‘What is his name?’
‘Engelric'
‘A Saxon, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph dismissively. ‘We only hear him out of courtesy. He has a claim of sorts, but it has no real worth. The struggle will be between the abbot and the three ladies. Engelric will not figure very much.’
Golde understood why. She also realised why her husband was so reluctant to talk about the man's claim. Evidently, he was the Saxon thegn who owned the property before the Conquest and had it taken forcibly from him. Engelric's fate mirrored that of her own father. Out of concern for her feelings, Ralph did not wish to remind her of her lost status. Born into a noble family, Golde was practising her trade as a brewer when he met her in Hereford. It had been a long and painful fall from the position she once occupied. Ralph was glad that marriage to him had elevated her once more to the rank he felt she deserved.
Recollections of her past brought a more immediate memory to mind.
‘I spoke with the lady Albreda today,’ she said.
‘Was she meek and mild or cold and supercilious?’
‘Neither, Ralph. She was polite and almost friendly.’
‘Almost?’
‘I had the feeling that she was trying to apologise to me without quite knowing how to do it. Apology is not something which the lady Albreda has much experience of, I should imagine. But at least she did not patronise me.’
‘I am relieved to hear it.’
‘How she will behave in front of her husband is another matter. I am not looking forward to sitting beside her at table again.’
‘You will not have to, my love. Leave it to me.’
They were alone in their chamber in the keep, enjoying the pleasure of being together again after a long day apart. Ralph reflected how much more practical and loving his marriage was than that of their hosts. After a tiring session in the shire hall, he could come back to a cordial welcome and a sympathetic ear. However weary or jaded he might be, Golde had the capacity to revive him. It was one of the things he treasured most about her. He was about to tell her so when there was a tap on the door.
‘Who is it?’ called Ralph.
‘Me,’ said Hervey de Marigny. ‘With glad tidings.’
‘Then bring them in.’ He opened the door to admit his colleague who acknowledged Golde with a smile. ‘Well, Hervey? Do not keep me in suspense. What are these glad tidings? Has Canon Hubert decided to resign his place on the commission? Was Brother Simon caught naked in a brothel? Put me out of my misery.’
‘I have just come from my lord sheriff.’
‘And?’
‘His messenger arrived as we were talking.’
‘And?’ pressed Ralph. ‘And? And? And?’
‘They have been taken,’ said de Marigny. ‘Arrested by the sheriff's officers. The men who murdered Nicholas Picard will be hurled into the castle dungeons before this night is out.’
* * *
Patience did not come easily to Baldwin of Moeles. He was a man of action who chafed at idleness and loathed delay. Instead of waiting for his men to bring the prisoners to him, he took an escort and rode north to meet the returning posse. He was almost five miles away from Exeter when he heard them coming, the hooves of their horses clacking on the hard track. Baldwin, reined in his horse and his escort came to a halt around him. There was enough moonlight to cast a ghostly pallor on the road ahead. Phantom figures soon came into view. The sheriff waited until they were within earshot.
‘Bring them to me!’ he yelled. ‘Show me these foul villains!’
‘Yes, my lord sheriff!’ replied the captain of the posse.
They were soon drawing up in front of Baldwin. Dropping from the saddle, he went to a horse across which one of the robbers had been tied. The man was exhausted by the pummelling he had taken and was running with sweat. The sheriff grabbed his hair and lifted up the head so that he could stare into the prisoner's face.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he growled.
The man spoke no French but he clearly recognised the sheriff. He began to gibber with fear. Baldwin struck him across the face, drawing blood from his nose.
‘Why did you kill Nicholas Picard?’ he demanded.
‘We found money upon them,’ said the captain. ‘Far more than two wretches like this should be carrying.’
‘And rings?’ asked Baldwin.
‘Three of them, my lord sheriff. I believe we will find that they were taken from the fingers of their victim.’
‘Animals!’ howled the other, striking the captive again. ‘Wild animals!’ He strode across to the horse which bore the other robber. ‘You will pay dearly for this, you rogue! I'll make you suffer so much that you will beg me to hang you and put an an end to your ordeal.’
