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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Domesday
- Sprache: Englisch
Henry Beaumont keeps a renowned pack of foxhounds, quick, brave and ruthless at the kill. One December hunt, the dogs uncover more than a fox in the woodlands - brushing aside dead leaves, Beaumont finds the crushed body of Martin Reynard, a former member of his own household. Enraged, Henry, though he has no experience in such matters, swears to find the killer, but his impetuosity and rudimentary investigative skills lead him to arrest a man of questionable guilt. Fortunately, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret, in the area to settle a land dispute, are available to lend their expertise.
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Seitenzahl: 430
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘A master storyteller’
Daily Mail
‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’
Time Out
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’
Historical Novels Review
‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’
The Guardian
5
THE FOXES OF WARWICK
EDWARD MARSTON
To old friends in Warwickshire where I lived for many happy years
Fortunatus est ille deos qui novit agrestis
All were ready to conspire together to recover their former liberty, and bind themselves by weighty oaths against the Normans. In the regions north of the Humber violent disturbances broke out … To meet the danger the King rode to all the remote parts of his kingdom and fortified strategic sites against enemy attacks. For the fortifications called castles by the Normans were scarcely known in the English provinces, and so the English – in spite of their courage and love of fighting – could put up only a weak resistance to their enemies. The King built a castle at Warwick and gave it into the keeping of Henry, son of Roger of Beaumont …
Orderic Vitalis
Contents
Prologue
‘A stag in a churchyard?’ he said incredulously. ‘This is some jest.’
‘No jest, I do assure you.’
‘Come, Henry. We are no fools. Do not vex our intelligence.’
‘I was there, I tell you. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘A runaway stag taking Communion in church?’
‘It sought sanctuary, that is all. It knew where to go. We hunted it for a mile or two through the forest until it gave us the slip. When the hounds eventually found it again, there it was.’
‘On its knees in front of the altar!’ mocked the other.
‘In the churchyard, Arnaud. Resting in the shade.’
‘And eating a bunch of grapes, I’ll wager!’
Arnaud Bolbec gave a sceptical laugh but the rest of the hunting party were reserving their judgement until they heard more details. They were the guests of Henry Beaumont, constable of Warwick Castle, and they had enjoyed excellent sport with their host. Deer were plentiful and their arrows had brought down a dozen or more. The carcases were now tied across the backs of the packhorses, waiting to be taken back to the castle kitchens. Prime venison would be served to them in due course and they would eat it with the supreme satisfaction of men who had helped to provide the game.
The vigorous exercise warmed them up on a cold morning. As they now rested in a clearing, they were glad of the chill breeze which plucked at them. Steam rose from the horses. Blood dripped from the deer. The riders were in the mood for an anecdote from their host before they rode back to Warwick with their kill. Henry Beaumont could be cunning and devious, as his enemies had discovered, and, as they had also learnt, quite ruthless, but he was not given to idle boasting. Most of the hunting party wanted to believe his story. Arnaud Bolbec, a fat, fractious, noisy man with freckled cheeks, was the only apostate.
‘I refuse to accept a word of it!’ he said with a derisive chuckle.
‘It is true,’ affirmed Henry. ‘Let Richard here bear witness.’
Bolbec was scornful. ‘The fellow would not dare to disagree with his lord and master,’ he said. ‘If you told us you had seen a herd of unicorns celebrating Mass, he’d vouch for you without hesitation. Besides, what value can we place on the word of a mere huntsman?’
Richard the Hunter bristled and fought to control his anger.
‘My word has never been questioned before, my lord,’ he said firmly. ‘I would take my Bible oath that what you have heard about that stag is true. Yes, and the priest himself will say the same. He saw the miracle.’
‘Drunk on his Communion wine, no doubt!’ said Bolbec.
‘Sober as the rest of us,’ insisted the huntsman.
Richard was a stocky man of middle years, with greying curls tumbling out from beneath his cap. His broken nose, collected during a childhood fall from his pony, gave him a slightly menacing appearance. A solid man in every sense, he took a pride in his work, served his master faithfully and was known for his simple integrity. To have his word doubted by a quarrelsome lord was very irksome. His hounds closed instinctively around him, barking in protest and offering their testimony to his honesty. They were a mixed pack, some bred for speed, others for strength and ferocity so that they could start game from their lairs, but most for their skill in following a scent. Richard silenced them with a command then moved his horse to the edge of the clearing.
Henry Beaumont gave him an appeasing wave before turning to face his guests. A tall, elegant figure, he had a military straightness of back and firmness of chin. He was a fine huntsman and they had all marvelled at the way he had brought down the largest stag with his arrow, then dispatched it with one decisive thrust of his lance. Henry did not need to invent wild stories in order to gain admiration. It was his by right. There was a consummate ease about all of his accomplishments.
‘Thus it was, friends,’ he said with a patient smile. ‘Judge for yourselves whether it be fact or fancy. Last summer, when the forest was in full leaf, I had a day’s hunting with my guests and we slew enough deer to feed a small army. But one stag eluded me, a big, bold creature with antlers the size of a small tree. Was that not so, Richard?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ corroborated the huntsman.
