‘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 would 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 wellplaced 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 leaped 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.
The gap made by the departure of three guests meant that Gervase was now seated closest to Henry Beaumont. He moved along the bench to get nearer to his host and broached a topic which had not been mentioned at all during the meal. Since everyone else at the table was locked in conversation, Gervase felt the situation sufficiently discreet to venture his request.
‘Could you tell me more about this homicide, my lord?’
‘A distressing business,’ said Henry. ‘I feel a deep sense of loss.’
‘Loss?’
‘Yes, Master Bret. He was a good man, Martin Reynard. Honest and conscientious. He served in my own household for years until he was offered the post of reeve to Thorkell. I was sad to lose him.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘And even sadder to see the poor fellow lying dead in a ditch.’
‘Who actually found him?’
‘My hounds. We were chasing a fox when we chanced upon the corpse. Martin’s face was bruised and his back broken. Someone had literally crushed him to death.’
‘An excruciating way to meet one’s end.’
‘The agony still lingered in his eyes.’
‘What led you to this blacksmith?’
‘A number of things,’ explained Henry, toying with his wine cup. ‘When my men made enquiries, they were told that Boio and Martin Reynard had been heard arguing only days earlier. There was no love lost between them and it was not the first time they had fallen out.’
‘That is not proof positive of murder,’ noted Gervase.
‘Not on its own, but it must be taken in conjunction with two other facts. Around the time that our hunting party set out from the castle yesterday, Boio was seen in the Forest of Arden, close to the place where Martin Reynard was later discovered. That is a d
amning piece of evidence. The second fact is even more telling. Martin was a sturdy man and would have fought off most assailants. Only someone of immense power could have crushed the life out of him like that. Boio is a giant. He is the one man in the whole of Warwickshire with the requisite strength for this vile murder.’
‘Has he confessed to the crime?’
‘Not yet,’ said Henry, ‘but then I have not had time to question him myself. When my men arrested him, all they got was arrant denial. The killer had the audacity to plead his innocence.’
‘His guilt is so far implied rather than established.’
‘Boio is our man. I feel it in my bones.’
‘Should not the sheriff be the judge of that?’
‘The sheriff and his deputy are not in the county at this time. That is why I took the investigation into my own hands. I have a personal interest in catching the villain who murdered Martin Reynard.’
‘I understand that, my lord.’
‘Yet I sense that you have reservations,’ said the other, shooting him a shrewd look. ‘Do you?’
‘I am a lawyer and thus overcautious by nature.’
‘That is not always a fault.’
‘No, my lord. But I fear that I do sometimes irritate those who prefer to rush to judgement on insufficient evidence.’
Henry was offended. ‘That is not what I am doing.’
‘I am not suggesting that it is.’
‘This murder has been solved. Justly and without contradiction.’
‘There has been one contradiction, my lord.’
‘From whom?’
‘The blacksmith himself. He claims that he is innocent.’
‘Murderers rarely confess their crimes.’
‘You know this Boio far better than I, my lord,’ said Gervase in a tone of appeasement. ‘You can tell if he is capable of such an act. All that I can go on are the bare facts of the case and they leave certain questions unanswered. Crucial questions.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Would it be possible for me to speak with the prisoner?’
The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9) Page 3
