The Lions of the North (Domesday Series Book 4)

by Edward Marston

  “I want to be with you.”

  “Rest while you have the chance. I am used to a long day in the saddle. You are not. Go back inside.”

  “Only when you have told me the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “This, Ralph. Sitting out here alone in the darkness. It is not like you. Something is troubling your mind and I will not leave your side until I know what it is.”

  “Golde …”

  “Do not think to fob me off with an excuse.”

  “It is nothing that need concern you.”

  “Everything about Ralph Delchard concerns me,” she said firmly. “I left my home and my sister to be with you and I have never had a moment's regret about that decision.”

  He grinned. “Not even this afternoon in that downpour?”

  “Not even then.” She kissed him lightly. “Now, tell me.”

  Ralph heaved a sigh. “There is not much to tell.”

  “Then it will not keep us out here much longer.”

  He pulled her close and held her in both arms. Gold had brought a happiness into his life that he had never thought to experience again. In the short time they had been together, she had rekindled something in him that had lain dormant since the death of his wife and that no other woman had been able to reach, let alone ignite. Golde was right to remind him of the sacrifices she had made in order to follow him. Having committed herself so completely, she was entitled to know what was worrying him, however painful it might be for him to tell her.

  He sat her on the block of wood and knelt beside her.

  “I hope you will not despise me,” he said quietly. “It is not a pleasant tale.”

  “I love you, Ralph.”

  “My story may test the strength of that love.”

  “You will not find it wanting,” she promised. “No more evasion. What brought you out here tonight?”

  “Guilt.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “How could you, Golde? Only those who were actually here could really understand the full horror of that time.”

  “What time?”

  “When I last visited this godforsaken county.”

  “You have been to Yorkshire before?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said soulfully. “I came once before. Many years ago, at the heels of the Conqueror himself. And we left the most dreadful legacy of our visit. As soon as I stepped onto Yorkshire soil again, the guilt rose up in me until I could hardly contain it.”

  “But why? What did you do?”

  “We wreaked havoc. We came to put down a revolt but we stayed to exact the most hideous revenge. I have never seen the Conqueror so angry. He was shaking with fury. The rebels dared to challenge his kingship for the third time in a row and he vowed that they would never be able to do it again.”

  “I recall it now. The King executed their leaders.”

  “He did much more than that, Golde. He ordered us to lay waste the whole county. And when Yorkshire was torn asunder, we were to visit the same grisly fate on Northumbria. That was our appointed task—the harrying of the North.”

  “News of the terror even reached us in Hereford.”

  “We committed every crime of which man is capable. We did not just kill our enemies, we destroyed everything in our path. We tore down houses, burned crops, slaughtered animals. King William can be a cruel man when roused and Yorkshire bore the brunt of his cruelty. We starved this county into submission, Golde. The famine was unending. Men, women and children died of hunger in the thousands. The place was a wilderness.” He stood up. “And the shameful truth is that I helped to make it like that.”

  “I can see why it sits heavy on your conscience.”

  “I shudder when I think of what we did. It is not something of which I am proud. It makes me feel sick. Now that I am back, I am aching with remorse.”

  She rose. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I do not know.”

  Golde was moved. He had risked her contempt by admitting his part in a vicious act of vengeance but he was making no bid for her sympathy. His anguish was something that he alone had to bear. It could not be soothed away with kind words from her. Golde was grateful for his honesty. She was shocked by his confession but she was also touched that he felt able to reveal a more sensitive side to his character. They stood there without saying a word. Ralph grappled with his remorse while she tried to assimilate the full import of what he had told her.

  The silence did not last long. A violent explosion of noise made the pair of them leap involuntarily apart. A quiet night was suddenly alive with noise and movement. Men shouted, swords clashed, horses neighed and a dog barked incessantly. Sounds of a fierce struggle came from the stables. Ralph reached instinctively for Golde and shielded her with his body as he hustled her to the safety of the house.

  Once she was out of danger, he drew his dagger and moved towards the gathering pandemonium around the stables. All he could see was a mass of bodies and horses, swirling about in darkness. The clamour had woken everyone in the house and servants came running with torches. Soldiers billeted in neighbouring dwellings had also been roused from their slumbers but they reacted too slowly to the emergency.

  As Ralph moved in, a voice gave a stern command.

  “Away!”

  Before he could get any closer, he was caught in a stampede and buffeted to the ground by plunging animals. As he rolled over in the mud, he heard triumphant jeers rising above the thunder of departing hooves.

  “Damnation!” he roared. “They've stolen the horses!”

  Chapter 2

  RALPH DELCHARD WAS back on his feet in an instant, cursing the thieves, calling for light and slashing the air with his dagger to relieve his anger. The whole household seemed to be converging on him. The stables were no more than a series of ramshackle huts at the side of the property. Ralph had left two of his men-at-arms to sleep in the straw so that they might guard the area, and his immediate concern was for them. He grabbed the first blazing torch that reached him in order to see what had befallen his sentries.