‘With a target so large, I thought I could not fail to hit him but I could never get close enough to loose a shaft. The stag knew the forest far better than we. It led us here and there, dodging and weaving until we lost sight of it, then outrunning the hounds. We suddenly found ourselves at the very edge of the forest with no sign of our quarry. Below us was a long slope leading down to a village on the margin of the river. We were about to turn back when one of the hounds picked up a scent and went bounding off down the slope. Is that how you remember it, Richard?’
‘Yes, my lord. One went and the whole pack followed.’
‘And so did we,’ continued Henry. ‘Down the slope in a cavalry charge until we reached the church and reined in our mounts. There we saw it, as large as life, resting calmly on the grass among the gravestones and seeming to say to us, “Noli me tangere.” Richard called off the hounds and we lowered our weapons. The stag was on consecrated ground. It was out of our reach. Some said it had run itself to exhaustion and stumbled in there by mistake but I saw intelligence at work in its choice of refuge. All that we could do was to leave it there and ride off.’
‘Then what happened?’ asked Bolbec with a sneer. ‘Did it ascend to heaven on a white cloud amid a choir of angels?’
‘No, Arnaud,’ said the other. ‘It violated its right of sanctuary. When we moved off, some rogue from the village seized his chance to turn poacher and eat well for a change. Grabbing a stake, he rushed into the churchyard to attack the stag with it but only served to provoke the animal’s rage. It turned on the man and gored him to death before quitting its resting place and heading back to the forest. We gave chase at once, friends, but the nature of the hunt had changed. We were no longer after more venison for the table. Our quarry was a homicide, a murderer who had both killed a man and committed sacrilege at the same time. We cut it down without mercy then left it where it lay, unfit to be eaten, unworthy to be buried. A sad end for a noble beast but it could not be avoided. When Richard returned to that spot a month later, there was little beyond the antlers to mark the place of execution.’
He spoke with such measured solemnity that even Bolbec was held. A stillness fell on the party, broken only by the twitter of birds and the jingle of harnesses as the horses shifted their feet in the grass. One of the hounds then shattered the silence with a loud yelp. Its ears went up, its nose twitched and it came to life in the most dramatic way, darting off between the legs of Richard’s mount and vanishing into the undergrowth. Still full of life and sensing a new quarry, the rest of the pack were close behind, ignoring the huntsman’s call in the excitement of the chase and setting up their baying requiem. Henry turned to Richard the Hunter.
‘Deer or wild boar?’
‘Neither, my lord. A fox.’
He had caught only a glimpse of a distant red blur through the trees but it had been enough to identify the quarry. Henry responded at once, wheeling his horse around before letting it feel his spurs and throwing an invitation over his shoulder.
‘Those with breath enough for more sport – follow me!’
Richard was already goading his own horse into action and a few of the others followed him but the rest were content with their morning’s work and chose to amble back in the direction of the castle. Their host, meanwhile, led the chase through a stand of elms and oaks before coming out into open ground and getting his first sight of their prey. Fleet of foot and with its tail held up in a valedictory wave, the fox flew across the frosted grass before disappearing into a copse. The hounds raced after it with the riders galloping at their heels.
Henry Beaumont rarely took part in a fox hunt. Deer and wild boar were the protected species of the forest, reserved for his sport and table. It was important to keep down animals who might be harmful to deer, and rights of warren were granted for the hunting of foxes, hares and wildcats. Occasional licences were also given for the killing of badgers and squirrels. Henry would not normally deign to bother with vermin himself but a fox was different. Its guile presented a huntsman with a challenge; it was more easily caught with nets or traps than by pursuit. When the hounds plunged into the copse, he went after them with Richard close behind and the others trailing.
Leaving the copse, the fox tore across a field then vanished once more into the trees. The hounds kept up their clamour but were already split by disagreement, entering the trees and fanning out as separate groups chose their own lines. As the woodland thickened, the scent seemed to weaken, which made them at once more excited and frustrated. Richard overhauled his master and followed the hounds on whom he could most rely, ignoring the branches which jabbed angrily at him and ducking under a low bough which would have decapitated him. Only yards behind, Henry picked his own way through the looming trunks and the spiky bushes. He was so exhilarated that he let out a cry of pleasure and urged his mount on.
The fox was a wily adversary. After leading them into the densest part of the forest, it struck off to the right in a wide and confusing circle. The confident baying of the hounds was now a petulant yelp and their headlong rush slowed to a cautious lope. When the riders caught them up in a clearing, they had temporarily abandoned the chase and were sniffing the ground balefully. Richard the Hunter and Henry Beaumont reined in their horses and they were soon joined by the others. It seemed as if their quarry had outwitted them until hounds who had earlier peeled off in another direction suddenly set up a chorus of triumph. The dogs in the clearing immediately bounded off to find them.
‘They have him!’ said Henry with a grin.
‘I am not so sure,’ said Richard, listening to their tumult with a practised ear. ‘We may be misled.’
‘Follow me!’
Henry rode off again, guided by the noise as he threaded his way through the trees, anxious to get to the fox before the hounds tore it to shreds. The other men were towed along in his wake. They had no more than fifty yards to ride before they came to a pathway through the forest, running alongside a dry ditch. It was in the ditch that the hounds were congregating, more out of curiosity than eagerness to sink their teeth into any quarry. On a command from the huntsman, the pack fell quiet and confined themselves to looking and sniffing. Henry dismounted and ran to the ditch with his lance at the ready but it was not needed. Instead of seeing a dying fox, he was staring down at the corpse of a man, covered by dead leaves until the hounds had scattered them in the course of their snuffling researches.
