A figure swooped down on him as he was coming out of the cemetery. Baldwin the Sheriff moved from mourning to revenge with chilling speed.
‘One moment, Gervase,’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord sheriff?’
‘I did not expect to see you here, but I am glad that I have done so. It saves me having to enlist the services of the town reeve.’
‘Saewin?’
‘Only a Saxon can understand another Saxon,’ he said peevishly. ‘I have a man in my dungeon who will yield up nothing but gibberish even under torture. May I employ you as an interpreter?’
‘Is this man one of the robbers?’
‘Yes, Gervase. The only one to survive. I want the full story of how and why they murdered Nicholas Picard. I owe it to his widow and his family to beat the truth out of the prisoner's carcass. Will you help us?’
‘I am at your service, my lord sheriff.’
‘Let us return to the castle at once.’
It was not an assignment which Gervase accepted with any alacrity and it would keep him away from his duties in the shire hall even longer, but it was an opportunity which could not be refused. He and Ralph were not convinced that the robbers had killed Nicholas Picard before making off with their booty. Gervase hoped to learn if their doubts were justified. Baldwin's wife had already returned to the castle with an escort, and six soldiers from the garrison accompanied the sheriff and his guest there. Surrounded by the armed guard, Gervase felt as if he were under arrest.
The dungeons were situated below ground in the outer bailey. Stone steps led down to a narrow passageway with damp walls. Torches were placed in holders to throw a jagged light and further illumination came from the glowing coals in the brazier. Pokers and tongs were being heated in the fire. Gervase gulped at the realisation that his host would use the most barbaric methods of torture without compunction. When the gaoler saw them coming, he took one of the torches from its holder and used it to conduct them to a heavy oak door with an iron grille in it. Through the bars, Gervase could see a man curled up in the fetid straw.
When the door was unlocked, Baldwin pulled it open, then snatched the torch from the gaoler and went into the cell. Kicking the prisoner awake, he held the flames close to the man's face and made him recoil with horror. Gervase noted that he was fettered and that his naked torso already bore the hideous marks of whip and fire.
‘Tell the truth!’ ordered the sheriff, kicking the man again.
‘Let him be, my lord sheriff,’ said Gervase.
‘Ask him why they slaughtered Nicholas Picard.’
‘I could do so more easily alone.’
‘I will stay here and watch.’
‘He will speak more freely if you quit the cell,’ said Gervase. ‘He is in abject terror. I will not get a word out of him while you stand over the fellow like that. Wait outside and you will easily overhear us.’
Baldwin was unhappy with the suggestion but he agreed to it. Thrusting the torch into Gervase's hand, he lumbered out and stood in the passageway with the gaoler. The cell was small, low and noisome. No natural light penetrated. The straw was clotted with excrement and it took Gervase a moment to accustom himself to the stink. The smell of fear was also overpowering. He knelt down and spoke softly to the man.
‘I need to ask you some questions,’ he said.
The prisoner was surprised to hear his own language. They were the first words addressed to him in the dungeon which were not followed by a blow. He turned a wary eye on his visitor.
‘Who are you?’ he said gruffly.
‘My name is Gervase Bret and I am in the King's service. Some days ago, a man was ambushed in a wood not far from the city. It is very important for us to find out who murdered him and why.’ He held the torch nearer his own face so that the man could see he posed no threat. ‘Did you and your accomplice kill him?’
‘No!’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yes!’ said the other with a note of pleading. ‘We are robbers and not murderers. Masterless men who live by stealing. Or did live,’ he added ruefully. ‘They have already slain my brother Alnoth, and they will soon send me after him.’
‘The lord sheriff tells me that you were found with money and rings upon you. They were taken from the dead man, Nicholas Picard.’
‘I confess it freely.’
‘How did they come into your possession?’
‘By chance.’
‘Go on.’
‘Alnoth and I were heading for the wood that evening. When darkness falls, it is an ideal place for an ambush and we have found more than one fool riding home alone.’ He ran a tongue over parched lips to moisten them. ‘As we approached, a horse came galloping out of the wood. We knew that something amiss had happened.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We rode into the wood with caution. We soon found him.’
‘Where?’
‘Beside the track and beneath an overhanging beech,’ said the other, grimacing at the memory. ‘His face was cut to ribbons and his throat cut. Alnoth and I could not bear to look on him.’
‘Yet you stole his purse.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his rings?’
‘He had no more use for them,’ said the man truculently. ‘They were pure gold. We planned to sell them but they caught us. Yes,’ he said with a touch of defiance. ‘We are robbers and we stole from a dead man but we did not kill him. I swear it!’
‘Who did?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Did you see anybody else in the wood?’
‘No,’ said the man. ‘All we heard were the hooves of a horse. When we reached the body, someone was galloping away in the direction of the city.’
‘Only one horse?’ asked Gervase.
‘Only one.’
‘Can you be certain of that?’
‘My brother and I are robbers,’ said the other. ‘Sharp ears are a necessary part of our trade. We are used to keeping out of sight and listening. We saw the dead man's stallion leaving the wood and we heard only one other horse.’
