  “No, my lord. Only your death will do that.”

  The preliminaries were over. Both men drew sword and dagger before circling each other with menace. Gervase feared for his new friend. Olaf moved like a skilled warrior but he wore only a rough tunic and gartered trousers. Nigel Arbarbonel was in a mailed hauberk and a glinting helm, his face and neck shielded by a mailed coif. A glancing blow would only bruise him but it would draw blood from Olaf Evil Child.

  Inga tensed as the Norman struck first, wielding his heavy sword with a practised arm to deliver a flurry of strokes. Olaf parried them with his own blade but he was driven slowly backwards. Nigel's eyes gleamed on either side of his iron nasal.

  “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said. “I'd have shown you no mercy. You'd have been cut down where you stood. Like this!”

  He launched another barrage but Olaf took only the first few blows on his sword before dodging out of range. When his adversary moved in to slice at his neck, Olaf ducked. As the sword tried to smash his legs from beneath him, he jumped over it and retreated to the other side of the clearing. Nigel cursed and lumbered after him but his opponent would not stand and fight. Olaf preferred to parry some blows, strike back with a few of his own, then skip out of reach of the scything weapon in the other's gauntlet.

  “Turn and fight, you coward!” yelled Nigel.”

  “Come and catch me, my lord.”

  Olaf's mobility was taxing Nigel's superior strength. As the Norman lunged and flailed again, he was panting stertorously. Olaf replied with a relay of blows from his own sword, one of which glanced off the other's shoulder. Nigel was enraged. Charging forward with renewed vigour, he swung and jabbed until he forced his man back across the clearing. Olaf's nimbleness was his own downfall. As he tried to hop back out of range, he tripped over the body of Murdac, which lay behind him on the ground.

  “No!” gulped Inga, trying to move to his aid.”

  “Stay!” cautioned Gervase, tightening his hold.”

  Nigel lurched after his man, bringing his sword down with a ferocity that would have cleaved his head in two had not Olaf rolled out of the way in time. The fall was costly. As the outlaw tried to rise, Nigel stamped hard on his sword to jerk it from his grasp. One small dagger now stood between Olaf Evil Child and certain defeat.

  “Stop him!” shouted Inga. “Someone stop him!”

  But nobody moved. Nigel Arbarbonel let out a macabre chuckle but the fight was not over yet. As he came in for the kill, he was wheezing more than ever and he had slowed down. The flashing sword missed Olaf by a foot.

  When he tried to run after his quarry, Nigel was far too ponderous. Olaf danced around him and jumped on him from behind, a forearm across his neck to heave him backwards. They hit the ground with a thud and rolled over. Nigel's sword was knocked from his hand but his dagger was slashing violently. Olaf grabbed the wrist that held the weapon and tried to stab on his own account. Nigel was a resourceful opponent, twisting around to grab Olaf's wrist, then squeezing it hard with his mailed palm.

  It was now a trial of strength. Each dagger drew wild circles in the air as the men tried to attack and defend at the same time. Nigel was now on top and his weight was tilting the balance his way. Olaf was gasping as he strove to hold back the other's jabbing wrist. As Nigel thrust harder, the end of his dagger scored Olaf's face and blood gushed down his cheek. Inga quivered with fear and the other outlaws braced themselves against the outcome. Their leader seemed to be doomed.

  But Olaf Evil Child suddenly revived. Pain drew a fresh burst of strength from him. With a concerted heave, he pushed Nigel off and the two of them rolled over and over, pushing the onlookers even further back and remaining locked in position until they bumped into the trunk of a tree. Nigel Arbarbonel ended on top again but it was he who emitted a cry of anguish before dropping his weapon and slumping forward. When they lifted him off, they found Olaf's dagger embedded to the hilt in his eye.

  The wounded outlaw got slowly to his feet.

  “You saw what happened,” he said to Nigel's men.”

  “So did we all,” said Gervase.”

  “Thank God!” said Inga, breaking free to run across to the victor. “You're safe. You're alive.”

  Olaf Evil Child had not only rescued her, he had killed the man who stalked her so relentlessly. Throwing her arms around the outlaw, she kissed him impulsively on his bloodstained cheek.

  Canon Hubert did not have to wait long for the opportunity to accost Brother Francis. They met in the cloisters not long before Vespers. Francis had his hands tucked in his sleeves and his head lowered in meditation. He looked up to find Hubert in front of him and the ready smile flowered.

  “It is good to have you in York, Canon Hubert.”

  “I would much rather be in Winchester,” said the other. “To be candid, Brother Francis, I wish that I had stayed in Bec, where I was subprior. Brother Simon, too. The Rule was strictly observed at the abbey and that contented us.”

  “I have heard Brother Simon on this very topic.”

  “He is too meek for this sinful world.”

