The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘I am fond of Boio. Over the years he has given me excellent service. When I heard the news of his arrest I was shocked. I felt that I had to discover the true facts of the case.’

  ‘You have done so.’

  ‘I have heard your version of events, my lord, and I accept that it is a most persuasive one. Perhaps I have misjudged the man all this time. Perhaps he is capable of murder.’

  ‘He is. The proof lies in my morgue.’

  ‘I would still like to hear what Boio himself has to say. Let me talk to him, my lord. He would not lie to me. If he really is a killer, I will wrest a confession from him without recourse to threat or torture. And I will be the first to call for his execution.’ He extended a hand in supplication. ‘Please, my lord. Let me see Boio.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I do not choose to let you.’

  ‘But I can speak to the man in his own language.’

  ‘That does not matter.’

  ‘Boio must be confused and frightened. He needs help.’

  ‘All that he needs is a rope around his neck,’ said Henry coldly.

  Then he swung on his heel and marched back to the keep.

  Chapter Three

  Notwithstanding his largely sleepless night, Ralph Delchard made a prompt start the following morning. After an early breakfast with his fellow commissioners, he reclaimed Brother Benedict from the chapel, where the monk still prayed for the soul of the deceased man, then led them out of the castle on foot and into the town. Judicial investigations would not begin until the next day but it was felt important to study the relevant documents beforehand and to familiarise Philippe Trouville with the examining process. During the journey from Winchester both Ralph and Gervase had taken pains to instruct Archdeacon Theobald in what was expected of him and they had no qualms about his ability to discharge his duties fairly and efficiently but Trouville was as yet completely unschooled in the work he had to do. Ralph feared that he would be a less willing pupil than the archdeacon.

  ‘How long will this take?’ asked Trouville mutinously.

  ‘As long as is necessary,’ said Ralph.

  ‘You should have sent the documents on ahead to me so that I could study them in private and prepare myself.’

  ‘That was not possible, my lord,’ explained Gervase, patting the leather satchel which was slung from his shoulder. ‘These are the only ones we possess. It would have been long and tedious work for a scribe to prepare copies for you and they would, in any case, have been quite incomprehensible on their own. You will need my assistance. I have studied all the returns for this county brought back to the Exchequer at Winchester and will be able to explain to you the irregularities we have come to correct.’

  ‘Without Gervase we are all lost,’ said Ralph.

  ‘He is a masterly teacher,’ added Theobald.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ muttered Trouville.

  They walked on up the hill in the direction of the marketplace and got their first real feel of the town itself. Warwick was larger than Ralph remembered it, a thriving community with upwards of fifteen hundred inhabitants living in a jumbled confusion of streets, lanes and alleyways, which had survived the Norman occupation better than most by dint of offering it no resistance. Towns like York, Exeter and Chester, already visited by Ralph and Gervase in the course of their work, had bravely offered defiance to the invading army and suffered hideous destruction as a result but Warwick had given a more neutral response and, but for the addition of its castle, the administrative centre of the county, was much the town it had been on the eve of the Conquest.

  Shops were already open and tradesmen busy at their work. The cold weather did not deter customers from visiting the bakers, the brewers, the tailors, the butchers, the grocers and all the others who had their wares on display. Women drew water from a well, boys fought aimlessly, girls played, horses pulled wagons, beggars wandered and dogs roamed in search of scraps. It was a busy, noisy, smelly, typically urban scene. Ralph studied it with interest, Theobald noted each church with a quiet smile and Gervase compared the description of the town which emerged from the returns of the earlier commissioners with what was now before his eyes. Benedict was in his element, hood back to let the wind smack at his bare skull and hand raised in greeting to everyone who looked his way. It was only Philippe Trouville who lacked curiosity and who gazed around instead with sullen indifference.