‘A solitary attacker, then?’ mused Gervase. ‘No accomplices.’
‘All we knew was that there were rich pickings that cost us no effort. We took what we wanted and fled.’
‘To Crediton, I hear?’
‘We stayed at an inn. That was our mistake.’
Gervase moved in closer to study the man's face. He was still relatively young, not much above Gervase's own age, but a life on the run had ploughed deep furrows and a night at the mercy of Baldwin of Moeles had sown them with anguish. It was the ugly face of a desperate man who pursued a life of crime with his brother. Whatever he said, he knew that he would die at the hands of the sheriff. The man had nothing to lose and no reason to lie. Gervase believed his story implicitly.
Thank you,’ he said warmly.
They were the only kind words the man heard since he arrived there.
‘Thank you?’ he echoed. ‘For what?’
Gervase left the cell to be accosted by an impatient sheriff.
‘Did you draw a confession out of him?’ he asked.
‘No, my lord sheriff.’
‘Would he say nothing?’
‘Only that they did not kill the lord Nicholas. All that he will admit is that they stole the money and rings. His story rings true. I am sorry,’ said Gervase firmly, ‘but you have merely caught a thief. You have not arrested the murderer.’
They rode home in silence, their horses moving at a dignified trot which suited their mood. When they reached the manor house, Catherine went straight to her chamber. Tetbald dismissed the knights who had escorted them to and from the funeral then adjourned to the kitchen. Ordering refreshment, he took it up to her in person on a wooden tray.
Catherine was seated in a chair when he let himself in. She refused the offer of food, but consented to take the cup of wine he had brought. Tetbald set the tray down. She sipped her drink reflectively.
&n
bsp; ‘Did you see her?’ she asked in a flat voice.
‘Who, my lady?’
‘Asa.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew that she would be there.’
‘She has too much gall not to be. Gall and impertinence.’
‘We could hardly prevent her, my lady.’
‘Her presence did not offend me, Tetbald,’ she said. ‘I ceased to be offended by my husband's behaviour a long time ago. If I had not done so, I would have led a miserable existence and misery has no appeal for me. No,’ she continued, ‘I was interested to see Asa there. And I do believe that she came to pay her respects rather than to gloat. Besides, she thinks herself a beneficiary of Nicholas's death.’
‘The commissioners will not take her claim seriously.’
‘She purports to have a letter written by my husband.’
‘But was it witnessed?’ he said.
‘I think it unlikely.’
‘Then what significance will the commissioners attach to it, my lady? A letter of intent is not a legally binding document. Beside your claim as the widow, Asa's is quite derisory. She will be humiliated in the shire hall.’
‘I am almost tempted to be there to watch that happen.’
‘That might not be wise,’ he warned.
‘I will not lock myself away for ever, Tetbald.’
‘People will expect you to grieve.’
‘I grieved when he was alive,’ she said bitterly. ‘Now that he is dead, I am free of him. Free of the lies, the deception and the endless …’
Her voice broke off as kinder memories surfaced. She had married Nicholas Picard out of love and there had been true happiness at the start. In the welter of recrimination, it was easy to forget that. The cathedral where he was buried was also the place where they had married. She recalled the fragile joy of her wedding day and felt the first pang of regret at his passing.
‘Children,’ she whispered. ‘It might all have been different had I borne him the family he craved. I let him down. Nature can be harsh at times. I prayed for children but they never came.’ A harder note intruded. ‘But not even a family would have held him down. A character such as his does not change. Children would simply have imprisoned me here even more strictly and left him to roam at will.’
‘It is all behind you now, my lady.’
‘Yes, Tetbald.’
‘And the ordeal of the funeral is over.’
‘It was no ordeal,’ she said calmly. ‘I did my duty. They all saw that. The widow of Nicholas Picard did what was expected of her. Nobody could look into my heart.’
He smiled furtively. ‘I did, my lady.’
‘You have been a rock, Tetbald.’
‘I have tried to be.’
‘Without you, I would not have borne up so well.’
‘It is a privilege to be of service,’ he said, moving familiarly across to take her hand. ‘There is nothing I would not do for you, my lady.’
‘We both know that.’
‘It fills me with joy to be able to plead on your behalf in the shire hall. Those holdings are yours. The other claims are worthless.’
‘The people who make them do not think so.’
‘They are wasting their time,’ he assured her, placing a faint kiss on her hand before releasing it. ‘Have faith in me and I will bring that property back to its rightful owner.’ Seeing her nod then appear to drift off into a reverie, he asked: ‘Would you prefer to be left alone, my lady?’
‘For a while.’
‘I will come back later.’
‘You will be welcome.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It is I who should be thanking you,’ she said with a weary smile. ‘You helped me through it. You were there for me.’ A recollection nudged her. ‘I saw you talking to the lord sheriff after the service.’
‘He had good news for us. Or what he assumed would be good news.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The men who killed your husband were captured. One died but the other is being held in the castle dungeon. He will doubtless hang for the crime. I almost pity the wretch.’
‘Did you say that to my lord sheriff?’
He gave a lazy smile. ‘That would have been foolhardy.’