Richard joined his master to view the body. The dead man was lying on his back at an unnatural angle, his mouth agape, his tongue protruding, his eyes still filled with horror at the manner of his death. Though his face was badly bruised, they both recognised him at once.
‘Martin Reynard!’ said the huntsman.
Henry knelt beside the body to examine it, then stood again.
‘Yes,’ he said ruefully. ‘Martin Reynard. Way beyond our help, alas. It seems that we have lost one fox and found another.’
Chapter One
From the moment they set out from Winchester, he’d been in a rebellious mood. Two days in the saddle did not improve Ralph Delchard’s temper nor dispel his sense of persecution. On their third departure at dawn, he voiced his displeasure once more to Gervase Bret, who rode alongside him, body wrapped up against the biting cold and mind still trying to bring itself fully awake.
‘I am too old for this!’ moaned Ralph.
‘Age brings wisdom.’
‘If I had any wisdom, Gervase, I would have found a way to wriggle out of this assignment. I am too old and too tired to go riding across three counties in wintertime. Surely I have earned a rest by now? I should be sitting at home beside a roaring fire, enjoying the fruits of my hard work, not having my arse frozen off in deepest Warwickshire.’
‘Oxfordshire.’
‘Have we not crossed the border yet?’
‘No, Ralph. We have to get beyond Banbury first.’
‘Well, wherever we are, it is miserably cold. My blood has congealed, my body is numb, my pizzle is an icicle of despair.’ He gave an elaborate shiver. ‘Why is the king putting me through this ordeal?’
‘Because of your experience.’
‘Experience?’
‘Yes,’ said Gervase. ‘You have proved your worth time and again. That is why the king sought you out. Whom is he to trust as a royal commissioner? Some untried newcomer who proceeds by trial and error, or a veteran like Ralph Delchard with immense experience?’
‘You are starting to sound like William himself.’
‘It is an honour to be taken into royal service.’
‘There is no honour in going abroad in this foul weather. It is a punishment inflicted upon us by a malign king. Wait until we are caught in a blizzard, as assuredly we will be sooner or later,’ he said, scanning the thick clouds with a wary eye. ‘Tell me then that it is an honour. You should be as angry as I am, Gervase. We are both victims of the royal whim here. How can you remain so calm about it?’
‘I call my philosophy to my aid.’
‘And what does that do?’
‘Provide an inner warmth.’
‘I prefer to find that in the marital bed.’
Gervase suppressed a sigh. He was as reluctant as his friend to set out once more from Winchester but he saw no virtue in protest. A royal command had to be obeyed even if it meant leaving a young wife at home with only fond memories of their fleeting connubial bliss to sustain her through his absence. Ralph might complain but his own spouse, Golde, was riding loyally behind him and would be able to offer comfort and conversation along the way. Gervase had no such solace. The burden of separation was heavy. He was less concerned for himself, however, than he was for his beloved Alys, shorn of her husband for the first time and wondering where he might be and what dangers he might encounter.
Ralph glanced across at him and seemed to read his thoughts.
‘Are you missing Alys?’
‘Painfully.’
‘Why did you not bring her with us, Gervase?’
‘There was no question of that.’
‘She would have refused to come?’
‘I was not prepared to ask her,’ said Gervase. ‘Apart from the fact that she does not have a robust constitution and would be taxed by the rigours of the journey, I had to consider my own position. Much as I love her, I have to confess that Alys would have been a distraction.’
‘Rightly so.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘We all need a diversion from the boredom of our work.’
‘That is the difference between us, Ralph. I do not find it boring. It is endlessly fascinating to me. We may seem only to be learning who owns what in which county of the realm but we are, in fact, engaged in a much more important enterprise.’
‘What is that?’
‘Helping to write the History of England.’
‘And freezing our balls off in the process.’
‘In years to come, scholars will place great value on our findings. That is why I take our work so seriously and why I could not let even my wife distract me from it. Alys will be there when this is all over.’
‘So meanwhile you sleep in an empty bed.’
‘We both do.’
‘You take self-denial to cruel extremes.’
‘Yours is one way, mine is another.’
Ralph tossed an affectionate smile over his shoulder at his wife.
‘I think I made the better choice.’
‘For you, yes; for me, no.’
‘You lawyers will quibble.’
‘It’s a crucial distinction.’
‘I disagree but I’m far too cold to argue.’
Ralph gave another shiver then nudged his horse into a gentle canter. Gervase and the rest of the cavalcade followed his example and dozens of hooves clacked on the hard surface of the road. There were seventeen of them in all. Ralph and Gervase were at the head of the procession, with Golde and Archdeacon Theobald immediately behind them. A dozen men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue came next, riding in pairs and offering vital protection for the travellers, those at the rear pulling sumpter-horses on lead reins. Last of all came the strange figure of Brother Benedict, a stout monk of uncertain age with a round, red face and a silver tonsure which looked more like a rim of frost than human hair. Benedict was at once a member of the group yet detached from it, a scribe to the commissioners and a lone spirit, sitting astride a bay mare as if riding into some personal Jerusalem, eyes uplifted to heaven and cowl thrown back so that his head was exposed to the wind and he could savour the full force of its venom.
