The Foxes of Warwick (Domesday Series Book 9)

by Edward Marston

  ‘You went there deliberately.’

  ‘Only to discuss this claim he is making.’

  ‘To question him about the murder of his kinsman.’

  ‘The subject came up of its own accord,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ countered Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘And I suppose that Grimketel strayed in of his own accord as well? Whatever did you hope to gain by grilling him and his master?’

  ‘More detail, my lord,’ said Gervase.

  ‘The only detail which you need to know is that I have taken charge of this investigation. And I need no assistance from any of you. No assistance,’ he repeated, ‘and no unwarranted interference.’

  ‘Evidence came our way by chance, my lord.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Proof that the blacksmith's alibi was not a lie,’ said Gervase. ‘The stranger with the donkey does exist. Two witnesses saw him on the road near Kenilworth on the day in question. The fellow was heading for Coventry and is liable still to be there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘His testimony may save Boio.’

  ‘It will not even be admitted.’

  ‘But it must. The man is a crucial witness.’

  ‘Let him be sent for,’ suggested Benedict.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I place no value on the word of an indigent traveller. I know such men too well. They sneak from town to town to prey on the credulous and soft-hearted. The blacksmith shoed his donkey without payment. Out of gratitude the man will say almost anything which Boio asks him.’

  ‘Would you send an innocent man to his death?’ said Ralph.

  ‘Due process of law will be followed. All relevant witnesses will be summoned. Those who overheard the blacksmith arguing with Martin Reynard. Those who can testify to Boio's hatred of the man. And, most important of all, the witness who saw him near the murder scene.’

  ‘The slimy Grimketel.’

  ‘His evidence is vital.’

  ‘I would not trust a word that man says.’

  ‘You do not have to, my lord,’ said Henry, glowering at him. ‘Why do you take it upon yourself to get involved here at all? You are my guests and you are flouting my hospitality. It is intolerable. Have I tried to hinder your own work in the town?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Have I questioned your judgements at the shire hall and gone behind your back in the hope of subverting them?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then have the grace to treat me with the same respect that I show you. Devote your energies to the matters which brought you to Warwick. Stop worrying about the fate of a man you have never even met.’

  ‘I have met him, my lord,’ said Benedict.

  ‘That, I now see, was a mistake.’

  ‘I offered him succour.’

  ‘You listened to his arrant lies.’

  ‘I believe him to be innocent.’

  ‘That is your privilege, Brother Benedict.’

  ‘Let me speak with him again.’

  ‘No!’ snapped the other.

  ‘But the poor man has information locked away in that slowmoving brain of his which needs to be teased out. I am the person to do it. Boio trusts me, my lord.’

  ‘He may do so; I do not.’

  Benedict was hurt. ‘Do you doubt my integrity?’

  ‘I doubt your motives. From this moment on,’ he announced, ‘your involvement in the case must cease. That goes for all three of you. I have been insulted enough by your meddling. I will stand it no more. Tell me, my lord,’ he said, turning to Ralph. ‘Do you have a busy day ahead of you in the shire hall tomorrow?’

  ‘Very busy!’ sighed Ralph.

  ‘Will it leave time for rides into the countryside?’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Or for pointless speculation about a man on a donkey?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Good,’ said Henry with a nod of satisfaction. ‘That means all three of you will be safely out of my way while I get on with the important business of putting a murderer on trial.’

  ‘So soon?’ protested Gervase.

  ‘It is unjust, my lord,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Boio needs more time to marshal his defence.’

  Henry was contemptuous. ‘He has no defence. I have never seen a more guilty man. He will stand trial for the killing of Martin Reynard, then be convicted and sentenced. By the time you finish your day's work in the shire hall, I will have his miserable carcass dangling from a rope.’

