The Hawks of Delamere d-7

by Edward Marston

  They could not help us. They had seen nothing.’

  ‘Do you have any clues at all, my lord?’

  ‘Only this.’ He held up the arrow again. ‘It came from a Welsh bow and matches the one that killed my hawk yesterday.’

  ‘Then you hanged the wrong men,’ Gervase pointed out.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the archer is still at liberty, neither of the men you captured yesterday could have fired the arrow which killed your hawk. They were innocent of the crime.’

  ‘So it appears,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Both men carried bows,’ argued Hugh.

  ‘Were their quivers full of arrows like that?’

  ‘No,’ he grunted. ‘But that makes no difference.’

  ‘It does, my lord. They must have paid for a crime they did not actually commit,’ concluded Gervase. ‘While you were arresting them, the true culprit was making his escape.’

  ‘They deserved to die,’ said Hugh angrily. ‘What were they doing in Tarvin Hollow, if not poaching my game? Forest law is rigidly enforced. I was right to hang them without wasting time on a trial.’

  ‘Were they Saxon or Welsh?’ pressed Gervase.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘A great deal, my lord.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Saxon poachers would not use Welsh arrows in their bows.’

  ‘And honest men would not need to run away as they did,’

  retorted Hugh, annoyed at being cross-examined in the street.

  ‘Their flight was an admission of guilt and they were rightly hanged.

  They were lucky. I was lenient.’

  ‘Lenient?’

  ‘Yes, Gervase. Death was mercifully swift. That will not be the case for this Welsh assassin when we finally catch him. As we will,’ he vowed. ‘He will suffer all the rigours of torture before we burn him alive. Stand back.’

  Ralph and Gervase moved aside as Earl Hugh kicked his horse into a trot. The column moved off after him, the dead man hanging limp across his mount, which was towed along by a lead rein.

  Ralph turned to grin at his companion.

  ‘I think you upset him, Gervase.’

  ‘There was no other choice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wanted information about those two men he hanged.’

  ‘Why? What is your interest in them?’

  Gervase remembered the tears running down Gytha’s face. ‘I believe I know who they might be.’

  Brother Gerold was alone in the chapel, standing before the lectern and reading in silence a passage from the Gospel according to St Matthew. He meditated for a long time on what he had read, searching for a new meaning in words which had become comfortingly familiar over the years but whose depths he had never yet fully plumbed. Gerold was so completely submerged in his study that he did not hear the latch being lifted on the door or see the figure who stepped quietly into the chapel.

  Gervase Bret waited until the chaplain closed the Bible and walked back down the nave before moving out to intercept him.

  ‘May I trouble you for advice, Brother Gerold?’ he said.

  ‘Well met, Gervase!’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘It is yours before you even ask for it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you seek spiritual guidance, my son?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Gervase, ‘but guidance is involved.’

  ‘Speak on.’

  ‘How far away is Tarvin Hollow?’

  ‘Not far. With a sound horse, a man could probably ride there in under an hour.’

  ‘Then that is what I will do,’ decided the other. ‘Could you give me precise directions? Which road should I take?’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ counselled Gerold. ‘Why this rush?’

  ‘I have to honour a promise.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘A young woman and her brother. They were waiting at the shire hall this morning and begged our help to find their missing father and brother.’

  ‘Are you in a position to offer that help?’

  ‘I think so, Brother Gerold.’

  He explained the circumstances and the monk reached the same conclusion. The two men who were hanged on the pevious day might well be the missing family members. Clearly, neither of them could be the Welsh archer who had apparently fired an arrow at the Earl of Chester. At the worst, the men were poaching and that was normally punishable by blinding or mutilation. It did not merit the violent death forced upon them. Brother Gerold was not simply overcome with compassion. He was ready to give practical assistance.

  ‘I will take you there, Gervase.’

  ‘All the way to Tarvin Hollow?’

  ‘It is heavy news to bear. You might appreciate another pair of hands to share the load.’

  ‘Indeed, I would.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Gerold, ‘you might easily get lost on your own.

  Tarvin Hollow is an appreciable distance from the village of Tarvin itself.’

  ‘Gytha lives close to somewhere called Willington.’

  ‘That would be even more difficult to find.’

  ‘Then I need a pathfinder.’

  ‘I am at your disposal, Gervase.’

  ‘Your kindness is overwhelming.’

  ‘The thought of these young people troubles me,’ said Gerold.

  ‘They may have suffered a grievous loss. I am used to imparting dread tidings in a way which can lessen the blow. And until their parish priest can be found, Gytha and Beollan may welcome the consolation that I am able to provide.’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  ‘Then let us repair to the stables at once, Gervase, and collect our horses. This embassy brooks no delay. You can furnish me with more detail on the journey.’

  ‘I will.’

  They left the chapel together. Gervase was delighted. He would not only have someone to lead him through the forest; he would have the opportunity to get to know Brother Gerold better.