Brother Simon was their customary scribe and Canon Hubert of Winchester their usual colleague but both men were indisposed, obliging Ralph and Gervase to accept deputies. Benedict, who bore the name of the founder of his monastic Order like a battle standard, replaced Simon but the more ample presence of Hubert required two substitutes. Theobald, Archdeacon of Hereford, was one of them, a tall, slim, dignified man in his fifties, already known and respected by the commissioners as a result of their earlier visit to the city, an assignment on which even Ralph looked back with pleasure since it was in Hereford that he first met Golde. His wife was delighted to befriend someone from her home town and, since the archdeacon had been visiting Winchester, she was able to stave off the tedium of travel by talking at leisure with him on their way north.
The other commissioner was due to meet them at Banbury.
‘What do we know of this Philippe Trouville?’ asked Ralph.
‘Little enough,’ said Gervase. ‘Beyond the fact that he fought bravely beside the king in many battles.’
‘That speaks well for him. I did as much myself.’
‘The lord Philippe has substantial holdings in Suffolk, Essex and Northamptonshire. I heard a rumour that he looks to be sheriff in one of those counties before too long.’
‘An ambitious man, then. That can be good or bad.’
‘In what way?’
‘It depends on his motives, Gervase.’
‘The king obviously thinks highly of him.’
‘Then we must accept him on that basis and welcome him to the commission. It will be good to have another soldier sitting alongside us. Canon Hubert has his virtues but that cloying Christianity of his makes me want to puke at times.’
‘Hubert is a devout man.’
‘That is what I have against him.’
‘Archdeacon Theobald is cut from the same cloth.’
‘By a much more skilful tailor.’ They shared a laugh. ‘I like this Theobald. We have something in common: a shared dread of that mad Welshman, Idwal, who plagued us first in Hereford and then again in Chester. Theobald told me that he was never so glad to bid adieu to anyone as to that truculent Celt. Yes,’ he added with a smile, ‘Theobald and I will get along, I know it. He is a valuable addition.’ His smile gave way to a scowl. ‘I cannot say that of our crack-brained scribe.’
‘Brother Benedict?’
‘He talks to himself, Gervase.’
‘He is only praying aloud.’
‘In the middle of a meal?’
‘The spirit moves him when it will.’
‘Well, I wish that it would move him out of my way. Benedict and I can never be happy bedfellows. He is far too holy and I am far too sinful. The worst of it is that I am unable to shock him. Brother Simon is much more easily outraged. It was a joy to goad him.’
‘You were very unkind to Simon.’
‘He invited unkindness.’
‘Not to that degree,’ said Gervase. ‘But you may have met your match in Brother Benedict. He is here to exact retribution.’
‘If he survives the journey.’
‘What do you mean?’
Ralph jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Look at the man. Baring his head in this weather. Inviting the wind to scour that empty skull of his. I swear that the fellow would ride naked if there were not a lady present. Benedict actually courts pain. He relishes suffering.’
‘He believes that it will enhance the soul.’
‘What kind of lunacy is that?’
Gervase smiled. ‘This may not be the place for a theological discussion.’
‘Are you saying that you agree with that nonsense?’
‘No, Ralph,’ replied the other tactfully. ‘I am simply saying that Banbury is less than a mile away and – God willing – our new colleague will be waiting there for us.’
‘Let us see what Philippe Trouville makes of this Benedict.’
‘I fear that he will be as intolerant as you.’
‘Why?’
‘Soldiers never understand the impulse to take the cowl.’
‘Who but a fool would choose to be a eunuch?’
‘I rest my case.’
They came around a bend in the road and, as the trees thinned out on their left, got their first glimpse of Banbury. Situated on a crossroads, it was a thriving village which fanned out from the church at its centre. Three mills harnessed the power of the river and served the needs of the hundred or more souls who lived in Banbury or its immediate vicinity. The spirits of the travellers were revived by the sight. The village would give the men opportunity to break their journey, take refreshment, find a brief shelter from the wind and make the acquaintance of their new colleague. Anticipation made them quicken their pace.
Ralph was eager to meet Philippe Trouville and thereby acquire a companion with whom he could discuss military matters, a subject on which neither Theobald nor Benedict could speak with any interest or knowledge. Notwithstanding his skill with sword and dagger, Gervase too had no stomach for reminiscences about past battles or arguments about the technical aspects of warfare. Marriage to Golde may have softened Ralph in some ways but he remained a soldier at heart with a fund of rousing memories. In the new commissioner, he hoped for a sympathetic ear and a ready comprehension.
That hope was dashed the moment he set eyes on him.
‘You are late!’ complained Philippe Trouville. ‘What kept you?’
‘Frosty roads slowed us down,’ said Ralph.
‘Nimble horses make light of such problems.’
‘We made what speed we could, my lord.’
‘And forced us to sit on our hands in this godforsaken hole.’