  Both legs were free. Boio enjoyed such a sense of euphoria that he wanted to skip around in the straw to celebrate but he wisely restrained himself. Split asunder by the steady assault of his file, the fetters now lay on the floor. They had left peeled skin and ugly red weals around his ankles but he did not mind. Given the use of his legs once more, he sensed that he had a fighting chance of escape. How it could be effected, he did not yet know but he hoped that it would become clear in time. If he remained in custody, he was certain, his life was forfeit. Too many people believed him guilty. Too many actively wanted him to die, Grimketel among them, a man whom he could never bring himself to befriend and who would take pleasure in giving evidence which would help to convict him.

  Boio was out of his depth. His true element was his forge. He was his own master there. He knew how to speak to the horses who came to be shoed, whispering softly to subdue them so that they did not shy when he hammered in his nails. Hauled into a court and interrogated under oath, he would be completely lost. He did not have words enough to keep his accusers at bay. His simple plea of innocence would be swept aside.

  At least they were leaving him alone. No more food had been given to him but neither had he been subjected to any more torture. The guards were biding their time. They were keeping him under lock and key until his trial and that, he feared, would be very soon. Henry Beaumont believed in swift justice. Boio had seen examples of it swinging in the wind as they hung from the gallows, condemned men displayed by way of warning. It would be his turn next. Thorkell of Warwick could not save him and neither could Ansgot the Priest. Brother Benedict showed compassion but offered no practical assistance. Only one person actually wanted to aid his escape and it was her belief in him which impelled him along and instilled boldness.

  Though his arms were aching and his hands sore, he picked up the file once more. It was his only weapon. Asmoth had taught him the way to save himself. His fetters had been discarded but the manacles on his wrists remained. His file rasped away at one of the iron bands as another long and painstaking task began. His eyes were on his work and his ears were pricked for the sound of the guards.

  But his mind remained solely and devotedly on Asmoth.

  When she came round the bend in the road she saw the forge ahead of her, silhouetted against the sky. Evening shadows had matured into the darkness of night but Asmoth's eyes were accustomed to the gloom and she picked out the familiar profile of the dilapidated buildings without difficulty. Her stride lengthened. She was thirty yards or more away when she heard the sound. It stopped her in her tracks. Asmoth strained her ears to listen. It was no illusion. It was there, a steady, unvarying, repetitive banging noise. The distinctive note of the forge. For a brief second she dared to believe that Boio had somehow been released and sent back to his work. He was free. She broke into a run.

  It was then that she realised there was no light in the forge, no telltale glow of fire and no clang of the anvil. The place looked deserted. What was causing the noise was the door of the forge as it was opened and shut for amusement by the wind. Asmoth slowed to a walk, reached the building, held the door wide open and peered in. Her body tensed at once and her mouth went dry. Somebody was there. She could hear movement and sense danger. Boio's home had been invaded by a stranger. Her fear disappeared beneath a sudden urge to protect her friend's property.

  ‘Who is there?’ she cried out.

 
; The reply was immediate and came in the form of a snarling bundle of fur, which raced across the floor and brushed her leg as it flashed through the door. Asmoth was both startled and relieved, frightened by the creature's departure but glad that the intruder was no more than a wildcat in search of food. Going into the forge, she bolted the door behind her then went through into the house itself. She groped around until she found a candle. When it was lighted she set it on the little table and lowered herself into the crude chair which Boio had fashioned out of spare timber. Built to accommodate his huge frame, it was far too big for her but Asmoth was not in search of comfort. She needed reassurance. When she sat in his chair she felt safe, wanted, close to him.

  Pulling her cloak around her, she closed her eyes in prayer, her words ascending to heaven like a thin but persistent wisp of smoke.

  ‘Do you know what else the lady Adela suggested to me?’ she asked.

  ‘No, my love.’

  ‘Are you not interested enough to listen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then stop fidgeting like that.’

  ‘I am not fidgeting, Golde. I am just distracted.’

  ‘That is all too obvious,’ she chided.

  ‘Do not be harsh with me.’