  Gytha filled the wooden pail with water then began the long trudge from the stream back to the cottage. It was tiring work but it had to be done. Since her mother’s death, the chore had fallen to Gytha and she did not complain. As she struggled back through the undergrowth, she tried to convince herself that her father and brother would soon return with a plausible explanation for their long and worrying absence. They may have gone hunting further afield, or been detained at the home of friends, or one of them might have been injured and forced to rest overnight before coming back. It was foolish to fear the worst when all might be well.

  They never told her where they were going. Gytha was not supposed to know because they feared that she would fret. When they brought home food for the pot, she realised they had been poaching even though they invented tales of having found a dead rabbit or hare or game bird lying in their path. Gytha was aware of the risks that her father and brother were taking but they had evaded the foresters and verderers for so long that she assumed they would never be caught. They were too wily and skilful at their trade.

  Their hovel was a mean dwelling. It was a small, squat building made of rough timber and roofed with thatch. Its single room was divided into two tiny bays by a wooden screen. Five of them had lived in its cramped interior until her mother’s untimely death from fever. It was not a home that allowed either privacy or secrets. They were a close family.

  When she finally reached the cottage and rested the heavy pail on the ground, she found Beollan sitting on the grass, absent-mindedly whittling a piece of wood with the knife his father had made for him. The boy was sullen and withdrawn. Since the disappearance of the others, he had hardly spoken a word. Beollan was no longer the noisy younger brother whom Gytha had to control with a mixture of firmness and affection.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  He took a long time to answer and did not look up. ‘Nowhere,’

  he grunted.

  ‘You wandered o
ff earlier.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘There are chores, Beollan. I cannot do them all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s unfair.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Help.’

  He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Later.’

  ‘We must pull together.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘How else will we get through?’

  ‘Get through?’

  ‘We need each other.’

  The second shrug was a gesture of hopelessness. Gytha softened and went across to give him an involuntary hug. Beollan seemed embarrassed. He looked down at the piece of wood in his hand then tossed it away into the bushes. Rising to his feet, he walked to the door of the cottage but paused when he heard hoofbeats approaching. The knife was now a weapon of defence and he gripped it tightly. Gytha moved to stand beside him and waited for the riders to emerge.

  Gervase Bret and Brother Gerold came round the angle of a beech tree on their horses, pleased that they had found their way to the cottage. Beollan remained on the defensive but Gytha ran impulsively towards Gervase.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Do you have any tidings?’

  ‘All in good time,’ he promised, dismounting.

  ‘You would not have come otherwise.’

  ‘That is true, Gytha. But first let me introduce Brother Gerold.

  He has been my guide through the Delamere Forest.’

  Gervase made no mention of his companion’s position as chaplain at the castle lest she be frightened by his intimate association with Earl Hugh. As it was, she took a step backward and regarded the monk gravely. He was a Norman and that imposed the utmost caution upon Gytha. Notwithstanding his cowl, she viewed him as a natural enemy.

  Brother Gerold promptly disarmed her with a soft smile and proof of the ease with which he had mastered her language. His voice was friendly and persuasive.

  ‘Do not be afraid, my child,’ he said gently. ‘I have come to help you and Beollan. Gervase has told me about your predicament and my heart reaches out to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, moved by his concern.

  ‘We have come to aid the search for your father and brother, Gytha.’

  ‘We have some idea where they may be,’ explained Gervase.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Tarvin Hollow.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw Beollan start. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Have you searched there already?’

  ‘Close by, but not in the hollow itself.’

  ‘Will you come there with us now, Gytha?’

  ‘What are we going to find?’ she said warily.

  ‘Clues,’ replied Gervase. ‘Clues as to the wherabouts of your father and brother. That is where the trail begins.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I kept my word. I made inquiries for you.’

  Gytha needed only a second to make up her mind. ‘We will both come,’ she decided. ‘Beollan will lead the way because he knows the forest paths even better than me.’

  The boy was a reluctant guide but his sister scolded him until he agreed to help. Expecting to walk all the way, Gytha was astonished when Gervase took her by the waist and hoisted her up on to the saddle of his mount, clambering back up behind her to hold the reins. She had never been on a horse before, still less had such courtesy shown to her by a royal agent. Her nervousness was matched by a strange feeling of privilege.

  Beollan spurned the offer of riding with Brother Gerold and instead set off at a steady trot. It was like following a young dog.

  The boy went scampering off through the forest and took them through its labyrinthine interior with sure-footed confidence.

  Without him they would never have been able to find such a complicated route through the undergrowth.

  Gytha said nothing but Gervase could feel the warmth of her body and sense her excitement. The ride on the horse might somehow help to distract her a little from the bad news which he suspected might lie ahead for her. Beollan, too, anticipated grim tidings. Fifty yards or so short of Tarvin Hollow, he came to a halt and refused to go any further.

