‘My head is still pounding.’
‘Rest awhile,’ said the other, lowering him on to a bench and sitting beside him. ‘You need time to come to terms with what you saw.’
In the short time they had known each other, Eustace Coureton had grown fond of the monk. Brother Daniel was a congenial member of the party, intelligent, willing and quick to learn, but on the long road from Winchester, when the two men had enjoyed several conversations together, Coureton had detected a more sensitive side to his friend. Behind the amiability and the spiritual exuberance was a decided vulnerability. Hearing of Daniel’s unwitting discovery of the murder victim, Coureton had guessed that the monk would be duly appalled by the experience and might welcome a friendly face, and it was for this reason that he sought him out in the chapel.
Daniel spoke in a whisper. ‘When one of the holy brothers passed away at the abbey it was always a peaceful event. Sadness was tinged with relief that the departed would be going to a far happier station than they had enjoyed on earth. But not in this case, my lord.’
‘I know. Gervase Bret gave me the details.’
‘It was a ghastly sight. I’ll never forget it.’
‘Yes, you will,’ said Coureton soothingly. ‘Time is considerate towards us. It suppresses darker memories. I knew that you’d be shaken by the ordeal and repair to the chapel. That’s why I came to find you.’
‘I’m grateful for your kindness, my lord.’
‘You shouldn’t be left alone. Come and join us, Brother Daniel.’
‘Where?’
‘In the hall.’
The monk was amazed. ‘The banquet is still being held?’
‘It begins very soon.’
‘How can anyone enjoy a feast when a foul murder hangs over us?’
‘In the circumstances, I don’t think there’ll be much enjoyment, but the banquet had to go forth. It was too late to abandon it. Besides,’ he said, philosophically, ‘we have to keep body and soul together. Even a monk must eat and drink.’
‘I lack any appetite.’
‘Then at least sit with us in the hall. Company will distract you.’
‘It’s more likely to sadden me, my lord,’ said Daniel. ‘Don’t worry about me. You go to the banquet with the other guests. I’m only a humble scribe. I don’t really belong there. The chaplain has invited me to share more homely fare with him, so I’ll have someone to comfort me.’
‘What will you do after that?’
‘Come back here to pray once more.’
Coureton gave a tired smile. ‘Who knows? I may even join you.’
‘You’ll be too busy sleeping off the effects of too much wine,’ said Daniel with a flash of his old spirit. ‘I don’t begrudge you that. Drink a cup for me – but raise another for Hermer the Steward.’
‘We’ll all do that, Brother Daniel.’
‘Do the ladies know of the murder?’
‘It would be impossible to keep it from them.’
‘I hope that they’re not too distressed. The lady Golde is robust enough to cope with such grim tidings but Master Bret’s wife is a more delicate creature.’
‘I fancy that she may be tougher than she appears.’
‘You probably thought the same about me, my lord,’ said the monk with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘Yet look at me now. Cowering in the chapel because I stumbled upon a corpse.’
‘There’s rather more to it than that.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes, Brother Daniel,’ explained the other. ‘To begin with, what you found was a mutilated body that turned your stomach. You were bound to turn to God for support. Then again, you may have made a critical discovery that will simplify our work here.’
‘In what way, my lord?’
‘Hermer the Steward was set to be a crucial witness in the major dispute we’ve come to witness. Alive, he would have been vital to his master’s chances of success.’
‘And dead?’
‘He becomes a key that may unlock the door to the truth. A grotesque truth at that. It’s small consolation to you, I know,’ Coureton said with a hand on the monk’s shoulder, ‘but your walk outside the castle may have been providential. In finding that dead body, you did us a kind of favour.’