  ‘Then do not provoke me so. I thought you would want to hear.’

  ‘I do, my love. But not now.’

  ‘The lady Adela and I talked for hours.’

  ‘And so will we,’ promised Ralph, ‘when the time is ripe.’

  Golde was peeved. She had so much to tell her husband that she did not even know where to begin. When he joined her in the privacy of her apartment, however, he was no sooner through the door than he wanted to go back out of it. Golde grabbed him and shook him hard.

  ‘What is the matter with you, Ralph?’

  ‘I have just had an idea.’

  ‘So have I,’ she said with playful menace. ‘My idea is that I beat you black and blue until you consent to listen to me. This concerns the lord Philippe and his first wife.’

  ‘I am agog to hear it, Golde.’

  ‘Then why will you not stay still?’

  ‘Because there is a man in the dungeon who will stand trial for murder tomorrow,’ he said with quiet urgency. ‘We do not believe that he is guilty of the crime and wish to help him. I have just thought of a means by which we may do so. I am sorry, my love,’ he said, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, ‘but this takes precedence over any gossip you may have picked up. Bear with me a while. When I have spoken with Gervase I will return at once to listen to all you have to say. Will this content you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I can see that I shall have to accept it.’

  Ralph kissed her again before going off in search of Gervase. The latter was leaving his chamber when his friend came down the steps. Ralph eased him back into the room.

  ‘I have just had a brilliant thought, Gervase!’

  ‘I'll wager that it is the same one that struck me.’

  ‘Let me tell you mine first. We must have faith that this stranger with the donkey may be a valuable witness. At daybreak tomorrow, I will go in search of him.’ He beamed. ‘Did you think likewise?’

  ‘No, Ralph.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My plan was to ride to Coventry myself while you remained at the shire hall to conduct the business of the day. Three commissioners are enough to dispatch the matter in hand, perplexing as it is. I will not be missed. Is it agreed?’

  ‘No, Gervase.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If anyone goes it should be me.’

  ‘But you are our leader,’ said Gervase. ‘You are the one person who must not desert the tribunal.’

  ‘A lawyer's mind is vital in the shire hall.’

  ‘Then I will bring it back from Coventry as fast as I can.’

  ‘You must stay. I will go in your stead. I am the finer horseman.’

  ‘The man we seek is a Saxon. I am fluent in his language.’

  ‘Golde will go with me as my interpreter.’

  ‘She would be missed at the castle and the lord Henry's suspicions would be aroused. This must be done privily. Besides, Golde would slow you down on the journey. No, Ralph,’ he insisted, ‘this is work for me.’

  ‘For me. I had the notion first.’

  ‘Asmoth came to me with news about the man.’

  They argued for several minutes before the issue was finally decided in Gervase's favour. He would leave quietly at dawn with two of Ralph's men as an escort and go in search of the man whose donkey had been shoed by the blacksmith.

  ‘Bring him back,’ said Ralph, ‘and the lord Henry will simply have to listen to his evidence.’

  ‘That is not the only reason to find him.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The man is a traveller,’ said Gervase, ‘with eyes sharpened by a life on the road. And we know that he was abroad at dawn on that day. If he skirted the Forest of Arden he might have seen something of value to us. Who knows? He may even have noticed Grimketel, off to check his snares among the trees.’

  ‘If that is what the wretch was actually doing!’

  ‘I have my doubts.’

  ‘And I. It seems too much of a coincidence that Grimketel should be approaching the spot where the body was found at the very moment when Boio was leaving it. Find this stranger in Coventry. Ask him exactly what he remembers of that morning.’

  ‘And where he spent the night before.’

  ‘It must have been close by.’

  ‘That is one of a dozen questions I have for him.’

  ‘Take a spare horse with you,’ advised Ralph. ‘Speed is of the essence here. He will not be able to hurry back to Warwick on a mangy donkey.’ He pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. ‘I am sorry that I will not be making this journey but I wish you luck. We will just have to pray that the fellow is still in Coventry.’