  When they reached the shire hall, the town reeve was waiting to receive them. Ednoth was a tall, thin, rangy man with greying hair and a well-barbered beard. He had an air of competence about him which was offset by an obsequious manner. Shoulders hunched and palms rubbing against each other, he gave them a warm greeting and ushered them straight into the building so that they could feel the benefit of the fire which he had ordered to be lighted there. Trouville was annoyed to find that a Saxon held such an important post in the town and he said nothing to the reeve when he was introduced, but Ralph preferred to judge the man on his merit. He startled the reeve by speaking to him, albeit haltingly, in his native tongue.

  ‘My letters reached you, then?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Ednoth. ‘Everything is in readiness.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘But I obeyed your commands to the letter. As you see, the table has been set out for you and benches have been provided for those who are summoned before you. Everything else you required is at hand.’

  ‘Except a certain Martin Reynard.’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed the other. ‘No, alas.’

  ‘I do not blame you, Ednoth, but I can tell you this. Our business in Warwick could have been dispatched much quicker if the fellow had been here to speak on his master's behalf.’

  ‘Stop talking in that gibberish!’ demanded Trouville. ‘I cannot understand a single word of it.’

  ‘No more could I until I married a Saxon wife,’ said Ralph with a grin, lapsing back into Norman French. ‘Since she started to teach me her language I have come to a much better understanding of the people with whom we share this realm.’

  Trouville bristled. ‘We do not share it - we rule it.’

  ‘With the help of obliging local officials like Ednoth here.’

  ‘He would not hold such a position if the appointment of a town reeve lay in my hands. Only a Norman can be really trusted.’

  ‘That has not been my experience,’ said Theobald mildly.

  ‘Nor mine,’ said Gervase, anxious to deflect them from a pointless argument. He handed his satchel to Ralph. ‘Here are the documents. You might care to show the first of them to our new colleague while I have a word with Ednoth.’

  ‘A wise suggestion,’ agreed Ralph.

  ‘Especially if you're going to talk to him in that pigswill of a language called English,’ sneered Trouville. ‘What was it you told us at table last night, Master Bret? Your mother was Saxon, your father a Breton?’

  ‘That is right,’ joked Ralph, ‘and the stork which brought him into the world was a Celt of Arab origin with Greek blood.’ He winked at Gervase and moved Trouville across to the table. ‘This way, my lord. Back to school.’

  Ednoth had listened intently to every word and garnered mixed impressions of the men he had to serve. Gervase wanted to find out how reliable the reeve would be. There was a cringing eagerness about Ednoth but there might be strict limitations on the amount of assistance that he was able to give them. Though he spoke French fluently, the man was more accessible in his own tongue and relaxed visibly when Gervase addressed him in it.

  ‘We are very grateful to you, Ednoth,’ he began.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We will have to lean heavily on your knowledge of the county and its inhabitants. How long have you lived in Warwickshire?’

  ‘All my life.’

  ‘So you will be familiar with men such as Thorkell?’

  ‘Everybody knows Thorkell. He wields great power in the co
unty.’

  ‘I can see that by the size of his holdings. Our predecessors, the first commissioners to visit you, spoke well of him and I have heard nothing to qualify their judgement.’ He watched the other carefully. ‘What of this man he has recently lost?’

  ‘Martin Reynard?’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Quite well, Master Bret,’ said Ednoth, choosing his words with care. ‘I saw more of him when he was in the lord Henry's household but he left the castle almost a year ago.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Thorkell's estate reeve died. He needed a replacement.’

  ‘And the lord Henry was willing to release Martin Reynard?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘On what terms did they part?’

  ‘Amicable ones, as far as I could tell.’

  ‘It seems odd that he should so readily hand over a valuable member of his household. Compensation must have been involved.’

  ‘That was between the lord Henry and Thorkell.’

  ‘Did no rumours reach your ears?’

  ‘None that I care to repeat,’ said the reeve levelly.