The banquet was a muted affair. Fine wine and delicious food were served but they were consumed without any relish. News of the murder hung over the occasion like a pall and, though few people discussed the details, all of them had the crime very firmly in their minds. The long table in the hall was presided over by Roger Bigot and his wife, Matilda, a handsome woman in rich apparel who did everything with a natural grace, but not even her smiling affability could put the guests at their ease. Apart from the three commissioners and the two attendant wives, over a dozen others had been invited to dine at the sheriff’s table and they had been chosen with care. Both Richard de Fontenel and Mauger Livarot had been passed over because they were implicated in one of the disputes that Ralph Delchard and his colleagues had come to settle and they would, in any case, be fractious guests if forced to take part in a feast together. Others who might try to curry favour with the commissioners because they, too, would appear before them at the shire hall in due course were also excluded from the guest list.
Those who remained were Norman barons of some standing in the county, outwardly eager to hear of affairs in Winchester, the nation’s capital, yet inwardly suspicious of royal agents whose remit included the imposition of taxes. The men were cautious, their wives largely subdued. Nobody dared to offend the commissioners. Sporadic laughter echoed along the hall but it often had a hollow ring to it. Eustace Coureton took more pleasure from the evening than most, talking volubly to those around him and seizing the opportunity to learn as much as he could about the county to which they had been sent. The discovery of a murder victim did not diminish his appetite in the least. He set about his food with a gusto worthy of Canon Hubert and visibly lifted the jaded spirits of his neighbours with his military anecdotes.
Gervase Bret looked at his colleague with envy, wishing that he had Coureton’s ability to put an horrific event aside in the interests of social decorum. Memories of his visit to the empty house inhibited Gervase. He ate little, drank sparingly and spent most of the time keeping a worried eye on his wife who, dismayed at the tidings, had lost what appetite she possessed and merely picked at her food out of politeness. Gervase regretted having told her about the crime but it was not something he could easily keep from her and he preferred to give his own carefully doctored version of events before she heard the details from anyone else. Though unable to savour the banquet, Alys nevertheless slowly came to take some enjoyment from it, feeling increasingly relaxed in the company of strangers and shooting her husband affectionate glances whenever she felt a surge of pride. The banquet was, after all, being held partly in his honour and that gave her an associated status. Alys warmed to the new sensation of importance.
She was not able to match Golde’s aplomb. Seated beside the sheriff, Golde held her own as if born to the situation, speaking to him in his native tongue with a fluency schooled by her husband. She was lively, attentive and well informed. Roger Bigot and his wife were entertained by her comments and struck by her strong opinions on all manner of subjects. Ralph Delchard did not need to support her in any way. Golde’s ability to sustain an intelligent conversation liberated him to pay attention to the guest on his immediate right. Apart from being one of the most attractive women in the room, the lady Adelaide was a central figure in the feud between the two most prominent Norman lords in the vicinity. Ralph attempted some gentle probing.
‘You were married to Geoffrey Molyneux, I believe,’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied softly. ‘Happily married for several years.’
‘His family lived not far from Lisieux.’
‘You knew them?’
‘Only as distant neighbours. I grew up on the other side of Lisieux and inherited my father’s estates when
he died. Had I gone back to Normandy, I might well have met your husband, but there was a huge obstacle to overcome.’
‘Obstacle?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Ralph, grimacing. ‘The English Channel.’
She gave a brittle laugh. ‘You’re no sailor, I take it.’
‘The sea terrifies me. I’m a soldier. I like dry land beneath my feet. That’s why I rarely return to Normandy. I’ve promised to take my wife, Golde, there one day but I’m not sure if that promise will ever be honoured.’
‘Shame on you, my lord!’ she teased.
‘Why?’
‘A husband should never let his wife down.’
‘Even when it would spare him great distress?’
‘Especially then,’ she argued, good-naturedly. ‘It’s a sign of true love to endure distress for someone else’s sake. Your wife would be duly grateful.’
‘I doubt that she could summon up much gratitude if she saw her loving husband leaning over the side of the boat throughout the voyage. But you raise an interesting point about marital promises, my lady,’ he said, artlessly. ‘Should they be fulfilled only if they’re freely given by the husband, or if they’re extracted deliberately by the wife?’
