‘Has such an attack been made on you before?’ asked Ralph
‘Never.’
‘And you had no warning?’
‘None.’
‘How often do you hunt in the Delamere Forest?’
‘Almost every day.’
‘Without incident?’
‘Invariably,’said Hugh.‘Whether I go hawking or hunting, I always bring back plenty of game. Nobody dares to interfere with my sport. The forest is mine to play in all day.’
‘How many of you rode out today?’
‘Forty or fifty.’
‘You were well protected, then.’
‘I am my own best protection.’
‘What happened yesterday?’
‘Yesterday?’
‘Your hawk was killed by an arrow,’Ralph reminded him.‘The same archer may have stalked you today. Take me through the events of yesterday. How many of you were in the party on that occasion? Where exactly did the archer strike? What was his avowed purpose?’
‘To ruin a day’s hawking.’
‘But why kill your hawk when he could just as easily have aimed his arrow at you? And how did he escape, as he must have done if he was back today with his deadly bow? I need more detail, my lord.’
Hugh regarded him through narrowed lids for a long while.‘Then you will have it,’ he decided eventually.
Ralph leaned forward in his chair and listened with the utmost concentration as his host recounted in copious detail what had transpired on the previous day. Hugh moved on to describe the foul murder which had disturbed that morning’s stag hunt. The parallels were clear.
‘You are right,’concluded Ralph.‘The same archer was almost certainly involved on both occasions.’
‘There will not be a third,’said Hugh grimly.
‘I hope not, my lord.’
‘We will track down this Welsh assassin.’
‘Perhaps,’said Ralph thoughtfully,‘but I am not entirely convinced that he hails from across the border.’
‘You saw the arrow. It came from a Welsh bow.’
‘But the weapon could just as easily have been held by a Saxon,’argued Ralph. ‘Or a Dane. Or even a Norman. What better way to throw suspicion on to someone else?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That there is one simple reason why you were unable to find this phantom Welshman. He does not exist. The man who fired those arrows was not lying in wait in the forest, my lord. You may have taken him with you.’
‘In the hunting party?’
‘Yes,’ reasoned the other. ‘In a group as large as that, it would not have been difficult for one man to detach himself and shoot an arrow from a concealed position.’
‘That never crossed my mind.’
‘Give it due consideration now, my lord.’
‘One of my own friends?.’ said Hugh, trying to adjust his mind to the possibility. ‘No, you are mistaken, Ralph. I know them all. They are loyal to a man. That assassin was Welsh.’
‘Or a Norman in the pay of the Welsh.’
‘I refuse to believe it.’
‘Look to your entourage,’ advised Ralph. ‘It may yet contain the cunning archer. When your men began their search, they would not have looked for one of their own. No sorcery was involved here, my lord. The assassin simply made you all look in the wrong direction.’
Earl Hugh pondered for several minutes before reaffirming his view with a shake of his head. None of his men betrayed him. He would not even entertain the possibility.
‘Who was the murder victim?’ asked Ralph.
‘Raoul Lambert, my finest huntsman.’
‘I know that name. Does he hold land in the forest?’
‘He did,’ said Hugh. ‘Raoul was one of my tenants with substantial holdings within the bounds of Delamere and beyond. He gave sterling service and I always reward that generously.’
‘Some of his property was in dispute.’
‘Raoul had a legal right to every acre in his possession.’
‘The Church claims otherwise.’
‘It would.’
‘If memory serves me,’ said Ralph, scratching his head, ‘this same Raoul Lambert was due to be called before us tomorrow to dispute the matter with Archdeacon Frodo. It seems an odd coincidence that he should be the man who was killed.’
‘Are you suggesting that Frodo fired the arrow?’
‘Of course not, my lord. But the death of Raoul Lambert may well advantage the Church. Where is the body now?’
‘In the mortuary.’
‘Has it been examined by a physician?’
‘Yes,’ said Hugh, ‘but he has told us nothing that we did not know already. The arrow pierced Raoul’s heart. Death was almost instantaneous.’
‘What reason would someone have to kill him?’
‘None whatsoever, Ralph. He was a popular man, liked and respected by all. But, then, he was not the intended victim. His death was purely accidental.’
‘Was it?’
‘The arrow was aimed at me.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘It passed within inches.’
‘Only because you stood so close to Raoul Lambert.’
‘Someone tried to assassinate me,’ insisted Hugh.
‘That may be so,’ said Ralph, ‘but there are two questions that still need to be answered. The first is this. If Raoul Lambert was an accidental victim, why was the arrow aimed so accurately at his heart?’
Hugh was jolted. Hauling himself to his feet, he glowered across the table at his guest. Ralph was telling him things which he did not wish to hear. His pride was wounded by the suggestion that he might not, after all, have been the target for an assassin’s arrow. It was a species of insult.
‘What is the second question?’ he demanded.
‘Only a skilful archer could pick off a hawk in mid-air in the way that you have described. Do you agree?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then ask yourself this, my lord,’ said Ralph, running an eye over Hugh’s massive frame. ‘When he can shoot an arrow with such unerring accuracy at a small bird, why does he miss the much larger and easier target which you present?’
