The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The case interests me.’

  ‘Boio is not here to satisfy your idle curiosity, Master Bret.’

  ‘It goes beyond curiosity,’ said Gervase seriously. ‘One of the main disputes we have come to look into involves Thorkell of Warwick. The sudden death of his reeve complicates the issue. Since he was killed on the very eve of our arrival, I am bound to wonder if his murder is in some way linked to our business in the town.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Martin Reynard was a key witness. Someone may have wanted to prevent him appearing before us. Someone, perhaps, and I am speculating here, may have engaged this blacksmith to do the deed on his behalf – if in fact Boio is found to be guilty.’

  ‘He is guilty,’ attested Henry. ‘Without a shadow of doubt.’

  ‘May I speak with the man?’

  ‘No, Master Bret.’

  ‘I would do so in your presence.’

  ‘You will not do so at all,’ said Henry with unequivocal firmness. ‘As a royal commissioner, you are a welcome guest under my roof but that does not entitle you to poke your nose into what is essentially a local matter. A murder has been committed, the man responsible has been apprehended and he will stand trial in due course. Justice will be done, Master Bret.’ His eyes kindled. ‘Without your interference.’

  ‘I was offering help rather than interference, my lord.’

  ‘Neither is required.’

  The conversation with Gervase was definitively over. Henry Beaumont rose abruptly from the table. An awkward silence spread among the diners. Then their host bid farewell to his guests, helped his wife up from her seat and conducted her out with more speed than was altogether seemly.

  Theobald turned a bewildered face towards Gervase.

  ‘What on earth did you say to upset him?’

  A combination of a day in the saddle, a drink of strong ale and marital passion left Golde pleasantly fatigued and she drifted contentedly off to sleep in their chamber. Ralph lay awake beside her and mused on the unexpected events in the hall, still puzzled that such an offensive woman as the lady Marguerite could miraculously transform herself into an agreeable human being while such an inoffensive person as Gervase Bret could provoke the ire of Henry Beaumont. These inconsistencies kept him awake for a long time and eventually made him get out of bed and reach for a cloak. Philippe Trouville’s wife faded from his mind and it was Gervase’s reported disagreement with their host which now dictated his footsteps.

  The candle was still alight and he took it from its holder to guide him as he let himself out and began to descend the stairs. Light snow had started to fall outside and flakes had been blown in through a window, making the steps cold and treacherous for naked feet. Ralph had to shield the flame of his candle with a protective palm to prevent it from being snuffed out by the wind.

  When he reached the chapel, a shock awaited him. Someone was already there. As he let himself quietly in, he was startled to see a figure kneeling before the altar in the gloom, as solid and motionless as a statue yet patently human. He held his breath, wondering whether to stay or leave, frightened to disturb the man. It was only when his eyes became accustomed to the half-dark that he was able to identify the penitent as Brother Benedict and to realise that the monk had actually fallen asleep in an attitude of prayer. Scuffling noises came from the chamber at the rear of the chancel but Benedict did not respond. He was beyond the reach of earthly sound. This encouraged Ralph to creep past him. There was a dim and uncertain light shining under the door ahead of him and noises from within were becoming louder as he approached. He marvelled that anyone else should wish to visit the morgue in the middle of a cold night.

  He inched the door open and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Ralph?’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘What are you doing here, Gervase?’

  ‘I might ask the same of you.’

  Ralph stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.

  ‘I suspect that we would each give an identical answer.’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘Yes, Gervase. And suspicion.’

  ‘When I heard that Martin Reynard lay in the castle morgue, I had to come and see him for myself. Since the lord Henry would never have permitted this visit, I decided to make it when nobody was about.’ He nodded towards the chapel. ‘I had not counted on Brother Benedict keeping vigil.’

  ‘He is quietly snoring his way to heaven.’

  ‘Then let us conclude our business swiftly before he awakes.’

  Ralph set his candle down beside the one which his friend had brought and it cast a little more light across the stone slab on which the naked body of Martin Reynard lay. Gervase had already peeled back the shroud to expose the cadaver. Even though herbs had been scattered to sweeten the place and even though the icy temperature further dispersed the smell in the stone-built chamber, the stench of death was quite unmistakable. It took Ralph a moment to get used to it and he was grateful for the fresh air which came whistling in through the narrow windows.

  Reynard was a compact, muscular man in his late thirties with a body which had been strong and healthy. He was comprehensively dead now, his face discoloured by heavy bruising, his eyes closed, his ribs crushed and his spine snapped, forcing him to lie in a twisted position. Both men felt immediate sympathy for him but it did not hamper their scrutiny.

  It was Ralph who first reached an important conclusion.

  ‘When was the fellow discovered?’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ said Gervase.

  ‘That is not when he was killed.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I have looked on death too many times,’ sighed Ralph. ‘Walk any battlefield and step among the corpses. You soon learn to tell the difference between those that have lain there a day and those that were slaughtered much earlier. Martin Reynard did not meet his grisly end yesterday, Gervase. I would swear to it.’