  Gervase had a partial answer. Ednoth would divulge no gossip. He was too conscious of Henry Beaumont's domination of the town to say anything remotely personal about him and, Gervase suspected, whatever comments he himself made about Henry would soon find their way back to the castle. He changed his tack slightly.

  ‘What manner of a man is Boio the Blacksmith?’

  Ednoth gave a shrug. ‘Big, friendly and hard-working.’

  ‘Given to violence?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Easily provoked?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, Master Bret.’

  ‘The opposite?’

  ‘Boio puts up with things which would drive other men to strike out. He is a dull-witted fellow, slow of speech, and is mocked for it. Even the children tease him at times. Boio pays no heed. The more they goad him for his lack of brains, the more he grins at them.’

  ‘He did not grin at Martin Reynard, it seems.’

  ‘Every man has his breaking point.’

  ‘You believe that he committed this murder, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ednoth. ‘Why else would they have arrested him?’

  ‘The evidence against him is far from conclusive.’

  ‘That is not what I have heard.’

  ‘Boio has pleaded his innocence.’

  But the reeve would not be drawn into a comment and Gervase saw that it would be in vain to press for one. Ednoth believed what he was told by Henry Beaumont. That constituted truth to him. Gervase paused for a few moments then fired a last question at him.

  ‘Is the blacksmith married?’

  ‘Bless you - no!’ said the other with a high-pitched laugh. ‘No woman would ever look at a man like that except to poke fun at him. Boio is a great, big, black, ugly creature who goes dumb in the presence of a woman. They frighten him and he terrifies them. He will never take a wife. Boio was born to live alone.’

  ‘And to die alone, it seems,’ murmured Gervase.

  ‘Married?’ Ednoth laughed again. ‘You would not ask such a question if you had ever seen Boio. Wait until you meet him!’

  The blacksmith was totally bewildered. A night without food or water in a dark, dank cell had left him cold and hungry. Sleep had been fitful. His head still ached from the blow he received during his arrest, though the blood had stopped oozing out and had dried in his hair and beard. Boio was in severe discomfort. Wrists manacled and ankles fettered, he sat in the corner of the dungeon on fetid straw. The one small window, high in the wall, admitted the wind freely but kept out all but the merest beams of light. When he tried to adjust his position, the manacles bit into his flesh but the irony of the fact that he had made them himself was lost on him. All he knew was that they were far too tight for his thick wrists.

  The sound of approaching feet made him stir hopefully. Had they come to release him or, at the very least, to feed him? He stared at the heavy door as he heard its bolts being drawn back. A key was then inserted into the lock and the door swung open to allow three men to enter the cell. The guard came first, checking to see that the prisoner was still secured before motioning his companions forward.

  ‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Henry Beaumont, inhaling the reek. ‘He stinks to high heaven.’

  ‘He befouled himself, my lord,’ said the guard. ‘Shall we throw some buckets of water over him?’

  ‘No, no, I will begin the interrogation.’

  Boio understood none of the words he heard but the expressions on the men's faces were eloquent enough. He cowered under Henry's stern gaze, but rallied a little when the third man came close and he recognised him as Ansgot, the ancient priest, a friend, one who might actually speak up for him. But Ansgot was not there to defend Boio, simply to act as an interpreter between him and Henry Beaumont. The old man, short and stooping, with a straggly grey beard and mottled skin, wore an expression that was midway between sorrow and accusation. He clearly believed that the blacksmith had committed murder. Boio could look for no help from him.

  Conducted through Ansgot, the interrogation was painfully slow.

  ‘Why did you murder Martin Reynard?’

  ‘I did not murder him,’ said Boio, each word a labour in itself.

  ‘You do understand what murder is? It is killing someone unlawfully with the intention of doing so.’

  ‘I am no murderer, Father Ansgot.’

  ‘You had an argument with Martin Reynard?’

  ‘Did I?’ The blacksmith seemed genuinely surprised.

  ‘People overheard you. We have witnesses.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What did you argue about?’