It was an odd remark to make when they were outside a church but Ralph let it pass without challenge. Sitting astride his destrier, Philippe Trouville was waiting for them with six men-at-arms and a pulsing impatience. He was a big, hefty, black-eyed man in helm and hauberk, with a fur-trimmed cloak to keep out the pinch of winter. His face was pitted with age and darkened with anger. His voice had a rasping authority.
‘Let us set forth at once,’ he ordered.
‘We looked to rest for a while,’ said Ralph.
‘You have delayed us long enough.’
‘That was unavoidable.’
‘We must press on.’
Ralph stiffened. ‘I will make that decision, my lord,’ he said firmly. ‘I bid you welcome and invite you to join us but you must do so on the clear understanding that it is I who will control the timing and the speed of our movements. I am Ralph Delchard and you should have been instructed that I am the arbiter here.’ He lifted an arm to signal to the others. ‘Dismount and take your ease.’
Trouville glowered in silence and remained in the saddle while the travellers got down from their horses. When Ralph introduced the other members of his party, the new commissioner was barely civil, managing a rough politeness when he met Golde but lapsing into undisguised contempt when Theobald and Benedict were presented to him. The archdeacon accepted the rebuff with equanimity but the scribe glowed with sudden benevolence.
‘I forgive you this unwarranted bluntness, my lord,’ he said. ‘When you come to know us better you will appreciate our true worth and set a higher value on our acquaintance.’
‘Do not preach at me!’ warned Trouville.
‘I merely extend the hand of Christian fellowship.’
‘Crawl back to your monastery where you belong.’
‘I have been called to render assistance to your great work and I do so willingly, my lord. You will find me able and quick-witted.’
‘I have no time for canting monks!’
‘God bless you!’ said Benedict with a benign smile as if responding to a rich compliment. ‘And thank you for your indulgence.’
Ever the diplomat, Archdeacon Theobald took him by the sleeve and detached him with a mild enquiry, leaving Trouville to mutter expletives under his breath before turning to bark an order to one of his men.
‘Ask my lady to join us!’
The soldier dismounted and crossed to a nearby cottage.
‘Your wife travels with you?’ said Ralph in surprise.
‘I would not stir abroad without her.’
‘It is so with me,’ said the other, sensing a point of contact at last. ‘Golde is indispensable. When she is not at my side I feel as if a limb has been hacked off. I am only happy when she is here.’
‘That is not the case with me,’ grumbled Trouville. ‘I would prefer to travel alone but my wife insists on riding with me. It is one of the perils of marriage but it must be borne.’
‘I do not see it as a peril.’
‘You are not wed to Marguerite.’
At that precise moment, the soldier stood back from the door of the cottage to allow a short, bulbous woman of middle years to come bustling out, her face, once handsome, now cruelly lined with age and puckered with disapproval, her body swathed in a cloak which failed to keep out the cold entirely and which, framing her features, accentuated the curl of her lip even more. Ralph could see at a glance that she was a potent woman with, no doubt, a demanding tongue and he even found himself feeling vaguely sorry for Trouville, imagining without much difficulty the lacerating encounters in the bedchamber which the man must endure, and deciding that they were the reason for his unrelieved surliness. But his conclusions, he soon discovered, were far too hasty.
‘Hurry up, Heloise!’ bellowed Trouville.
The woman who scurried across to her waiting palfrey was not the wife at all but Heloise, her maidservant and companion, a subordinate figure in the entourage yet one who exuded visibly the strong opinions she was not entitled to voice in company and who was not abashed by the presence of a troop of armed men, even the most lustful of whom was deterred from ribald comment by her forbidding appearance. There was a long pause before Philippe Trouville’s wife came out of the house as if she had deliberately been keeping them waiting in order to heighten their interest and assure complete attention from her audience. The lady Marguerite was as unlike Heloise as it was possible to be. She was young, graceful and possessed of the kind of dazzling beauty which would make a saint catch his breath and consider whether his life had been quite as well spent as he believed.
Her cloak and wimple in no way diminished her charms. Indeed, they seemed to blossom before the watching eyes like snowdrops sent to hurry winter on its way and presage spring. Though almost thirty years younger than her husband, she was no innocent child sacrificed to a grotesque marriage by uncaring parents but a creature of poise and maturity with a haughtiness in her gaze which could unsettle the most strong-willed of men. Trouville immediately dismounted to draw her into the group and perform brief introductions. Marguerite surveyed them with a glacial indifference. It changed to mild curiosity when she saw Golde but reverted to disdain when she realised that Ralph’s wife was a Saxon. Golde was taken aback by the woman’s blatant rudeness.
‘Could you not wed a Norman lady?’ Marguerite asked him.
‘I could and I did, my lady. She died, alas.’
‘So you married a Saxon in her stead?’
‘I married the woman I love,’ said Ralph proudly.
Golde thanked him with a smile but Marguerite smouldered.
‘Why do we dawdle here?’ she snapped. ‘Let me ride away from this hateful place. I only stepped into that cottage to get warm but the stink of its occupants was a high price to pay for the comfort of their fire. Low-born Saxons have no self-respect. Take me out of here, Philippe.’
‘I will, Marguerite.’
‘When we have rested the horses,’ said Ralph.
‘Am I to be kept here against my will?’ demanded Marguerite.
‘There is nothing to prevent you from riding on ahead, my lady.’