  ‘Then the evidence against Boio may be misleading.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘Yesterday morning a witness saw him leaving the part of the forest where the body was found. The lord Henry assumed that Boio was sneaking away from the murder scene. Our discovery throws that notion into question.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The blacksmith may have killed him elsewhere on the previous day then brought the corpse to the forest to hide it. Then again,’ he continued, ‘he might simply have gone to check that Martin Reynard still lay where he had earlier struck him down. Boio is not exonerated yet.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Gervase. ‘It would help if we had a more precise idea of the time of death. It is so difficult to see him properly in this light. You think that he was killed two days ago?’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘More like three,’ said a voice behind them.

  The two men jumped in alarm and swung round. Brother Benedict had entered the room soundlessly and stood there with a wan smile on his face. Moving into the pool of light, he gazed down at the body.

  ‘I came to view the deceased earlier,’ he said, ‘and stayed to pray for the salvation of his soul. Fatigue then got the better of me.’ He touched the corpse gently with his fingertips. ‘When I first entered the enclave, I was set to work in the abbey morgue and helped to lay out the bodies. It quickly developed my instincts. The nature of death is a most rewarding subject of study. The first thing you must do is to take account of the cold weather, which would have delayed the onset of decomposition. If this poor creature was found yesterday morning, I can tell you with certainty that he had been dead for thirty-six hours at least. The signs are clear. Do you wish me to enumerate them?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Ralph.

  ‘We will take your word for it, Brother Benedict,’ said Gervase.

  ‘He was first rendered unconscious before having the breath of life squeezed out of h
im.’ The monk pointed to the darkened left temple of the corpse. ‘This was the blow which knocked him senseless. Delivered with force by a strong fist.’

  ‘Or a blacksmith’s hammer,’ guessed Ralph.

  ‘No, my lord. That would have split his head open. There was no blood. I think he took a fearsome punch to the head. Have you seen enough?’ They both nodded. ‘Then I will cover him up again,’ he said, pulling the shroud over the body with great reverence. ‘He has suffered enough already. Let us leave him to rest in peace.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Thank you, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘I have my uses.’

  ‘So we have seen.’

  ‘Monks can sometimes go where laymen are forbidden.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gervase.

  ‘In the hall last night you asked the lord Henry for permission to visit the prisoner and your request was summarily turned down. He might not have been so unhelpful to me. I do not think that our host would prevent a harmless monk from calling upon this blacksmith to offer spiritual sustenance.’

  ‘What are you telling us?’ said Ralph.

  ‘I am here to help.’

  ‘You would go to Boio on our behalf?’

  ‘Willingly, my lord. Especially if it will help to prevent what you suspect may be an injustice. For that – if I am not misled – is what must have brought you both here tonight.’

  ‘It was,’ conceded Gervase. ‘When a murder is committed, the trail to the killer must start with the body in question. Your comments are salutary. Do you really believe that you could get to Boio?’

  ‘Of course. It is only a question of biding my time and choosing an opportune moment. Now,’ he said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of magnanimity. ‘What would you like me to ask him?’

  Ralph blinked in amazement. ‘Am I dreaming this?’

  * * *

  Snow fell throughout the night but without any real conviction, leaving only a powdery covering across the county, blown hither and thither by a capricious wind. When they set out from his manor house shortly after dawn, Thorkell of Warwick and his men were able to make reasonable speed. They entered the town through the north gate and made their way through the winding streets to the castle before coming to a halt in the bailey. Remaining in the saddle, Thorkell issued a stern summons to one of the guards.

  ‘Fetch the lord Henry,’ he said crisply. ‘I would speak with him on a matter of great urgency.’

  The man nodded and headed for the steps which led up to the keep. Thorkell and his four companions waited impatiently. The other soldiers on guard duty studied them from the ramparts. Thorkell himself looked like a human embodiment of Jack Frost, his cloak flapping open to reveal the old man’s lean, sinewy, angular body, his mane of white hair falling to his shoulders from beneath his cap and his long beard tapering to a point. Icecold eyes glistened in the haggard face. His bare hands had a skeletal appearance.

  Norman soldiers usually had little respect for Saxons but their visitor was an exception. Thorkell was one of only two thegns in the entire realm who retained their estates intact after the Conquest. Most had been forcibly dispossessed. Along with Robert Beaumont, Count of Meulan and brother of Henry, Thorkell was the wealthiest overlord in the county and, while he paid the Normans the compliment of learning their language, he did not sacrifice one jot of his pride or his identity. Thorkell of Warwick was a glorious reminder of the time when the Saxons held sway over England. The gaze which now raked the bailey was quite fearless.

  Henry Beaumont was in no hurry to meet his guest. Sensing why Thorkell had come, he kept him waiting below and gave him time to cool his temper in the gusting wind. When he finally emerged, it was with a leisurely saunter, a cloak around his shoulders and a cap upon his head. Thorkell dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of his men and walked across to confront the constable.

  ‘Good morrow, my lord,’ he said with muted respect.