  Commotion was still at its height. The remaining horses were highly disturbed, the chickens squawked, the dog yapped louder than ever and Canon Hubert's donkey brayed with such ear-splitting force that its owner came trotting out of the house to join the throng. Ralph found the first of his men lying prostrate by the open door of the stables. Blood oozed from a gash in his temple but he was only dazed and seemed otherwise uninjured.

  More torches came to illumine the whole stable area. Knocked unconscious, the second of Ralph's guards lay face down in the straw. When they turned him over, they saw no apparent wounds on him. Ralph was relieved to find both men still alive. Gervase Bret, armed with a sword, pushed his way through the crowd to get to his friend.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Robbers.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Six or seven,” said Ralph. “It was impossible to be certain. They overpowered my men and made off with some of the horses. And our supplies,” he added with a fresh surge of rage as he noted the empty stall where their packs had been stored. “Hell's teeth! I'll run every last one of them to the ground and hack them into small pieces!”

  The tumult was slowly fading. The horses were calmed, the chickens settled down, the dog was silenced by a kick from its master and the donkey stopped braying when a providential carrot was thrust into its mouth by the resourceful Canon Hubert. Everyone was waiting for a decision from Ralph Delchard. He was no penitent now, reflecting with sadness on the harrying of the North. The outrage turned him into a stern and implacable warrior who met every reverse with a swift counter-attack.

  “Saddle up!” he yelled. “We ride after them!”

  The soldiers responded until another voice intervened.

  “Stay!” shouted Tanchelm, holding up a hand. “Do not be so hasty. This needs more thought.”

  Ralph was peremptory. “I lead here,” he a
sserted. “I will not have my orders countermanded.”

  “That is not what I am doing.”

  “Then stand aside and hinder us no longer.”

  “I merely counsel a moment's consideration.”

  “The more we talk, the further away the rogues will ride. Stay here with your own men, my lord. I have swords enough to deal with this villainy. Nobody steals from me with impunity!”

  Before Tanchelm could protest, Ralph barked a command to the captain of his men-at-arms, then ran into the house to put on his hauberk and to apprise Golde of what had taken place. His horse was tacked up and waiting by the time he reappeared, and he swung himself up into the saddle. With ten men at his back, some of them bearing torches, he rode off into the night at a canter.

  Golde came out to tend the wounded man, stemming the blood and bathing his temple with a piece of cloth dipped in a bowl of water. The victim was soon able to give them a hazy account of what had transpired during the scuffle. His companion, whose bare head had been struck from behind with a wooden stake, would take much longer to recover. Gervase made sure that both men were being looked after before he moved across to join Tanchelm of Ghent. The latter was still staring after the posse.

  “They are wasting their time,” he sighed.

  “My lord Ralph is a cunning hunter,” said Gervase.

  “He would need the eyes of an owl and the speed of an eagle to catch this prey. It is futile. The thieves will know how to shake off pursuit and where they may hide without any chance of being found. This is their territory. They hold all the advantages.”

  “Ralph would never forgive himself if he did not at least try to recover what was stolen. He will see the theft as a personal insult that must be answered.”

  “I admire his bravado,” said Tanchelm, “but I fear that it is tinged with madness. He did not even pause long enough to see what exactly was taken.”

  “Our men were attacked, our property stolen. That is surely grounds enough for leading a posse, is it not?”

  Tanchelm shook his head. “Two guards were attacked, I grant you, but they were only knocked senseless when they might just as easily have been killed. Does not that tell you something about our nocturnal visitors?”

  Gervase shrugged. “Only that they were thieves rather than mind-less butchers.”

  “Most outlaws in this part of England are both.”

  “Are you suggesting that they showed a degree of mercy? That does not lessen the severity of their crime, my lord. They stole our horses.”

  “But not at random.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They knew precisely what they wanted and took only that.” He pointed to the stables. “Did you go inside and see what we lost? Have you reckoned up the cost? Five sumpter-horses and the remainder of our provisions. That was their chosen target.”

  “How did they know what was here?” said Gervase.

  “They watched us. Hostile eyes have been upon us since we came into this county. They watched and they waited for their moment. Their strike was decisive.”

  “That is certainly true. But why pick on us, my lord? We ride with a large escort. Others travel in smaller groups as more inviting quarry. Why did they select us?”

  Tanchelm stroked his chin. “I can think of two explanations. The first is that our purpose in coming to Yorkshire was known and our identity recognised. What happened tonight was merely a warning to us.”

  “A warning?”

  “Administered by someone who stands to lose heavily by our presence here. You have seen the cases we have to look into, Master Bret. Some involve sizeable amounts of land. If our judgement goes against them, a number of people could be far poorer as a result of our visit. They are trying to intimidate us in advance.”

  “Then their plan has foundered,” said Gervase sharply. “We would never bend to that kind of pressure. It will take much more than a raid on our horses to frighten us. But you said there were two explanations.”

  “Yes,” said Tanchelm with a smile. “The second one is much sim- pler. On balance, I must admit that I favour it.”

  “And what might it be, my lord?”

  “They stole our food for a very obvious reason.”

  “Go on.”