  “But you seem more robust.”

  “Thank you,” said Hubert graciously. “But you, too, have earned congratulations. You served my colleagues well, by all accounts. They both praised your penmanship.”

  “That gratifies me more than I can say.”

  “Where did you learn your art?”

  “At Lastingham when I took my vows.”

  “So far north?”

  “I fled there from my former life, Canon Hubert.”

  “Former life?”

  “I was a soldier. I bore arms against the Scots.”

  “Happy is the man who has renounced violence.”

  “It changed me,” said Francis soulfully. “Killing an enemy gave me no satisfaction. Only revulsion. It changed me. I fled to Lastingham and the monks took me in. I have known the true wickedness of the world and so have sought the cloister.”

  “Yours is a heartening tale.”

  “I found redemption. Most do not.”

  “What brought you to York?”

  “The abbot's invitation,” said the other. “It could not be ignored. He asked me to become involved in the building of the abbey. Inspiring work. I dedicate my life to it.”

  “Do you have funds sufficient for the task?”

  “Not yet, Canon Hubert, but we will. Th
at is partly my responsibility. To find what patrons we may in the city. I have had some modest success,” he said with a smile. “It was I who drew my lord Aubrey in and, through him, others of distinction in the county. My days in armour were not in vain, after all.”

  “In armour.”

  “That is how I met my lord Aubrey. As a soldier.”

  “You served with him?”

  “Beneath his command. He remembered me.”

  “Was he not surprised to see a soldier turned monk?” “Yes,” said Francis, “but he did not take it amiss. Between us, his wife and I persuaded him of the abbey's needs and he has become our benefactor.”

  “I am pleased to hear that. One more thing …”

  “It must wait, Canon Hubert. Vespers is upon us.”

  “The bell has not yet rung.”

  “It will. This instant.”

  Even as he spoke, the minster bell began to toll. With a farewell smile, Brother Francis tucked his hands into his sleeves once more and shuffled quickly away.

  Suspending the work of the tribunal was a regrettable decision because it lengthened their stay in York indefinitely. There was an incidental bonus. Instead of being preoccupied with charters and leases all day, Ralph Delchard had more chances of a casual meeting with Golde. It was she who brought what joy there was to his stay in the North.

  “What else have you been doing?” he asked.

  “We talked, we ate, we visited the chapel.”

  “Herleve and you are bosom friends.”

  “She trust me, Ralph. And I would sooner be looked on as a friend than condemned as a harlot.” Golde sighed. “That still rankles. It is sometimes painful to be seen as others see you.”

  “All that matters is how I see you, my love.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Not often enough.”

  He caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.

  They were sharing a moment alone in their apartment at the castle. Ralph had retired there to reflect on the day's findings when Golde slipped in to change her apparel.

  “I have not been idle here,” she said.

  “It is foreign to your nature, my love.”

  “Herleve has shown me every aspect of the household. If I am to live with you in Hampshire, I must know how to run a large establishment.” Fleeting doubts crowded in. “Am I to come to Hampshire?”

  “If we can once get clear of this hell-hole!”

  “It is a fine household with far more servants than we will ever need. They have a pantry, a larder, a buttery and a kitchen, each with its own staff. I met the baker, the slaughterer, the fruiterer, the candlemaker, the poulterer and I do not know who else.”

  “No brewer?” he teased.

  “They only drink wine here.”

  “We will do the same in Hampshire.”

  “No,” she countered. “You will learn to savour the taste of beer. When you live with a brewer, you must let her demonstrate the finer points of her occupation.”

  “I am your occupation from now on, Golde.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  They embraced again and minutes slid happily past. When they parted once more, Golde continued her bubbling account of the house- hold administration.

  “Four hundred eggs! Can you imagine such a sight.”

  “The hens must be laying without stop.”

  “And fish in huge quantities. Mackerel, flounder, mullet and a dozen other varieties.”

  “Do not mention fish,” he said. “I spent hours down at the harbour this afternoon wading through them.”

  “The cook was the most interesting man I met.”

  Ralph yawned. “Tell me about him another time, my love.”

  “But he was so amusing.”

  “You are the only amusement I want at this moment.”

  “He explained to me how he makes his most delicious dishes. I have the recipes to take back to Hampshire with me.”

  “Golde …”

  “My lord Aubrey makes him work so hard.”

  “I do not really need tittle-tattle about a cook.”

  “You would love this man,” she said. “He gets so wild when he is angry. Banging his pots and pans with his spoon and threatening to leave if his master does it again.”

  “Does what again?”

  “Wakes him up in the middle of the night and demands a meal for his guests. It has happened more than once. What sort of guests arrive at that time? How do they even get into the city?”

  Ralph was listening attentively now.