  ‘Greetings, Thorkell. What brings you here so early?’

  ‘The grim tidings I received from your messenger.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry, ‘I am sorry I had to send such bad news. You must be very distressed by the death of your reeve.’

  ‘I am, my lord. Martin Reynard went missing and could not be found anywhere. We searched high and low for him. I knew that something dreadful must have happened. Only illness or accident would keep him from his duties. I am deeply upset at the loss of such a good man.’ His jaw tightened. ‘But I am also upset by the news that Boio the Blacksmith is suspect. Can this be true?’

  ‘It can.’

  ‘On whose authority has he been arrested?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I will not allow a murderer to remain at liberty.’

  ‘Boio is no murderer,’ spluttered the old man.

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘He is the gentlest person on God’s earth.’

  ‘Not when he swings his hammer at an anvil. It is a violent trade and only a violent man could practise it with any success.’

  ‘You do not know the fellow as I do, my lord. Boio is a kind man, soft-hearted to a fault, friendly with everyone, not blessed with any great intelligence perhaps, but what he lacks in brains he makes up for with simple generosity.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘He is the last man I would suspect of such a crime.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he did commit it.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do,’ said Henry, legs apart and hands on hips. ‘The evidence against him is too strong. I understand your disquiet. You have already lost your reeve and fear to lose your blacksmith as well but there is no remedy for it. Boio crushed Martin Reynard to death.’

  ‘I refuse to accept that.’

  ‘They were overheard having a heated argument.’

  ‘Many people argued with Martin. He was a forthright man. That is what I liked about him. He spoke his mind. Martin was sometimes blunt with my subtenants and warm words were exchanged.’

  ‘Boio’s words were more than warm.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Two or three witnesses. They were near the forge at the time.’

  ‘Then they must have misheard him,’ said Thorkell defensively. ‘I have never seen Boio lose his temper. He may be as strong as an ox but he is also as docile as a rabbit.’

  ‘Not on this occasion, it seems.’

  ‘What possible motive could he have, my lord?’

  ‘Anger. Revenge.’

  ‘Boio is not an angry or vengeful man,’ reasoned the other. ‘And why should he kill my reeve when he knows how much trouble that would bring for me? Martin was to have appeared on my behalf before the royal commissioners. His death is a grievous loss. Boio would never inflict such a blow on me. He is too loyal.’

  ‘Rage takes no account of loyalty.’

  ‘You have arrested the wrong man, my lord.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Release him at once, I beg of you.’

  ‘He must remain in custody until he stands trial.’

  ‘On such flimsy evidence as a quarrel?’

  ‘There is more to it than that, Thorkell,’ said Henry, tiring of the discussion and striving to bring it to an end. ‘On the morning when we found the body, Boio was seen leaving the part of the forest where Martin Reynard was later found.’

  ‘Seen?’

  ‘A mile or more away from his forge.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘A reliable witness.’

  ‘Am I to know his name?’ pressed the other.

  ‘Grimketel.’

  ‘Grimketel?’ Thorkell wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘You rely on the word of a man like that?’

  ‘He reported what he saw.’

  ‘But he is feckless and untrustworthy.’

  ‘Others have a higher opinion of him.’

  ‘I would need a much more dependable witness than Grimketel. Does Boio admit that he was in the forest at that
particular time?’

  ‘No,’ said Henry, ‘but then I would not expect him to. What killer would readily incriminate himself? You tell me that this man is slow-witted but he has a low, animal cunning. When my men brought him here and challenged him about being seen in the forest, he swore that it could not have been him.’

  ‘Then it was not.’

  ‘Grimketel has taken his Bible oath.’

  ‘It must have been a case of mistaken identity.’

  Henry gave a derisive laugh. ‘How could anyone mistake Boio? No man in the county could pass for him. I am sorry, Thorkell. Your journey has been in vain. The prisoner will not be released from my dungeon. I have still to interrogate him myself and I am sure that I will be able to get the full truth out of him.’ His face hardened. ‘One way or the other.’

  ‘I will not have the fellow tortured.’

  ‘Your wishes are of no account here.’

  ‘Boio answers to me.’

  ‘Not when he commits murder.’

  ‘The sheriff is the person who should conduct this investigation, not you, my lord. This is work for the sheriff or his deputy.’

  ‘Both are far away in Derbyshire,’ said Henry easily. ‘By the time they return, this whole matter will have been settled.’

  ‘Will you set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner?’

  ‘I will make a felon suffer the full penalty of the law.’

  Thorkell fumed in silence and struggled to hold back the hot words which he knew would advantage nobody. Henry Beaumont was a power in the county, set, in all probability, to become its earl in time and having in his brother, Robert, an even more important political figure to support him. Both had the ear of the King. In estranging one brother, the old man would be creating an enemy of both and that would place him in a highly vulnerable position. Self-interest dictated a softer approach.

  Thorkell took a deep breath and became more conciliatory.

  ‘I am sorry to rouse you from your bed so early, my lord.’

  ‘Another hour or two of sleep would not have come amiss.’