When he reached the shire hall, Gervase was plunged into the swirling waters of debate. The abbot of Tavistock was a pugnacious advocate, stating his case in uncompromising terms and responding instantly to any challenge from the commissioners. Gervase's legal expertise was in demand at once and though it was tested by the combative prelate, it was not found wanting. By the end of the session, the abbey's claim had been thoroughly scrutinised, but no verdict could be reached until the other disputants had been examined. Abbot and prior departed, leaving the commissioners to review the events of the afternoon. When their discussion was over, Canon Hubert and Brother Simon went back to the sanctuary of the cathedral. Ralph's impatience boiled over.
‘What happened at the funeral, Gervase?’ he said. ‘I have been dying to ask you but had to listen to that garrulous abbot instead. Tell all.’
‘There is more to tell than I expected, Ralph.’
‘In what way?’
‘The lord sheriff employed me as an interpreter. He took me to the castle dungeons to talk with the man they arrested last night.’
‘What did you learn?’ asked Hervey de Marigny.
Gervase gave them a faithful account of all that had transpired at the cathedral and at the castle, omitting only the effect which Asa had had on him. Ralph was intrigued by the visit to the dungeon, but de Marigny was more diverted by the names of three mourners at the funeral.
‘The lady Loretta,’ he observed, ‘the widow of the deceased and the Saxon woman, Asa, were paying their respects to a man whose land they all covet. Three claimants at the same service. I wonder that a fourth did not find it in his heart to attend.’
‘A fourth?’ said Ralph.
‘Geoffrey, abbot of Tavistock.’
‘There was no love lost between him and Nicholas Picard.’
‘Perhaps not, Ralph, but a devout Christian like the abbot should surely not have missed the chance to attend. Apart from anything else, he would have rubbed shoulders with the sheriff and the bishop, two men whose friendship he must assiduously cultivate in this shire. For such a politic being, his absence was strange.’
‘Or tactful,’ said Ralph thoughtfully. ‘I have just recalled what I was told about Walter Baderon.’
‘Who?’
‘The captain of the guard at the North Gate on the night of the murder. According to the town reeve, this man saw the lord Nicholas quit the city. What interested me was the name of Walter Baderon's master.’
‘The abbot of Tavistock?’ guessed de Marigny.
‘The same.’
‘It is probably just a coincidence,’ said Gervase. ‘You surely are not suggesting that the abbot was party to a murder?’
‘What I am suggesting,’ said Ralph, ‘is that one of us takes the trouble to question this Baderon when he comes on duty this evening.’
‘That will be my office,’ volunteered de Marigny.
‘Thank you, Hervey. Meanwhile, Gervase and I will go for a ride.’
Gervase was surprised. ‘Will we?’
‘Let us collect our horses from the castle.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘Where else?’ said Ralph. ‘To the scene of the crime.’
Loretta had been one of the last to leave the cathedral. Bishop Osbern's eulogy brought her close to tears and she paid the tribute of a passing sigh to the widow of the deceased. Left alone in the cemetery with her servant, Eldred, she took a final look at the mound of fresh soil over the last resting place of Nicholas Picard before moving to a stone tomb in the shade of the cathedral. Both her husband and her son were buried there, giving her a double reason to make frequent visits. Her mind went back to the time when Roger de Marmoutier was alive and the master of countless acres of Devon fa
rmland. They had enjoyed great wealth in those days and the position which went with it. Tragedy then stalked the family. She lost a husband, a son and some of their most prized holdings. It was a story of continuous loss.
As she gazed at the tomb which contained her loved ones, she vowed that she would regain the forfeited property. It was hers now. All that she had to do was to persuade the commissioners of the strength of her claim and Loretta was confident of her ability to do just that. However, it was important to know something of the men she would face before she took her turn in front of them at the shire hall.
‘Eldred,’ she called, raising a hand to summon him to her side. ‘I will go home now. Call on the town reeve and entreat him to visit me this evening. I need Saewin's advice.’
Eldred nodded obediently then went swiftly off on his errand.
After lingering for a few more minutes, Loretta ran a pensive hand along the stone tomb then turned away in distress. A solitary figure was now standing beside the grave of Nicholas Picard, weeping quietly to herself. When Loretta saw who the woman was, she seethed with anger. Chin held high and eyes staring straight ahead, she walked past the mourner with an air of contempt.
Asa did not even notice her.
Golde was surprised to be summoned and she walked to the apartment with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The lady Albreda was an indifferent hostess who unsettled her guests. When she tried to be more pleasant towards them, there was a sense of effort. Before she was conducted into her presence, Golde wondered whether she would meet rebuff or apology on the other side of the carved door.
‘You sent for me, my lady?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ murmured the other. ‘Please sit down.’
Albreda was reclining in a chair, her arms draped over the sides and her body slack. Her eyes were closed and her face screwed into a ball. Lowering herself on to a stool beside her, Golde studied her with alarm.
‘Are you unwell, my lady?’
‘No.’
‘Do you need a physician?’
‘There is nothing wrong with me.’
‘You seem to be in pain.’
‘I will be fine in a moment.’
The Wildcats of Exeter (Domesday Series Book 8) Page 9