  ‘Take us all the way,’ she ordered.

  ‘No, Gytha.’

  ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘I will stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Why? What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Leave this to us,’ advised Gervase.

  He and Brother Gerold dismounted and went forward on foot.

  They came to a large clearing, beyond which was the deep hollow which gave the place its name. But it was not the depression in the ground which caught their attention. Both noticed the marks on an overhanging bough where something had chafed the bark.

  They exchanged a glance and moved in closer.

  Dried blood covered the ground beneath the bough and there were signs of something being dragged off in the direction of a nearby ditch. The two men followed the trail with tentative steps.

  They soon found what they sought and feared.

  ‘Dear God in heaven!’ said Gerold, crossing himself.

  ‘May the Lord have mercy on their souls!’

  The bodies were lying in the ditch at unnatural angles. Both were covered with ugly wounds and sodden with blood. The faces were hideous masks, distorted by the manner of their deaths then attacked by forest vermin. One man’s eyes had been pecked out, the other’s nose had been nibbled off. They were less like human faces than pieces of raw meat.

  Gervase’s first thought was for the orphans. ‘I’ll cover them up,’ he said. ‘Gytha and Beollan must not be allowed to see them in this state. It would be cruel.’

  Chapter Six

  Hugh d’Avranches rolled the jewelled cup between his palms and gazed down at his wine as if searching for something in its liquid heart. He was seated alone in the hall at the castle, reflecting on the events of the day and considering what response he should make to them. Anger had now hardened into bitter recrimination.

  Though he accepted that he was a natural target for assassination, whether from motives of envy, hatred or political expediency, he was highly indignant that an attempt had actually been made on his life. Years of unchallenged power on the Welsh border had given him the feeling that he was utterly invulnerable. One arrow had destroyed that illusion.

  The Earl of Chester was human, after all.

  When their master was in such a black mood, his servants knew better than to disturb him, but one had the courage to knock on the door and let himself in. He conducted Ralph Delchard into the hall and coughed discreetly to attract Earl Hugh’s attention.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, keeping just out of reach. There was no reply.

  He raised his voice a little. ‘Forgive this interruption, my lord.’

  His words still went unheard. Earl Hugh was far too preoccupied.

  Ralph dismissed the servant with a wave and the man scurried away gratefully, closing the door behind him with a bang which echoed through the hall. Hugh did not even look up. Ralph walked round the table to stand in front of his host and waited until his presence was finally registered.

  Earl Hugh was not at his most sociable. ‘Well?’ he growled.

  ‘I came to offer you my sympathy, my lord,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Sympathy?’

  ‘And support. I know what it is to lose a good man in a cowardly attack. If there is anything I may do to help, you have only to call on me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My knights are at your command, should you need them.’

  ‘I have no shortage of soldiers, Ralph,’ said the other.

  ‘Hundreds will come running to my call. But I cannot deploy them against an invisible enemy. That archer disappeared as if he had never existed.’

  ‘His escape must have been planned in advance.’

  ‘How did he know I would be in that part of the forest? That is what baffles me. I was p
ursuing a stag. It was pure chance that I finished up where I did.’

  ‘But you would have been easy to track, my lord.’

  ‘Easy?’

  ‘The noise of the chase must have been heard a mile away.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Someone stalked you. Yet he could not have done so on foot.

  Only a horse could have kept up with the speed of the hunt. Did your men see any sign of a stray animal when they searched?’

  ‘They neither saw nor heard another horse.’

  ‘Then how did the assassin come and go so quickly?’

  ‘Sorcery!’

  ‘There is no such thing, my lord.’

  ‘What other explanation is there?’ Earl Hugh drained the wine at a gulp then reached for the flagon to replenish his cup. He indicated the chair opposite and Ralph sat down. It was time to examine the outrage with cold objectivity. Lust for revenge needed to be muffled.

  ‘Has such an attack been made on you before?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And you had no warning?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘How often do you hunt in the Delamere Forest?’

  ‘Almost every day.’

  ‘Without incident?’

  ‘Invariably,’ said Hugh. ‘Whether I go hawking or hunting, I always bring back plenty of game. Nobody dares to interfere with my sport. The forest is mine to play in all day.’

  ‘How many of you rode out today?’

  ‘Forty or fifty.’

  ‘You were well protected, then.’

  ‘I am my own best protection.’

  ‘What happened yesterday?’

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Your hawk was killed by an arrow,’ Ralph reminded him. ‘The same archer may have stalked you today. Take me through the events of yesterday. How many of you were in the party on that occasion? Where exactly did the archer strike? What was his avowed purpose?’

  ‘To ruin a day’s hawking.’

  ‘But why kill your hawk when he could just as easily have aimed his arrow at you? And how did he escape, as he must have done if he was back today with his deadly bow? I need more detail, my lord.’

  Hugh regarded him through narrowed lids for a long while. ‘Then you will have it,’ he decided eventually.