  They had pitched camp near a stream. Olaf Evil Child rested in the shade of an oak. The wound on his face had been bathed and the blood stemmed. Gervase Bret sat beside him. Now that Inga had been rescued, he could turn to the business that had brought him in search of the outlaw.

  “We need to talk about Tanchelm of Ghent,” he said.

  “I do not know the man.”

  “But you know of him?”

  “Yes,” said Olaf guardedly.

  “And you know that he was murdered?”

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “I have eyes in York.”

  “Did they manage to see who killed him?”

  “No, Master Bret. Nor did they discern why. Do not ask me to solve this murder. I never met this man.”

  “But you agreed to do so,” guessed Gervase.

  Olaf was evasive. “I may have.”

  “Yesterday, by any chance?”

  “I cannot remember.”

  “How did he make contact with you?”

  “I have not said that he did.”

  “You are involved in this. I know it.”

  “Do not pester me,” warned Olaf with irritation. “I will mend your head and loan you a horse and even help to save your companion, Master Bret, but that is all. It was done in the spirit of friendship.”

  “Has that spirit suddenly died?”

  “You are a royal official, I am an outlaw. You live in one world, I live in another. There's an end to it.”

  “No, Olaf.”

  “You have your horse back. Take it and ride to York.”

  “Not until I have heard about Tanchelm of Ghent.”

  “We never even met!”

  “But you were ready to!” said Gervase earnestly. “You did at least consider his proposal. Why was that?” Olaf ignored him. “My lord Tanchelm believed in you. When he looked at the evidence in our returns, he believed that you had been dispossessed by Robert Brossard.”

  “I was. By force of arms.”

  “You have redress through us.”

  “Not now. Not when I am an outlaw.”

  “My lord Tanchelm thought otherwise. Norman law can be harsh but pardon is not unknown. If you presented your claim with charters to enforce it, Robert Brossard might well have been compelled to restore your holdings. We have that power.” Gervase leaned into him. “Did my lord Tanchelm offer you a bargain? Was that it? A fair hearing in return for some information?”

  Olaf Evil Child became restive. He scratched at his beard before turning to stare deep into Gervase's eyes.

  “Why did you come here?” he asked.

  “I had to.”

  “What did you hope to get?”

  “The truth about you and my lord Tanchelm.”

  “He is dead. All that is past.”

  “His killer is still at large. I will do anything to find him. You can help me.” Olaf fell silent again. “How did he reach you? What did he say? Were you tempted?”

  A long pause. “Yes,” admitted Olaf, “I was tempted. He wrote to me in Danish, a language I still cling to at times. My lord Tanchelm let it be known that he had a message for Olaf Evil Child. His request reached my man in York.”

  “Do you still have the letter?”

  “I destroyed it. A dead man's promise is useless.”

  “Promise?”

  “To consider my claim without prejudice,” said Olaf. “In return, he wanted
information. My scouts see every movement of troops and ships. We know who comes, who leaves and where they went while they were here. This was what he wanted, for reasons he did not say.”

  “Did you trust him?”

  “No, Master Bret.”

  “But you came to York yesterday?”

  “With some misgiving.”

  “You were to meet at the shire hall?”

  “When his tribunal dispersed for the day,” said Olaf. “He knew I would fear a trap and tried to reassure me. I watched him come out to dismiss his men. It let me take a close look at Tanchelm of Ghent.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He looked honest enough. And devious enough.”

  “Devious?”

  “To speak with me, he had to get rid of his colleagues and his escort. There were other soldiers outside the shire hall, belonging to someone else. He knew I would not dare to walk past them to go into the hall.”

  “So he left the shutters open for you!” Gervase began to piece it together. “That is why he was not disturbed when someone came through the window. He was expecting you.”

  “But another came in my place.”

  “Who?”

  “I cannot say. All I saw was the commotion. When they brought out a body, I knew it must be him. I left York at once.”

  “Would you come back again?”

  “No.”

  “I would guarantee your safe conduct.”

  “Norman justice would never help me.”

  “Not if you stay out here in the wilderness.”

  Olaf Evil Child looked around at his men. Some were sleeping on the ground, some were chatting, some were eating the last of the day's catch. Eric was sharpening an axe. Beyond them, in a secluded corner, Inga was talking agitatedly to Ragnar Longfoot.

  “Go now while you still have some light,” said Olaf.

  “Will you ride with me?”

  “No, but I'll send someone to guide you.”

  “How can I reach you again?”

  “There will be a way.”

  Inga came across with Ragnar limping beside her. Gervase could see the deep sadness hanging upon her.

  “Have you learned what you came to find out?” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied sadly. “It will not bring Toki back to me. But at least I understand.”

  “Light is failing,” noted Olaf. “Go now or you will not reach York before dark.”