As soon as they saw Brother Gerold walking towards them, they knew that some terrible discovery had been made. Each reacted in a quite different way. Gytha immediately lunged forward and tried to run past the monk, but he caught her by the wrist to detain her. Beollan, by contrast, slunk back to the bushes where the horses had been tethered. His sister’s urge to see what they had found was offset by his unwillingness to confront a hideous truth. The boy was smouldering with guilt.
Gytha tried to break away from Brother Gerold’s grasp.
‘Let me go,’ she pleaded.
‘In a moment, my child.’
‘Have you found them?’
‘We believe so.’
‘Where are they?’
‘You will see them in a moment.’
‘I have a right,’ she argued. ‘Leave go of me. They are my father and my brother.’
‘You may not recognise them as such.’
His words were gentle but they had the force of a blow. Gytha stopped struggling and backed away. He released her wrist. She brought both hands to her face in horror then steeled herself to know the worst.
‘Dead?’ she whispered.
‘I fear so.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Unhappily, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘They were in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘How were they killed?’
‘Unkindly.’
He glanced over his shoulder to see Gervase beckoning him forward. Taking the girl by the arm, he led her slowly into the clearing and across to the ditch. Gytha mustered what little composure she could. Beollan shadowed them cautiously.
Gervase had worked quickly. Ferns had been used to cover the faces and chests of the two corpses, obscuring the worst of the mutilation. A fallen branch had be
en placed across the right leg of the older man to hide the fact that the limb had all but been hacked off. Gervase stood in the ditch between the two supine figures as Gytha and Beollan approached.
She forced herself to look down at the scene below. It was definitely her father and brother. Enough of their bloodied attire was still visible to make identification certain. Gervase held up a knife with a long blade.
‘I found this on one of them. Do you recognise it?’
‘My father’s,’ she whispered.
‘I feared that it might be.’
‘Who did this to them?’ she wailed.
‘I believe that they were caught poaching, Gytha.’
‘We can look into that at a later stage,’ said Gerold, taking charge and putting a consoling arm around the girl. ‘We have found them, that is the main thing, and we can now arrange for them to have a Christian burial instead of being left out here in the forest. Come, my child,’ he said, turning her away from the ditch. ‘You have seen enough. Be brave. You are the head of the family now. Be strong for your brother.’
Gytha nodded and wept silently in his arms. With words of comfort, Gerold escorted her in the direction of the horses. Gervase was glad that he had brought the chaplain with him. His help was invaluable in every way. Gerold was schooled in the arts of consolation.
Beollan ventured close enough to take one glance at the dead bodies then moved hastily away. Gervase went after him. The boy’s behaviour aroused his curiosity. There was no real surprise in Beollan’s face when he viewed the corpses. He seemed to be getting visual confirmation of something he already knew.
Gervase caught up with him and put a hand on his arm. ‘One moment, Beollan.’
The boy spun round and stared at him with suspicion. ‘What do you want?’ he mumbled.
‘Information.’
‘I know nothing.’
‘I think you do,’ said Gervase quietly. ‘And it may help us to understand what actually happened here.’
A frightened look came into the boy’s eye. After a glance at the ditch where the bodies lay, he turned on his heel and tried to run away, but Gervase was far too quick for him. Grabbing him firmly by the shoulders, he eased Beollan behind the trunk of an oak tree so that their conversation was neither seen nor overheard and forced the boy to face him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘let us have the truth, Beollan.’
‘I can’t help you.’
‘You can and we both know it.’
‘No,’ Beollan protested. ‘No, no, no!’
‘Do not be afraid of me. Whatever you tell me, you will not be in any danger. I have no wish to report you or see you punished. Your family has suffered enough. For Gytha’s sake, the truth must come out.’ He released the boy. ‘Have you told her yet?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Beollan studied the ground and shifted his feet.
‘Why not?’ pressed Gervase. There was a long pause. ‘In that case, I will tell you. I think that you were with them yesterday.With your father and brother when they went out poaching.’
‘They were not poaching,’ protested Beollan. ‘Nor was I.’
‘Then what were the three of you doing?’
‘Going for a walk.’
‘Do not lie to me, Beollan.’
‘I’m not.’
‘And look at me when you speak.’
‘I don’t have to say anything.’
‘No,’ agreed Gervase. ‘You can hold your tongue as you’ve done so far and what will that achieve? Nothing. You’ll be eaten up with shame and guilt. And your sister will suffer the terrible pain of not knowing how and why your father and brother met their deaths.’ He knelt down to look up into the boy’s face. ‘Is that what you want?’
Beollan bit his lips and shook his head slowly.
‘Gytha will have to look after you from now on. It would be cruel to keep the truth from her.’
The boy said nothing but his resolve was gradually weakening.
‘Let me say what I believe happened,’ continued Gervase. ‘Your father and brother went out poaching yesterday. Times are hard. The harvest was poor. There is no other way of getting enough food for the family. You went with them.’
‘I did not!’
‘You went with them to act as their lookout.’
‘No!’
‘When they were caught, you saw everything.’