‘Then that is what we will do.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said her husband, bowing to caution. ‘We will be travelling through dangerous countryside and need more protection than six men-at-arms can offer. Winter makes outlaws more desperate. Tarry awhile and we ensure safety.’
‘I wish to leave now, Philippe,’ she insisted.
‘The delay will not be long.’
‘Banbury depresses my soul.’
‘It uplifts mine,’ said Benedict cheerfully. ‘This church is a beacon of joy in the wilderness. It is a pleasure to linger here and feel God’s presence. Reach out to Him, my lady,’ he advised Marguerite, beaming familiarly at her and exposing huge teeth. ‘Let the touch of the Almighty bring you peace and happiness.’
Philippe Trouville glared at him, his wife stifled a retort and the teak-faced Heloise snorted with derision but the monk was unmoved by their hostile response. Ralph exchanged a worried glance with Gervase.
There would be a long and uncomfortable ride ahead of them.
When they crossed the county boundary into Warwickshire, there was at first no discernible change in the landscape. Woodland then began to recede and, as they traversed the Feldon, they found themselves in a region which was heavily cultivated. Open-field strip holdings were now rimed with frost and lush pasture was deserted and hidden beneath a white blanket, but the party was conscious of riding through an expanse of fertile soil. With few trees to protect them and no friendly contours to shield them, the cavalcade was largely exposed to the elements and, for the most part, deprived of the urge to converse, unless it be to mouth some fresh protest about the weather. Brother Benedict, riding once more at the rear of the column, was the singular exception, a grinning flagellant who revelled in the whiplashes of the wind and whose voice rose above its howl in a high and melodious chant. Only a blinding snowstorm would have increased his joy.
Ralph Delchard had never been so glad to spy a destination. Light was fading badly when the town finally came into view and he could only see it in hazy outline but it had a stark loveliness to him. Set in the Avon valley, Warwick had grown up beside the river itself to become the largest community in the shire. It was almost twenty years since he had last visited the place, travelling on that occasion as a member of the Conqueror’s punitive army and pausing there long enough to see its castle being raised, its town walls strengthened and the additional fortification of an encircling ditch being dug. The closer they got, the more anxious Ralph became to renew his acquaintance with the town and rediscover the lost pleasures of eating, drinking and relaxing in warm surroundings.
Golde was now riding beside him at the head of the shivering procession. As Warwick emerged from the gloom ahead of them, she found her tongue again.
‘At last!’ she said with a weary smile. ‘I was beginning to think that we would never get there.’
‘I am sorry that you have had to endure such a ride, my love.’
‘Being with you makes the discomfort bearable.’
‘I still feel guilty that I brought you here,’ he said solicitously. ‘It might have been better for you to stay in Hampshire. On a day like this, the only sensible place to be is behind closed doors.’
‘I have no complaints,’ she said bravely.
‘I do, Golde. It would take an hour to list them all.’ He looked back over the long column which snaked behind them. ‘I just wish that I could have provided some amenable companions to divert you from the misery of the ride.’
‘Nobody could have been more amenable than the archdeacon. We have talked for hours on end about Hereford. And Brother Benedict has always made some cheerful comment whenever we broke our journey.’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph with a roll of his eyes. ‘Brother Benedict thrives on adversity. He would make cheerful comments during a tempest. But I was not referring to him nor to the good archdeacon. I was thinking of that eccentric trio who joined us at Banbury. It is difficult to decide which of them is the most objectionable – the bellowing husband, the supercilious wife or that she-dragon who rides with them.’
‘The lady Marguerite is very beautiful.’
‘Her beauty is not matched by good breeding, my love. I will never forgive her the contempt she dared to display in front of you. Had she been a man, I would have buffeted her to the ground and demanded an apology. The lady Marguerite is a terrible imposition.’
‘She clearly views us as an imposition upon her.’
‘How does her husband put up with the woman?’
Golde’s eyes twinkled. ‘I would rather ask how she tolerates him.’
Ralph grinned before twisting in his saddle to stare back at the couple in question. Flanked by their men-at-arms, Philippe Trouville and his wife were riding in the middle of the cavalcade with Heloise directly behind them, all three sunk deep into a bruised silence as they nursed individual grievances about the journey. A warm fire might soon thaw them out but Ralph suspected that it would not make them in any way more agreeable.
Warwick was gated to the north, east and west but they approached from the south, which had the extra defences of river and castle. As soon as they clattered across the wooden bridge and entered the fortress, their situation improved markedly. Lookouts had warned the constable of their imminent arrival and Henry Beaumont was in the courtyard to give them a cordial welcome. The horses were stabled, the men-at-arms taken off to their quarters and the commissioners conducted to the hall with their wives and their scribe. Though a crackling fire lit up the room and filled it with a smoky heat, the lady Marguerite insisted on being shown to her apartment and Trouville, hovering between curiosity about his host and marital duty, eventually succumbed to the latter and excused himself before following his wife and Heloise out. The atmosphere seemed to brighten instantly.
‘You must be hungry after such a long ride,’ suggested Henry.
‘We are, my lord,’ said Ralph, noting that the long table had been set for a meal. ‘Hungry and thirsty.’
‘The cooks are busy in the kitchen and we have wine enough to satisfy any appetite.’
