The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘It is perhaps safer if I say nothing at all on this subject.’

  ‘Will you force me to insist?’ chided the bishop.

  ‘No, no!’

  ‘Then what is this pity of which you spoke?’

  Reginald straightened his back. ‘I believe it is a pity that the title of abbot of this monastery is not vested in the bishop ex officio.’

  Robert de Limesey savoured the idea for several minutes.

  ‘You are right,’ he said at length. ‘Coventry is more suitable.’

  He ran a covetous hand over the charter then looked up from it to give Reginald a polite nod of farewell. The monk held his ground.

  ‘There is something else?’

  ‘A small matter but I felt that you should be informed.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There is a man lately come to the town,’ said Reginald. ‘A pedlar of sorts, selling fake remedies to the foolish.’

  ‘Have these remedies caused any harm?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, my lord bishop.’

  ‘Has anyone been cured by them?’

  ‘Apparently. That is why I took an interest.’

  ‘An interest?’

  ‘The fellow does not merely sell potions,’ explained the other. ‘He rides around on his donkey and makes much larger claims.’

  ‘What sort of claims?’

  ‘He says that he can perform miracles.’

  ‘Miracles?’

  ‘Curing a leper by the laying on of hands.’

  The bishop tensed. ‘I spy danger here.’

  ‘He boasts that he can drive out evil spirits from a house.’

  ‘Only a man of God could do that.’

  ‘This man scorns us, it seems. He practises on the sick and credulous. I only report what I have heard, my lord bishop, but I have to admit that I am alarmed. What should we do?’

  ‘Have him watched, Reginald.’

  ‘And arrested?’

  ‘In time. If it proves necessary.’

  Boio was in considerable distress, too weary to stay awake and yet too restless to fall asleep. It was not only the pain which hindered his slumber. Years in the forge had accustomed him to flying sparks and the occasional burn. The poker which they used on him cauterised his flesh but inflicted nothing like the agony it would have done on any other man and he had too much pride to beg for mercy. The more they burned him, the more he pleaded his innocence. In the sense that they had soon given up their torture, he felt he had won a small victory. Yet he was still chained in a dungeon with no prospect of freedom.

  What really kept him awake was the mental anguish. He brooded endlessly in the darkness, wondering what everyone would think of him. How would his friends react to the news of his imprisonment? What would his customers do now that he was not in his forge to serve them? Why had Thorkell of Warwick, his revered overlord, not come to his aid? One person in particular occupied his fevered mind and made sleep quite impossible. Fearing for his own life, he yet thought more about her safety and her future.

  Where was she?

  The drawing of the bolts interrupted his reverie and made him sit up in the straw, wondering what was coming this time, the kindly Brother Benedict or the cruel instrument of torture. In the event it was neither. When the door swung open, the gaoler spoke roughly to him.

  ‘Here, you rogue!’ he snarled. ‘See if this will help you!’

  Boio did not understand the words nor did he see the object which was hurled at him. But he felt the blow to his head. Whatever was aimed at him drew a trickle of blood from his forehead. He groped around in the straw for the missile, wishing that more of the moonlight could find its way through his window to aid his search and wondering why the gaoler had thrown what felt like a stone at him. His hand eventually closed on the bottle and he felt a thrill of recognition. Barely able to see it, he knew it at once as the gift from the stranger whose donkey he had shoed.

  Hope surged. Someone believed him. Someone had gone to his forge to find the bottle about which he'd talked. They would have to accept his story now. The truth slowly seeped into his befuddled brain. The bottle was not a means of rescue at all. It had been slung into the cell with a yell of derision. Hope withered instantly. Lost in his despair, he sat there for an hour before it occurred to him that he was holding medicine. He remembered what the man had said to him. It was a panacea, a cure for any aches and pains. His swollen fingers had difficulty removing the stopper but he eventually managed it and lifted the bottle to his nostrils. The smell was reassuring.

  He put the bottle tentatively to his lips and sipped a small amount of the liquid. Its sharp taste made him grimace and he felt it course through him like molten iron. Then the miracle happened. It soothed him. It seemed to wash over his whole body like a cool wave. It eased his mind, it took the sting from his burns, it made him forget the chafed skin of his wrists and ankles. In return for shoeing a donkey, he had been given the one thing which could help him at that moment. Holding the bottle to his mouth again, he drained its contents in one gulp. The sharp taste was followed by the coursing heat which in turn gave way to a wonderful feeling of peace and well being.

  Boio fell asleep within minutes.

  The meal which they shared in the hall that night was delicious but the occasion was a decidedly muted affair. Henry Beaumont excused himself, pleading the cares of office and, not wishing to be drawn yet again into discussions about the way in which he was conducting the murder investigation, and left his wife to preside at the table. Philippe Trouville rid himself of trenchant opinions on almost every subject which came up but nobody cared to challenge him and his diatribes eventually ceased. His wife, the lady Marguerite, outspoken guest and a proven scourge of social gatherings, was strangely quiet, attentive to her hostess and pleasant to everyone else but robbed of her usual need to draw attention to herself and to inflict humiliation on those she considered her inferiors.