He lifted the man's head to peer into his face, but found the eyes closed tight. When he shook him violently by the shoulder, Baldwin saw that his body was limp and unresponsive. The captain shifted uneasily in his saddle.
‘We obeyed your orders, my lord sheriff,’ he explained, ‘and travelled as fast as we could. His ropes were not secure enough. As we galloped along, he was thrown from his horse and his head hit a stone.’
Baldwin fumed. ‘Dead! He has escaped my revenge?’
‘It was an accident. We tried to revive him but his brains were dashed out. That is why we slowed down. To make sure that his accomplice came back alive.’
The sheriff took out a dagger and cut the ropes which held the corpse in place. Taking him by the neck, he heaved the man off the horse and on to the ground, kicking him over with his foot so that the face was upturned. Baldwin spat contemptuously at the prostrate body.
‘Leave him there,’ he decreed. ‘Someone from the nearest village can bury him in the morning. I want no offal coming into my castle.’ He pointed to the other prisoner. ‘Guard him well and bring him safely back to Exeter. I'll burn the truth out of him with a hot poker!’
It was Gervase Bret's idea. He volunteered to attend the funeral of Nicholas Picard in order to pay his respects to a man whom he had come to know well through his perusal of the Domesday returns and in the hope of learning something about those closest to the deceased. Ralph Delchard was happy to concur. The first person to be examined that day was the abbot of Tavistock and Ralph felt confident that he, Hervey de Marigny and Canon Hubert could cope without their young colleague for a morning. He anticipated resistance from Hubert, who had not been consulted about the decision to release Gervase, but he was prepared to ride out the other's displeasure in the way which had become second nature to him.
The funeral service was held at the cathedral. Osbern, bishop of Exeter, was himself officiating, a mark of Picard's status in the county. The cathedral had the ancient right to bury its citizens in its own cemetery, and Nicholas Picard was also accorded the privilege of lying within the precincts. Where he might have lain in the churchyard of the humble village church on his estates, he was instead translated to the cathedral. The hideous nature of his death provoked widespread shock and sympathy, bringing a large congregation to the funeral service. People came in from all over the country of Devon to watch the last remains of Nicholas Picard being consigned to an untimely grave.
Gervase stationed himself near the main entrance so that he could take note of visitors as they arrived. He had no difficulty in identifying the widow. She led the procession which followed the coffin. Flanked by Dean Jerome and Tetbald the Steward, she walked slowly with her head down in meditation. For all her apparent grief, Gervase did not get the impression of a woman who was disabled by her husband's murder. Her gait was steady, her manner dignified. Even in the brief glimpse he had of her, Gervase caught something of her strength of character. Directly behind her were family members and behind them came Baldwin the Sheriff with his wife.
While the procession was making its way down the nave, he slipped into the cathedral and found a place to stand at the rear. It was a moving occasion. Osbern was faultless. He made a pub
lic event seem very private, reaching out with voice and gesture to everyone in the congregation and delivering a eulogy which brought murmurs of agreement time and again. Mass was sung, then the coffin was carried out to the cemetery. The mourners filed out after it and stood around the grave in a wide circle.
Gervase was both participant and observer, touched by the solemnity of the occasion yet trying to glean something from it. He had noticed Saewin when the town reeve first appeared and he now worked his way around to him. The latter stood respectfully on the fringe of the gathering and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Gervase waited until the coffin was lowered reverentially into the ground. He was grateful that Nicholas Picard's widow had not seen her husband at the mortuary. Simply remembering the savage injuries made his stomach turn.
‘Who is that man with the widow of the deceased?’ he asked.
‘That is Dean Jerome.’
‘On the other side of her, I meant.’
‘Tetbald the Steward,’ said Saewin. ‘You will see a lot of him at the shire hall. He is to represent the lady Catherine. And there is someone else with whom you will become acquainted.’