‘Water will suffice for me, my lord,’ said Benedict with studied piety. ‘Dry bread and cold water is all that I crave.’
‘That will hardly keep body and soul together,’ said Henry.
‘I will be happy to discuss the relationship of body to soul. The renowned St Augustine has much to say on the subject and the words of Cardinal Peter Damiani should also be quoted.’
‘Not by me, Brother Benedict,’ warned his host. ‘I am no theologian and I look to offer livelier conversation to my guests.’
‘What is more lively than a discussion of life itself?’
‘Take the matter up at another time,’ suggested Ralph quickly, keen to relegate the monk to a more junior position. He turned to Henry. ‘We are deeply grateful to you, my lord. Nothing would be more welcome than a restorative meal. When they have shaken the dust of the highway from their feet, I am sure that the lord Philippe and his lady will consent to join us. There has been little opportunity for refreshment on the way.’
‘How long do you plan to stay in Warwick?’ enquired Henry.
‘Gervase here will be the best judge of that.’
‘It is difficult to set a precise time, my lord,’ said Gervase, taking his cue. ‘When I first examined the disputes which have brought us here, I thought that we might be able to resolve them in little more than a week. But experience has taught us that these things can drag on to inordinate lengths. Unforeseen events sometimes cause irritating delays. I fear that we may well be forced to trespass on your hospitality for a fortnight or three weeks at least.’
‘Stay as long as you wish,’ said Henry with feigned affability. ‘My castle is at your disposal and the town reeve will do all he can to speed up the progress of your deliberations. It is just unfortunate that you arrive at this particular moment.’
‘Why so, my lord?’ asked Archdeacon Theobald.
‘A callous murder has disturbed the calm of Warwick.’
‘This is grim news. Who was the victim?’
‘A poor wretch called Martin Reynard.’
‘Reynard?’ echoed Gervase with interest. ‘Is that the same Martin Reynard who is reeve to Thorkell of Warwick?’
‘He is, Master Bret.’
‘We were to have called him before us as a witness.’
‘You arrive too late to do that, I fear. I could wish that you had come even later, when this whole business had been tied up and the town had been cleansed of the stain of homicide. But, alas,’ he said with a shrug, ‘it was not to be. I can only apologise that you have walked unwittingly into the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘It will not be the first time, my lord,’ noted Ralph, with a knowing glance at Gervase. ‘Do you know who committed this crime?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Has the villain been apprehended?’
‘My men are on their way to arrest him at this very moment.’
Working by the light of his forge, Boio the Blacksmith held the red-hot horseshoe on his anvil and shaped it expertly with well-placed strikes of his hammer. He was a big bear of a man with rounded shoulders and bulging forearms yet there was a gentleness in his bearded countenance that amounted almost to a kind of innocence. Though he was proficient at his trade, he practised it with a sense of reluctance as if unwilling to inflict violence upon anything, even if it was merely base metal. Boio held the horseshoe up to inspect it then gave it one more tap with the hammer before plunging the object into a wooden pail of water. Steam hissed angrily. The blacksmith ignored its spite.
He was about to shoe the horse when he heard the thunder of hoofbeats. Boio, listening to the sound and counting at least half a dozen riders, wondered why they should be coming so swiftly in his direction at that time of the evening. The visitors halted outside his forge and dismounted before rushing in to confront him. Boio recognised them as members of the castle guard but he was given no chance to ask them what their business was. Their captain was peremptory.
‘Seize the murderer!’
Four men leapt on Boio, forcing him to drop his hammer, tongs and horseshoe. He made no effort to resist as they pinioned his arms. He turned a baffled look upon the captain.
‘I am no murderer!’ he pleaded.
‘Be silent!’
‘Has someone been killed?’
‘You know he has, Boio.’
‘But not by me. I am innocent, I swear it.’
‘Take him out!’ snarled the captain.
‘What am I supposed to have done?’
By way of an answer, one of the men used the hilt of his sword to club the blacksmith to the ground. It took four of them to drag him out and throw him across a packhorse. When he was tied securely in position, they took him off on a painful ride to the castle dungeon, leaving a thin trail of blood from his scalp all the way.
Chapter Two
When they were escorted from the hall to their chamber, Ralph Delchard and Golde were reminded that Warwick Castle had been constructed as a stronghold rather than as a place of comfort. There were few concessions to cosiness. The stairs were slippery, the arched windows were separate hurricanes and the draught found a hundred other apertures through which to invade the keep. Their chamber was at the very top of the building, small but quite serviceable, blessed with a fire around which they immediately huddled and giving them – once their shivers had been banished by the flames – the privacy they needed to embrace and to kiss away the horrors of the interminable ride. Ralph held her face between his hands and smiled affectionately in the flickering candlelight.
‘Gervase is a fool,’ he remarked.
‘Surely not,’ she replied. ‘You could never call him that. If anyone has an old head on young shoulders, it is Gervase Bret.’
‘Oh yes, he is a brilliant lawyer with a quicksilver mind but he is a callow youth when it comes to matters of the heart.’
‘Matters of the heart?’
‘Gervase is here, Alys is in Winchester.’
‘You feel that he should have brought her?’