‘In both cases.’
‘Did you keep your own husband to that rule?’
‘There was no need, my lord. He spoiled me wonderfully.’
‘Is that what you look for in a husband? Someone who’ll spoil you?’
‘I’d need to be loved and cherished first.’
‘Few men could resist doing either for you,’ he said, gallantly. ‘The wonder is that you’ve remained a widow for so long. You must fight off suitors in droves.’
‘One or two, perhaps.’
‘You’re being too modest, my lady.’
‘Am I?’
‘Every man in the room has been staring at you.’
‘But they’re all married. They stare without consequence.’
‘Only because it gives them so much harmless pleasure. But there must be enough single men in Norfolk to make up a posse. If I were not wed, I’d be among them.’
‘No woman wishes to be hunted by a pack.’
‘Then you must pick out a favourite. Who will it be?’
‘Why not ask the lord sheriff?’ she said meaningfully. ‘I can see that you’ve already discussed my marital prospects with him. It’s one of the penalties of becoming a widow. No sooner is one husband consigned to his grave than everyone wonders who will follow him. I’m surprised that a royal commissioner should take an interest in such pointless tittle-tattle.’
Ralph backed off. ‘Accept my apologies,’ he said, penitently.
‘I’m not offended, my lord.’
‘You’ve every right to be. I should mind my own business.’
‘I’d agree with that,’ she said with a cold smile.’
‘You see? I did upset you.’
‘It will take a lot more than that to upset me.’
A servant came between them to refill her cup with wine. When the man stood back, Ralph saw that the lady Adelaide was talking deliberately to the man on her other side and he chided himself for being too inquisitive. He had learned something about her character but nothing at all about the competing claims of her two suitors. Ralph was still wondering which of the men would finally lure her into marriage when one of the contenders made a dramatic appearance.
Throwing open the door, a furious Richard de Fontenel came marching down the hall to stand accusingly in front of the sheriff. Servants froze in their positions and the buzz of conversation died instantly. Everyone turned to look at the enraged intruder. He gazed at the banquet with utter disgust before pointing directly at the host.
‘So this is where you are, my lord sheriff!’ he shouted. ‘My steward is savagely murdered and all you can do is fill your belly. Perform the office that’s required of you,’ he said, banging the table with a fist for emphasis. ‘Arrest the lord Mauger – now!’
The festivities were at an end.
Chapter Four
Covered with a shroud, the body lay on a stone slab in the morgue. Although it was a warm evening outside, there was an abiding chill in the air and Ralph Delchard gave a slight shiver as he followed the sheriff and his turbulent guest into the chamber. Richard de Fontenel was more restrained, cowed by a rebuke from Bigot and showing a respect for the dead now that he was on hallowed ground. Darkness was closing in on the castle and what little natural light penetrated the morgue was now spent. The dancing flame of a single large candle illumined the scene. Hermer somehow looked much smaller than when alive, a shapeless lump beneath the shroud. Herbs had been used to sweeten the smell of decay but it still invaded their nostrils. At the sheriff’s invitation, de Fontenel stepped forward to tug back the shroud. A gasp escaped his lips. The body had been washed and most of the wounds had been bound up, but the corpse was still repulsive to behold. After taking a quick inventory, de Fontenel covered his steward up again.
‘What happened to his hands?’ he asked.
‘They were not found with the body,’ said Bigot.
‘Hacked off?’
‘Presumably, my lord.’
‘But why?’
‘I was hoping that you might suggest an answer.’
‘It’s needless butchery.’
‘Can you think why someone would wish to commit it?’
‘You know what I think, my lord sheriff,’ growled the other.