Gervase followed the direction of his pointed finger and saw a tall, elegant woman accompanied by a stocky individual of middle years whose features, beard and garb confirmed his Saxon origins. They seemed an unlikely couple and Gervase decided that the man must be her servant. He was too ill favoured to occupy a more intimate station.
‘Who is that?’ he enquired.
‘The lady Loretta, widow of Roger de Marmoutier.’
‘Why is she here?’
‘Everyone knew the lord Nicholas.’
‘Yes,’ said Gervase, ‘but she knew him as the man who, allegedly, took property from her which had formerly been in the hands of her husband and then her son. I would have thought she had reason to despise Nicholas Picard.’
‘She is a compassionate woman. And death can make even the vilest hatred melt away. The lady Loretta would hold no grudge against a man who had been murdered in such a terrible way.’
‘Who is the man with her?’
‘One of her household. Eldred by name.’
Gervase sought the identity of a dozen more people and Saewin was an obliging assistant. Work as the town reeve meant that he knew almost everyone in Exeter. From the looks and nods that his companion was collecting, Gervase could see that Saewin was greatly respected in the community. That boded well. Gervase was about to leave when he found that he himself was under surveillance. A short, slim young woman of quite striking beauty was studying him from the other side of the grave as if she was trying to weigh him up. When their eyes met, she gave him such a look of intense curiosity that he found it impossible to tear his gaze away from her.
‘Who is that young lady?’ he said, nodding his head towards her.
‘That is someone else whom you will come to know.’
‘Why?’
‘She will be involved in the dispute over the lord Nicholas's property.’
Gervase was intrigued. ‘Is that Asa?’
‘Yes.’
What an extraordinary face! he said to himself. Entrancing!
He was alarmed by his reaction and lowered his eyes. Gervase had never experienced such a feeling of sudden affection at a funeral before. When he dared to look up again, Asa had vanished into the crowd.
Chapter Five
Geoffrey, abbot of Tavistock, turned out to be a peppery individual. He treated the commissioners less like royal agents to be respected than renegade monks to be brought into line by stern discipline. Attended by his prior, a cadaverous man with piercing eyes, the abbot stormed into the shire hall to advance his claim with unassailable confidence. He was a big man with a hooked nose and a domed forehead which was covered in freckles. Years of study had rounded his shoulders and left his eyes with an irritating blink. His voice seemed almost comically high for a person of his bulk but it was a potent weapon on behalf of his abbey.
‘Those holdings rightly belong to me,’ he asserted boldly. ‘They were granted to the abbey when I replaced Sihtric as father of the house and they should have remained in our possession.’
‘Why did they not do so?’ asked Ralph Delchard.
‘I was disseised of the property.’
‘You were,’ said Hervey de Marigny, ‘or the abbey was?’
‘The two are effectively the same.’
‘Not in law,’ corrected Canon Hubert. ‘The property in question was, in point of fact, once held by the abbey.’
‘For whom I speak, Canon Hubert.’
‘Granted, Father Abbot.’
‘Why, then, do you quibble so? I hold property through the abbey and on my own account as a layman. I have striven to build up the wealth of our house in Tavistock in order to do God's work the more effectively but I have been baulked along the way by certain people.’ He glared along the faces ranged in front of him. ‘I hope that you will not baulk me as well.’
‘This case will be decided on its merits,’ Ralph assured him.
‘Then the land must be returned to me.’
‘To the abbey, you mean,’ said de Marigny.
‘To both of us. At the earliest opportunity.’
‘Unfortunately, that will not happen,’ said Ralph. ‘Four other people have lodged claims on this property and we must examine them all before we reach a final decision. What puzzles us is this. When our predecessors came to prepare the returns for this county, you did not come forward to contest these holdings. Why was that?’
‘I was deliberately misinformed about the date of their visit here. By the time I reached Exeter, they had moved on to Totnes. Do you see what this means?’ he said, eyes widening with anger. ‘I was the victim of a conspiracy. They prevented me from fighting on behalf of Tavistock.’
‘They?’ repeated Ralph. ‘Who might they be?’