‘It was folly not to do so, Golde. What kept me going through the day was the thought that you would be here to revive me at night.’ He brushed his lips against her forehead. ‘Gervase could have arranged a similar delight for himself.’
‘And invited me to his chamber?’ she teased.
Ralph chuckled. ‘You are too red-blooded a woman for him, my love. He is content with more moderate passion which is why Alys, pale and wan as she is, a fragile madonna, an image of loveliness, is by far the more suitable wife. Alys appeals to his finer feelings. Gervase has an overwhelming urge to protect her. In his place, I would also have the urge to bring her with me.’
‘For her sake, I am glad that she is not here.’
‘Why?’
‘The journey would have been a trial for her.’
‘It was for all of us, Golde.’
‘Alys is no horsewoman. It would have been three whole days of purgatory for her. Besides, I do not think she would find the lady Marguerite a fit companion.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Alys has been spared the dubious pleasure of meeting that arrogant lady, not to mention her sour-faced companion and her egregious husband. On second thoughts, perhaps it is just as well that Alys did not come. She is a creature of nervous inclination. I do not think she could sleep soundly in a castle if she knew that it had a brutal murderer languishing in its dungeon.’
‘That knowledge will not make my own slumbers any easier.’
‘Then I will have to assist them.’
He raised a lecherous eyebrow and planted another kiss on her lips. Before she could respond, they were interrupted by a tap on the door and stepped involuntarily apart. Ralph opened the door to admit one servant with their luggage and another with fresh logs for the fire. The second man also delivered the message that a meal awaited them in the hall whenever they cared to return to it. Ralph thanked them, waved them on their way then tossed another log on the fire.
‘What did you make of our host?’ he asked casually.
‘The lord Henry seems like a gentleman.’
‘In the presence of ladies, he certainly is. But that easy charm had a practised air to it and his smile was far too ready. I do not believe that he is as hospitable as he is trying to appear.’
‘Does he not want us here?’
‘Nobody wants tax-collectors at their door, for that, in essence, is what we are, Golde. When we have apportioned land to the rightful owners, they will have to pay in some form or another for the privilege of holding it. That ensures our unpopularity wherever we go. But there is another reason why Henry Beaumont would rather hurry us on our way.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have no idea as yet. But we will find out in time.’
‘We?’
‘You and I, my love.’
‘How could I discover this other reason?’
‘By looking and listening. By bringing a woman’s gifts to bear upon the problem. You notice subtleties that I miss. You sense things. That is why I am so pleased that you came to Warwick.’
‘To notice subtleties?’
‘To be my second pair of eyes.’
‘Is that my only function in being here?’ she said with a provocative smile. ‘To act as my husband’s lookout?’
‘Of course.’
He laughed quietly then enfolded her once more in his arms. They moved to the bed. Winter was forgotten. The log which he had thrown on the fire began to crackle merrily.
Henry Beaumont did not stint his guests. The meal which awaited them in the hall was sumptuous, consisting, among other things, of frumenty, girdle breads, spiced rabbit, spit-roasted venison, wine and ale. Seated beside their host at the head of the table was his wife, Adela, a gracious woman, handsome and dignified, frugal of speech yet contributing much to the occasion by showing such a keen interest in her guests and by treating them all with equal favour. The lady Adela’s genuine warmth had its effect on even the coldest of hearts. Heloise, an erstwhile model of disaffection, mellowed into purring satisfaction, her presence at the table an indication of the position she enjoyed in the service of her mistress. To the astonishment of all but her husband, the lady Marguerite herself actually managed a civility which trembled on the edge of friendliness, complimenting her hosts on the excellence of their table, thanking them for their generosity and taking particular care to make agreeable remarks to Henry Beaumont.
Along with Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, Archdeacon Theobald and, perhaps covertly, the watchful Brother Benedict, the constable of Warwick Castle was duly impressed with her beauty, revealed in full now that she had shed her cloak and her expression of disdain. In a dark blue mantle over a gown and chemise of a lighter hue, she was a pleasure to behold. Feeling herself being treated in accordance with her position, she smiled, tittered, gestured entrancingly with her hands, made polite conversation and even flirted very mildly with her host, much to the amusement of Philippe Trouville, who beamed happily and showed off his wife as if she were a precious diadem. Though they still appeared a wildly incongruous couple, it was now possible to see what gainful impulse, on each side, might have drawn them together in the first instance.
What touched Ralph was that the lady Marguerite made a clear effort to be more pleasant to Golde, exchanging an occasional remark with her and refraining from any tart comment when Golde’s preference for ale over wine was stated and her earlier career as a successful brewer in Hereford was disclosed to the company. Ralph could never bring himself to like Trouville’s wife but she did hold marginally more interest for him now. Gervase was plainly captivated and even the reserved Archdeacon Theobald, secure in his celibacy, kept flicking glances of admiration at her and reflecting on the eternal mystery of womanhood.
When the lady Marguerite rose to leave with her husband and Heloise, there was an audible sigh of disappointment from all of the other men, with the exception of Ralph, who found Marguerite’s new affability a trifle forced, and Benedict, who had lapsed into a private world of religious fervour and was chanting joyously to himself. Although Philippe Trouville was a man of substance and high status, it was his wife who stole the attention and who left the most vivid impression behind her.