  Golde was relieved to find the woman in a more palliative frame of mind but Ralph felt cheated, waiting for Marguerite to insult his wife so that he could trade one barbed remark for another, and frustrated when it became clear that his weaponry would not be called into use. Gervase sat beside Archdeacon Theobald and they conversed happily about the influence which Lanfranc had had over the English Church since he became primate. BrotherBenedict, wedded to his diet of bread and water, managed to get a conversation of sorts out of Heloise.

  It was only when the prisoner was mentioned that tempers flared. Too much wine drew the full arrogance out of Philippe Trouville.

  ‘The lord Henry should have called for me,’ said Trouville, tapping his chest. ‘I know how to break a man's spirit. I would have had that blacksmith confessing to his crime within minutes.’

  ‘That is a fearful boast,’ said Ralph.

  ‘No boast, my lord. I have had long experience in the trade.’

  ‘And what trade might that be? Butchery?’

  ‘Interrogation.’

  ‘Can you tell the difference between the two?’

  ‘Mock if you wish,’ said Trouville, ‘but I have reduced the strongest men to piteous wrecks. Shall I tell you how?’

  ‘No,’ said his wife nastily. ‘This is a barren topic.’

  ‘It is one on which I am an expert.’

  ‘A barren expert!’ murmured Ralph.

  ‘Pass on my offer to your husband, my lady,’ Trouville said to Adela, not even noticing her slight wince. ‘My services are at his command.’

  ‘I wish that your silence was at my command,’ hissed Marguerite.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Your speech is too vulgar, Philippe.’

  ‘I merely offered an opinion.’

  ‘It is not one we wish to hear.’

  ‘But this matter affects us all,’ he argued, draining his cup. ‘Our work here is hampered by this murder enquiry. The sooner it can be resolved, the sooner we can discharge our duties. Put the interrogation of the prisoner in my hands
and his confession is assured.’

  She gave a shudder. ‘You say that with such relish!’

  ‘And you might be torturing an innocent man,’ said Gervase.

  ‘A guilty man!’ boomed Trouville. ‘I'd bleed the truth out of him.’

  ‘I can stand no more of this,’ said his wife, jumping to her feet and turning to her hostess. ‘Excuse me, my lady. I am sorry for my husband's behaviour. The excellence of your wine has led him astray.’

  As her mistress moved away, Heloise rose to follow but a glance from Marguerite made her resume her seat. Trouville did not know whether to go after his wife, repeat his boasts or drink more wine so he did all three simultaneously, vanishing at length through the door with a full cup in his hand, a bloodcurdling threat on his lips and the sudden fear that it might be a frosty night in the marital chamber.

  Conversation returned to a gentler and more neutral level until Ralph and Golde took their leave, expressing their profound gratitude to their hostess as they went out. Brother Benedict soon drifted off to the chapel, leaving only four of them at the table. It was Theobald who now came into his own, gently probing the two women for information while appearing to offer mild flattery. Gervase was deeply impressed by the way in which – having drawn Adela into yielding confidences about her husband – he turned his artless charm on the taciturn Heloise. It was interrogation of a much subtler kind than that described by Trouville. The disfiguring frown slowly melted from the older woman's face.

  ‘The lady Marguerite would be lost without you,’ he remarked.

  ‘That is not so, Archdeacon Theobald,’ she said.

  ‘I have eyes.’

  She almost simpered. ‘I merely do what I have always done.’

  ‘Attended to your mistress with admirable skill. Even when,’ he said with a glance towards the door, ‘your efforts are not always appreciated. How long have you been in the lady Marguerite's employ?’

  ‘Several years. Before that I looked after her mother.’

  ‘Was she as beautiful as the daughter?’

  ‘Even more so,’ said Heloise. ‘Beautiful – and gracious.’

  ‘Tell us something about her. Did she hail from Falaise as well?’

  ‘Yes, Archdeacon.’

  Encouraged by his words and the smiling attention of the others, Heloise talked fondly of her long years in a celebrated household in Normandy. Though she was too discreet to make any criticism of her mistress, she talked so lovingly about the mother that the contrast with the daughter became apparent. Something of her own blighted private life also emerged. Deaths in her family and the tragic loss in battle of a man who proposed marriage to her had deprived her of all hope of any personal happiness yet she was free from any hint of self-pity. In serving her mistress faithfully she felt she could at least provide a degree of happiness for someone else.

  ‘You are a true Christian!’ observed Theobald.

  ‘No, no,’ she said almost modestly. ‘I feel so inadequate beside someone like you, Archdeacon Theobald. Or when I see how devout Brother Benedict is. That is Christianity in action, not pandering to the whims of a beautiful woman.’

  ‘It is a duty you now share with her husband.’

  ‘At times.’

  ‘How long have you known the lord Philippe?’

  ‘Since he and the lady Marguerite first met.’

  ‘I have the impression that he has been married before.’

  ‘He has,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know what happened to his first wife?’

  The question came out so easily and naturally that Heloise, relaxed and unguarded, answered it before she even knew what she was doing.

  ‘She took her own life.’