‘One of them goes to his grave today.’
‘Nicholas Picard? How did he conspire against you, my lord abbot?’
‘With great cunning. Look how easily he tricked your predecessors. If they had been more diligent, you would not now be here to repair all these holes in their workmanship. I hesitate to speak ill of the dead,’ he continued without the slightest hesitation, ‘but the lord Nicholas was unscrupulous where property was concerned.’
‘Yet he did not take those holdings from you,’ said de Marigny. ‘That, according to your deposition, was the work of Roger de Marmoutier.’
‘Another grasping baron!’
‘Our evidence suggests otherwise.’
‘Then your evidence is false,’ retorted the abbot, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘The land in question was seized illegally by the lord Roger. I protested strongly but my protests were overridden.’
Ralph glanced down at a document in front of him. ‘Roger de Marmoutier had a royal charter to substantiate his claim.’
‘So does the abbey of Tavistock. Mine predates his.’
‘Then it is rendered invalid by the charter which succeeds it. King William is empowered to give but he is also able to take away. Those holdings were granted to the lord Roger for services rendered on the battlefield.’
The abbot spluttered. ‘They were first given to me for services rendered on the much more important battlefield of missionary Christianity. When I came to Tavistock, the abbey was in a deplorable condition. Sihtric, my predecessor, had the most appalling reputation. He was a disgrace to the Benedictine Order.’ He inflated his chest. ‘I took a moribund house and turned it into a vigorous monastic centre.’
‘This is well known, Father Abbot,’ said Hubert, stepping in to cut him off before his speech became an extended sermon. ‘You have been justly praised for the remarkable work you have done at Tavistock. That is not the point at issue.’
‘It is, Canon Hubert.’
‘I beg to differ.’
‘Those holdings were granted to me by way of reward.’
‘But that reward was in time transferred to
Roger de Marmoutier.’
‘And there is another factor to consider here,’ said Ralph. ‘The abbey was not cruelly stripped of that property. When it was taken from you, there was a compensatory grant of land.’
‘That is irrelevant!’
‘No, it is not,’ said de Marigny. ‘It alters the case completely. This is not an act of disseisin. Fair exchange was involved.’
‘Fair exchange!’ The abbot's voice soared even higher. ‘Prime land was taken from us and barren land given in return. Do you call that fair exchange, my lord? There is richer soil near Exeter. As well as producing a regular harvest, the holdings under discussion also support sheep, cattle, pigs and a large herd of unbroken mares.’
‘What would your monks want with unbroken mares?’ asked Ralph mischievously. ‘A herd of unbroken nuns would be more appropriate livestock, would it not?’
There was uproar. The prior leapt to his feet to remonstrate, Canon Hubert added his condemnation, Brother Simon gave a squeal of horror and the abbot of Tavistock howled with righteous fury, pointing a finger of doom at Ralph as if trying to excommunicate him on the spot. Hervey de Marigny burst out laughing but quickly controlled his lapse. The soldiers at the rear of the hall took longer to suppress their mirth. It was fully five minutes before peace returned to the shire hall. Ralph apologised profusely and stroked the ruffled feathers of the monks back into place.
‘Now,’ he said quietly. ‘Let us look more deeply into this claim.’
Gervase Bret left the funeral service with a number of images jostling in his mind. Nicholas Picard's composed widow and her attentive steward, Tetbald, fought for his attention with the poised Loretta and her Saxon companion, Eldred. Bishop Osbern remained a vivid memory, as did Dean Jerome and Saewin, but it was Asa who finally put her rivals to flight and became sole occupant of the disputed territory. Gervase could not stop thinking about her. The look which they exchanged across the grave had been compound of hope, curiosity and admiration. As he recalled the breathtaking shock of her loveliness, Gervase had to remind himself that someone equally beautiful and very trusting was waiting in Winchester for him to take her as his bride. Nothing and everything had happened during his silent communion with Asa. The encounter left him feeling guiltily exhilarated.
The Wildcats of Exeter (Domesday Series Book 8) Page 8