  ‘He is, Ralph.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He has to earn money to feed himself and his beast. He will not do that on the open road, especially when it is scoured by winter. No, he is still in Coventry.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘He has to be. For Boio's sake.’

  Necessity brings together strange bedfellows. The old man was used to sharing his sleeping accommodation with his donkey but he had never before settled down for the night with a dwarf and a performing bear. All four of them were in a stable near the marketplace in Coventry. There was no light and the straw rustled noisily whenever they moved but they were warm, dry and safe. The two men compared their takings.

  ‘We did well in Worcester,’ said the dwarf. ‘They liked us. We stayed there a week before they tired of our tricks. We will go back to Worcester in the summer, I fancy. You?’

  ‘There have been slim pickings for me, my friend.’

  ‘How much do you charge for your potions?’

  ‘Enough to keep the two of us alive and no more.’

  ‘You are cheating yourselves.’

  ‘My mission is to help others.’

  ‘So is mine,’ said the dwarf cheerfully. ‘We give people good entertainment. We warm them up on a cold day and send them home with something to tell their friends. A bear that turns somersaults. Ursa and I help them to enjoy themselves but we want a fair price in return.’

  ‘You had more than that today.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the marketplace,’ said the old man. ‘I watched you as the bear danced and did tricks. People threw money into your cap.’

  The dwarf was rueful. ‘It was thrown in but just as quickly taken out again by that fishmonger. Ursa went berserk. I could not control him. He broke that barrel of fish open and the man emptied my cap in payment. All our work went for nothing.’

  ‘That is what happens some days.’

  ‘I don't know what came over Ursa.’

  ‘He wanted some fun.’

  ‘He will smell of fish for a week.’

  Chewing a hunk
of bread, the dwarf took a swig of water from a leather flask at his belt. He was a misshapen man with a grotesque face yet his voice was oddly melodious. The bear whined and his master took the remains of an apple from inside his tunic and fed it to him through his muzzle. Ursa chomped happily. The donkey brayed in disapproval.

  ‘Tell me about this miracle,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘You will have to come and see it yourself.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Cure a young boy who is possessed by demons.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With simple faith in the power of God.’

  ‘No sorcery involved?’

  A throaty chuckle. ‘I do not reveal my secrets.’

  ‘Is it a trick, then?’

  ‘No trick. Be there tomorrow. You will see.’

  ‘Ursa and I will be after an audience of our own.’

  ‘Keep him away from fish barrels this time.’

  ‘I will!’

  The bear had now curled up in the straw and his master lay back to use him as a pillow, nestling into the crisp fur. Propped up against a wall, the old man could just see them in the gloom. He was struck by the sense of companionship between man and beast.

  ‘Are you not afraid he will hurt you?’ he said.

  ‘Ursa? No, we are friends. I look after him.’

  ‘But he was so fierce when he crushed that barrel.’

  ‘He is not fierce with me,’ said the dwarf, patting the animal. ‘He is as gentle as a lamb. When you get used to his stink, a bear is as good a bedfellow as anyone else. His claws have been trimmed and the muzzle keeps his jaws together. But that is only for the safety of the spectators.’ He gave a yawn. ‘Even if he had the use of his claws and his teeth, he would never turn on me.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Sleep easy, old man.’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Ursa does not like the taste of miracle workers.’

  He cackled in the darkness. The old man liked him. The dwarf was a survivor, born an outcast and doomed to wander, pointed at as a freak, wherever he went, yet he was strangely free from bitterness or complaint. In spite of his unprepossessing appearance, the bearward was a pleasant character with an inner optimism which sustained both him and his beast. A traveller was at the mercy of the weather, the geography of the terrain and the temper of the people he encountered. More than one village had driven the old man out because they suspected him of black arts. He knew that the dwarf and his bear must have endured plenty of ill treatment themselves along the way.