  There was sudden silence. They were absolutely stunned. Adela brought a hand up to her mouth in horror and Gervase felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Theobald blamed himself for asking the question and prayed inwardly for forgiveness. All four of them were throbbing with embarrassment. Heloise let out a little cry. Realising what she had just admitted, she turned white and fled from the room.

  The forge was in darkness, its fire long extinguished and its clamour fled. The figure who came trudging along the road was swathed in a sheepskin cloak to keep out the nibble of winter. When she reached the forge there was barely enough moonlight for her to find the door to it but, once inside, she moved around with confidence. Her hands stretched out, groped, met with cold iron, then searched. Something fell to the floor with a clatter but her nimble fingers felt on in the numbing blackness. At last they found what they were searching for and closed gratefully around it. Wrapping the object in the piece of cloth which she had brought, the woman picked her way to the door and lunged back out into the night.

  On the long walk back she now had something to comfort her.

  Chapter Six

  Dawn brought a flurry of snow which quickly turned to a driving sleet. Those abroad in the streets of the town found themselves picking their way through a quagmire and dodging the urgent rivulets which poured from the eaves of the houses. Dogs had the sense to remain under cover. No beggars ventured out. The working day began without enthusiasm.

  Gervase Bret was awakened by the pelting noise on the shutters. When his eyes flickered open, the first thing he did was to chide himself for being so carelessly distracted on the previous night. Instead of falling asleep as usual, lulled into a warm contentment by fond thoughts of Alys, he was speculating on the startling news which Heloise had given them regarding Philippe Trouville's earlier marriage. When exhaustion finally got the better of him, Gervase was still wondering if the lady Marguerite was in any way the cause of the suicide.

  A new day with its new form of inclement weather found him penitent. Alys filled his mind wonderfully and the creeping cold of his chamber seemed to fade slowly away.

  He was on his way down to breakfast when the guard found him.

  ‘Master Bret?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes. Good morrow, friend.’

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘She insisted that you would want to see her.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘The woman who waits at the castle gate,’ he said. ‘A ragged creature. But she has walked a long way in foul weather to see you so it must be important.’

  ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘Asmoth.’

  Gervase shook his head. ‘I know nobody of that name.’

  ‘She mentioned a forge.’

  ‘A forge?’

  ‘It belongs to Boio the Blacksmith.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember her now.’

  ‘Will you see her or shall I send her on her way?’

  ‘I'll come back with you at once.’

  ‘You will need a cloak in this weather.’

  ‘I do not fear a little sleet,’ said Gervase. ‘What did you call her?’

  ‘Asmoth.’

  ‘And she comes alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Looking more like a drowned rat than a human being. She speaks no French and we only have a smattering of English between us but she made herself understood. She knew your name well enough and kept repeating it.’

  ‘Let us go and find her.’

  Gervase followed him down the stairs and out through the door at the base of the keep. Stone steps were set in the mound on which it was built and the sleet had taught them treason. The guard almost slipped over twice and Gervase himself had to walk very gingerly. He regretted his folly in not wearing a cloak and cap for protection and his face was soon layered with icy moisture. They hurried across the bailey and under the cover of the gatehouse. The woman was huddled in a corner, sitting on the cold stone to recover from the journey and ignoring the sneers of the other guards on sentry duty. Gervase's arrival astonished the men who did not believe that a royal commissioner could be summoned at the behest of such a bedraggled creature. The woman herself clearly had doubts that he would come to speak to her
and she looked up with a mixture of relief and surprise.

  ‘Your name is Asmoth?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  Gervase read the message in her eyes then offered a hand to help her up. Asmoth wanted to speak to him in private and not under the hostile gaze of Norman soldiers. Glancing round the bailey for another source of shelter, Gervase came to a decision and braved the sleet once more to conduct her towards the little porch outside the chapel. Asmoth scuttled beside him, her sodden cloak wrapped tightly around her body and her leather sandals squelching through the mud.

  The porch gave them only a degree of cover but it ensured privacy. Gervase took a closer look at the woman and saw that she was soaked to the skin. Her face was glistening with damp and pale with fatigue.

  Grateful that he had answered her call, Asmoth was still not sure if she could trust him and caution reduced her voice to a hesitant whisper.

  ‘Where is Boio?’ she said.

  ‘Locked up in the dungeon.’

  ‘Still alive, then?’

  ‘Yes, Asmoth. Still alive.’

  ‘What have they done to him?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said tactfully.

  ‘He is well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’

  The consideration in his tone made her relax slightly as she sensed that she was talking to a friend. She took a step closer.

  ‘What did you do with the bottle of medicine?’

  ‘We showed it to the lord Henry.’

  ‘Did he believe that Boio was telling the truth?’

  Gervase sighed. ‘I fear not.’

  ‘There was a stranger with a donkey,’ she insisted.

  ‘We could not convince the lord Henry of that.’

  ‘There was, there was!’

  ‘I believe it.’

  ‘I know it for sure,’ said Asmoth, clutching at him. ‘I asked my neighbours. I went for miles in the dark last night until I found someone else who saw the man.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘Two of them.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Wenric and his wife. They met the stranger on the road and talked with him. He was riding a donkey and said that Boio had just shoed it.’