  ‘I can't remember, Father Ansgot.’

  ‘Did you threaten him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Martin Reynard. Did you say that you would hit him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘One of the witnesses claims that you did.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Some days ago. When you had the argument.’

  ‘I don't think I said I would hit him.’

  ‘What did you say, Boio?’

  ‘Who knows, Father Ansgot? It was a long time ago.’

  ‘The start of this week, that is all.’

  ‘I can't remember that far back.’

  ‘Try, Boio.’

  ‘My mind …’ said the other helplessly, tapping his head.

  Henry needed no translation. Enraged by the tardiness of the examination, he tried to speed things up with a more direct approach.

  ‘Tell him to confess!’ he ordered. ‘Or I'll burn the truth out of him with hot irons! Make him confess!’

  Ansgot shuddered at the content of the message but he relayed it faithfully to Boio. The blacksmith shook his head in blank dismay.

  ‘I am innocent, Father Ansgot. I give you my word.’

  ‘Confess, Boio. It is the only thing to do.’

  ‘Bring me a Bible. I will swear on that.’

  ‘Confront him with the witness!’ hissed Henry.

  ‘Which one, my lord?’ asked Ansgot, slipping back into French.

  ‘The man who saw him in the forest. Tax him with that.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the priest, turning back to the prisoner. ‘There is no point in denying it, Boio. It will be the worse for you if you do. On the morning of the murder a witness saw you leaving the part of the forest where the dead body was found.’

  ‘But I was not there.’

  ‘He swears that you were.’

  Boio looked hunted. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago. Shortly after dawn.’

  ‘Two days …?’ He was more confused than ever.

  ‘Try to remember, Boio,’ said the priest with the slowness of speech he would have used with a child. ‘Not yesterday but the day before. Do you understand? The day before yesterday you went into the forest and ki
lled Martin Reynard?’ Boio shook his head violently. ‘You were seen by a witness. What were you doing in the forest?’

  ‘It was not me, Father Ansgot.’

  ‘It was, Boio. Just after dawn. Two days ago.’

  The blacksmith's face was contorted with the effort of memory. Henry was irked by the delay but Ansgot held up a hand to ask for his patience, confident that they would get an answer out of the prisoner in time. As Boio grappled uncertainly with his immediate past, sweat began to pour out of his forehead and his eyes watered. Then, with the elation of someone who has just located treasure, he gave a grin of triumph and held up both hands in excitement.

  ‘I remember, I remember!’

  ‘What is the idiot saying?’ demanded Henry.

  ‘Let me hear him out, my lord,’ said Ansgot.

  ‘I remember. Two days ago. I did not leave my forge. A man called at dawn. His donkey had cast a shoe and I made a new one for him. That was it, the stranger came with his donkey. He stayed for an hour or more. I was not in the forest that morning. I was with the man. He will vouch for me. He will tell you. I am innocent.’

  ‘Who was this man?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell us his name.’

  Boio gaped. ‘I do not know his name.’

  ‘Who was he? Where was he going?’

  ‘He was a stranger.’

  ‘We need to find him, Boio, if he is to confirm your story.’

  ‘The man with the donkey came to my forge.’

  ‘Then where is he now?’

  Boio looked utterly demoralised and lapsed into a despairing silence. When Henry heard what the prisoner had been saying, he was furious and aimed a vicious kick at him.

  ‘It is a damnable lie!’ he howled. ‘There was no stranger at the forge that morning. This villain was in the forest, squeezing Martin Reynard to death. I'll not hear any more of this.’ He turned to the guard. ‘Get this animal cleaned up before I come again so that he does not offend my nostrils. The funeral will be held this afternoon. That will put me in the right mood for a proper interrogation. Warn him, Ansgot,’ he said, pointing at the priest. ‘Warn this vile cur! When I return to this cell, the only interpreter I will bring is a branding iron!’