The boy issued another stream of denials then burst into tears. Gervase put a soothing arm round him. Beollan’s defences began to crumble.
‘I told you,’ whispered Gervase, ‘you’re safe. I’m your friend. Whatever you tell me is between the two of us. I will not report you to anyone for taking part in poaching. For that is what you did, Beollan, didn’t you?’
His nod was almost imperceptible but Gervase saw it.
‘What happened?’ he coaxed.
‘I was … their lookout.’
‘And?’
‘I let them down.’
‘No, Beollan.’
‘I did. When the hunting party came, I took fright and fled. I should have stayed with them in their hiding place.’
‘Thank God you did not,’ said Gervase sadly, ‘or you might well have ended up in that ditch with them.’
‘I ran. I ran away. I feel so ashamed.’
‘There is no need.’
‘My place was beside them.’
‘You did the right thing. You saved your life at a time when you could not possibly have rescued them.’ He cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. ‘Now, Beollan. Did one of them shoot an arrow at Earl Hugh’s hawk?’
‘No. They would never have dared to do that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. Quite sure.’
‘Then who did kill that hawk?’
‘I do not know, but …’ His voice trailed away and his feet betrayed him again.
‘Go on, Beollan.’
‘I thought I saw someone else leaving.’
‘Someone else?’
‘Running off through the trees,’ the boy recalled. ‘I have no idea who it was. I only caught a glimpse. But I did see a bow. Yes, there was a bow, I remember that.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Then my father and brother were captured. When I heard them yelling for mercy, I ran home as fast as I could.’ More tears threatened. ‘I was weak. I was a coward. I should have stayed to help.’
‘They were beyond it,’ said Gervase.
‘Gytha will blame me.’
‘No, Beollan. She will understand.’
Nothing more could be wrested from the boy. Gervase gave him a comforting hug then led him back to the others. Brother Gerold had managed to ease Gytha’s grief and she had lapsed into a wistful silence. The chaplain read the message in the boy’s face and donated a smile of approval to Gervase. Their journey to the Delamere Forest had not been in vain. Solace had been offered to two orphans.
‘Who is your priest?’ asked the chaplain.
‘Father Ernwin,’ murmured Gytha.
‘A sound man. I know him well. Leave everything to me. When we have escorted you back, I will go to Father Ernwin and tell him what has occurred. He will send a cart to collect the bodies so that they can be buried at your parish church.’ He flicked a sad glance back at the ditch. ‘Their gruesome death is of no account now. It is past. Put it out of your minds. They deserve a proper funeral and I will ensure that they receive one.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gytha.
Beollan gave a low murmur of gratitude.
It was time to go home.
Robert de Limesey strolled round the perimeter of the cathedral in the twilight and stopped to inspect the day’s progress on the exterior wall of the chancel. The last of the stonemasons was descending the scaffold with his tools and he gave the bishop a respectful wave of farewell. Robert smiled in reply. He was blessed in his craftsmen. They were skilled artisans with a due reverence for the project in which they had been engaged for so long
.
Bishop Robert was still appraising their work when he heard footsteps approaching and caught an unpleasant whiff in his nostrils. He turned to see Idwal coming towards him.
‘Good evening, Bishop Robert,’ said the Welshman.
‘I am pleased to see you again,’ lied the other. ‘Have you had a busy day, Archdeacon Idwal?’
‘My days are always busy. The devil makes work for idle hands so mine are never allowed to be idle. I have been finding my way around this beautiful city of yours and speaking to some of its citizens. In vain, alas.’
‘In vain?’
‘Yes, Bishop Robert,’ complained Idwal. ‘They did not seem to understand how much better off Chester would be if it were part of Wales, which, by right, of course, it should be.’
‘Only in your opinion.’
‘It is not a question of opinion but of geography.’
‘I believe that it is a question of conquest.’
The firm rebuff actually silenced Idwal for once. Robert basked in the respite but it did not last long. Wrapping his disgusting cloak around him, the visitor turned his attention to the cathedral.
‘Do you have rich endowments?’ he said artlessly.
‘Alas, no.’
‘Wealthy patrons?’
‘Very few.’
‘Where, then, does your money come from, Bishop Robert?’
‘Rents and the offertory box. I hold over fifty houses in the city and this eastern suburb around the cathedral. It is called the bishop’s borough and is part of Redcliff, so named because of the red sandstone cliff on which the cathedral stands. There are other small sources of income,’ he said evasively, ‘but nobody could describe us as prosperous.’
‘What of holy relics?’
‘One or two.’
‘Any of particular note?’
‘Nothing that would interest a Welshman like yourself. If you seek the bones of St Deiniol or the skull of St David, you will have to go back over the border.’
Idwal gave a ripe chuckle. ‘I will do that very soon.’
‘When?’ asked Robert, eager to speed him on his way.
‘When I am ready.’
‘In a day? Two days? Three?’
‘Who knows, Bishop Robert?’ said the other with a wicked grin. ‘You and Frodo have made me so welcome that it will be an effort to tear myself away. And I can hardly deprive Canon Hubert of our theological contests. He thrives on them.’
The Hawks of Delamere Page 8