  “They were hungry.”

  The brooch was strikingly beautiful. Craftsmanship of a high order had gone into its design and execution. Two inches long at most, it was made of decorated gold so subtly worked into the shape of a lion that the creature seemed almost to be alive. The tiny diamond eye glinted with ferocity and the claws reached out with savage intent, yet the animal remained somehow tame and unthreatening. It was truly the king of the beasts in miniature and the man who had commissioned it was overjoyed with the result. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he stared down at it with open-mouthed awe.

  Hunched obsequiously, the jeweller watched him closely.

  “Are you pleased, my lord?” he asked nervously.

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”

  “I followed your instructions to the letter.”

  “That is evident.”

  “It was a privilege to create such a piece.”

  “Exquisite,” said the customer, turning the brooch over to examine the rear. “A work of art.”

  “Thank you, my lord. That pin, as you see, is exceedingly delicate so that it can pierce any material without causing damage. Your lion will scratch but never tear.”

  Aubrey Maminot chuckled. He was so taken with the brooch that he was even prepared to tolerate the jeweller's feeble sense of humour. They were standing in a shop on Hornpot Lane, a busy little thoroughfare that wound its way down from Petergate and that had once been largely the preserve of craftsmen who worked in horn, antler, ivory and animal bone. Jewellers now developed their skills with gold, silver, amber, jet and semi-precious stones. Norman overlords were the bane of York but they had money to spend.

  “Will you take it with you, my lord?” said the jeweller.

  “Of course.”

  “I can deliver it by hand to the castle, if you prefer.”

  “It will be safer in my keeping.”

  “Yes, my lord. As you wish.”

  The jeweller took the brooch and wrapped it gently in a piece of material before slipping it into a leather pouch. With a simpering smile, he gave the pouch to the customer.

  “Only one thing remains, my lord.”

  “Yes,” said Aubrey happily. “I must present the gift to the lady for whom it was fashioned.”

  “I trust that your wife will be satisfied with it.”

  “Have no qualms on that score.”

  He turned to go but the jeweller shuffled after him.

  “My lord …”

  “What is it now?”

  “There is the small matter of payment.”

  “The price was agreed beforehand, was it not?”

  “It was indeed.”

  “And my credit is good, I believe?”

  “Above reproach, my lord.”

  “Then why this unseemly rush?” said Aubrey fussily. “I will acquaint my steward with the nature of this transaction and he will bring the money accordingly.”

  “When might that be?” asked the other tentatively.

  “Soon, my friend. Very soon.”

  Aubrey Maminot swept out of the shop with his golden lion. He felt that it was a gift that would melt any woman's heart and he was anxious to bestow it on the recipient at once but another priority called. Word reached him that his guests would be entering the city within the hour. It was vital to be at the castle to welcome them. Putting the brooch in his purse, he mounted his horse and cut a path through the jostling crowds.

  Long before they reached York, they saw it beckoning to them on the horizon. Its sheer size and solidity were reassuring to travellers who had been on the road for two days without seeing anything larger than a village. The two castles rose above the city walls to guarantee their safety and, as they rode ever closer, they could p
ick out the soaring grandeur of York Minster. Canon Hubert's heart lifted at the sight and Brother Simon—still riding at the rear of the column in order to be at the furthest point from what he saw as the contaminating presence of an immoral woman—sent up a silent prayer of thanks and consoled himself with the thought that he could cleanse himself in the spiritual haven ahead of them.

  Ralph Delchard was in a sombre mood. His search for the horse thieves had been fruitless and daylight brought no comfort. It was a grim ride north for him. Over fifteen years after his last visit to Yorkshire, the county still bore marks of the devastation inflicted upon it. When Ralph saw the scarred landscape, the undernourished livestock and the pitiful remains of abandoned hovels, his guilt stirred again. A whole generation had suffered in the wake of the sustained destruction in which he had taken part.

  What troubled his conscience most was the sight of the people themselves, living reminders of a past that they would never outrun. Proud of their Anglo-Danish heritage, they saw the Normans as cruel usurpers. As the long cavalcade of armed soldiers wended its way to York, everyone in the fields looked up at it with the resentment of the vanquished and the resignation of the forlorn.

  Seated beside him on her palfrey, Golde grew weary of his brooding silence. They were riding a few yards ahead of the following column and thus had a small measure of privacy. She decided to use it in order to separate Ralph from his recriminations.

  “There is no point in dwelling on it,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “The past.”

  “Is that what I am doing?”

  “Your face was not designed for deception.”

  A little smile. “Can you read it so easily?”

  “Easily but not happily,” said Golde. “There is no pleasure for me in travelling beside your distant memories.”

  “They are not distant,” explained Ralph, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “When I gaze around, those memories are fresh and immediate. As if it all happened yesterday.”

  “But it did not.”

  “My brain tells me that but my eyes contradict it.”

  “Then shut them,” she said testily. “If we all let the past drag us down, we might just as well not be alive. This is not the only place to feel the might of the Normans. My own county of Herefordshire suffered dreadfully at your hands.”