He lifted the shroud again to take another look at Hermer’s face. Ralph studied his reaction. He and Gervase had visited the morgue earlier to scrutinise the body in the hope of finding that telltale evidence had been revealed by its tending. Neither of them had ever met the steward yet they treated his corpse with a reverence they felt appropriate. There was nothing reverent about de Fontenel’s perusal. As he gazed down at the bruised face for the second time, he might have been appraising some rotten food served up to him by mistake. Ralph saw no hint of grief, still less of affection. He was grateful that the sheriff had asked him to accompany them. It meant that he was able to lend support to his host and take the measure of a man whose extraordinary behaviour had interrupted the banquet in the hall. Richard de Fontenel did not endear himself to the commissioner.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ the visitor said, flicking the shroud back into place. ‘I’ve seen all that I need to of Hermer.’
‘What will you do with the body?’ said Bigot.
‘Take it back with us. My men have brought a cart for the purpose. Hermer will be buried in the local church. And soon,’ he added. ‘Before that stink grows worse.’
‘Death is never fragrant, my lord,’ observed Ralph.
Ignoring the remark, de Fontenel led the way out. When all three of them stepped back into the fresh air, they saw torches burning in the bailey. The last of the guests were leaving the castle. Roger Bigot now gave vent to his own anger.
‘I’ve indulged you far enough,’ he said, sharply. ‘It’s time for recompense.’
‘I owe you nothing, my lord sheriff.’
‘An apology is the least that you could offer,’ prompted Ralph.
The visitor rounded on him. ‘Who asked you for your opinion?’
‘Nobody. I offer it of my own free will.’
‘Then I treat your advice with the contempt it merits.’
‘Don’t insult my guest,’ warned Bigot. ‘I’ll have no more of that.’
‘Then tell the lord Ralph to hold his tongue.’
‘Tell me yourself,’ said Ralph, squaring up to him. ‘If you dare.’
‘I’d dare more than that,’ asserted de Fontenel, truculently.
‘Would you?’
Their eyes locked in a silent tussle. Richard de Fontenel was smouldering but caution slowly got the better of anger. Ralph’s stare was calm but steadfast, conveying a challenge that was too daunting for his adversary to take up. The fact that he was a royal commissioner also had to be weighed in the bala
nce. If rough hands were laid upon his agent, the King himself would come in search of the malefactor. It was Richard de Fontenel who eventually gave way and averted his gaze. The sheriff issued a stinging reproach to his uninvited guest.
‘Take care, my lord,’ he said, confronting him. ‘Offend anyone else beneath my roof and you’ll pay dearly. The banquet you so rudely interrupted this evening was held in honour of important visitors. It was arranged days ago and could not be cancelled at the last moment because of a sad turn of events. No disrespect was being offered to your steward. As you saw, his body was treated with care and respect. Its very presence in the morgue ensured that little merriment took place in my hall this evening.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ Ralph confirmed.
‘There was no excuse at all for your boorish behaviour,’ continued Bigot, glaring at de Fontenel. ‘It disgusted me, upset my wife and outraged my guests. While I’m sheriff here, I’ll obey nobody’s wild demands. Mark that well, my lord. The next time you ride unbidden into my castle with a troop of men at your back, I’ll have each one of you clapped in irons. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ murmured the other.
‘Speak up, man!’
‘Yes, my lord sheriff. I was perhaps a little intemperate.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
Richard de Fontenel shifted his feet and threw a hostile glance at Ralph, annoyed that he was being reprimanded in front of the commissioner and reluctant to yield up the apology that was being asked of him. Cold facts had to be accepted, however. In the county of Norfolk, the power of the sheriff was paramount. It was backed by the King’s own writ and it was fatal to violate that.
‘I crave your forgiveness, my lord sheriff,’ he said at length.
Bigot was brusque. ‘Some things are unpardonable.’
‘I was crazed by the news about my steward.’
‘That’s not how my deputy viewed your response. Olivier tells me that you seemed more concerned about the loss of your gold elephants than you did about the murder of your steward. Have you no loyalty to the men you employ?’
‘I’m their master,’ retorted the other. ‘It’s they who owe loyalty to me.’
The Elephants of Norwich Page 6