“We were deliberately misled. By the time we got to York, the commissioners had completed their work here and moved on to Beverley.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It happened, I assure you.”
“The commissioners would never request you to appear at a place from which they were about to depart. That would be perverse. Who brought the summons?”
“He claimed to be the reeve's man.”
“Claimed?”
“We think he was an impostor.”
“On what grounds?”
“He gave us false information,” argued Inga. “We were prevented from contesting my lord Nigel's claim.”
“Did you not take this up with the town reeve himself?”
“Naturally.”
“When had he sent his messenger?”
“Two days earlier.”
“And the man who came to you?”
“The reeve did not recognise him from our description.”
Gervase sat back pensively. He was at least ready to consider the possibility that her version of events might be true. Ralph was not. He struck a note of jocular derision.
“One-eyed blacksmiths. Phantom messengers. Deep-laid plots to cheat you out of a mythical inheritance. How much more of this nonsense is there?”
“It is the truth,” she said indignantly.
“You tell a good story, I grant you that.”
“I am explaining what actually happened.”
“What you want us to believe actually happened,” he corrected. “But it will not hold water, I fear. Three of you are trying to discredit the testimony of Nigel Arbarbonel and several reliable witnesses. Against them, you carry little weight in the scales of justice.”
“We would carry much more if fourteen other voices had not been silenced. We are the victims of a conspiracy.”
“They all say that.”
Inga struggled to control herself, all too conscious of the fact that hot words might relieve her anger but they would certainly prejudice her case. Gervase could see her predicament. He adopted a more polite line of questioning.
“Let us return to your summons,” he said. “You were given misleading information about the time when you could appear before the first commissioners. Is that what you claim?”
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.
“And the reeve did not send the man who came to you?”
“That is what he told us.”
“Then what of the messenger he did send?”
“Good question, Gervase,” said Ralph. “I never thought of that.” He smiled at Inga. “Well?”
“I do not know,” she confessed.
“Another crack opens up in your argument!”
“No, my lord!” she denied. “I do not know because we did not stay in York while the reeve tried to ascertain how his summons went astray. My mother and I set off to Beverley in pursuit of the commissioners.”
“Did you catch up with them?” asked Gervase.
“We did but it was too late. Their business in York was concluded and they were only dealing with claims relating to property in the East Riding. It was a crushing blow for us.” She winced at the memory, then rallied slightly. “But they did have the grace to let us state our complaint even if they could not look into it. We were told that a note of our protest would be included in the returns that were sent to Winchester.”
“That is how it came to our notice.”
“We are very thankful. It shows that our journey to Beverley was not in vain.”
“Did you not then return to York?”
“It would have taken us out of our way,” she said. “We took ourselves home by another route and still have no idea why the reeve's summons did not reach us when it should have.” She turned to Ralph. “I urge you to look into it.”
“Do not try to tell us our job.”
“It is a request and not a demand.”
“We will handle this case in our own way.”
“Then I have nothing more to add.”
“That still leaves the vexed question of documents,” said Gervase. “Your father must have been able to prove his right and title to that land.”
“He was,” she affirmed.
“Then where are those charters now?”
Inga turned to her mother. The speed of the argument had left the older woman confused and her daughter had to explain the situation in her own tongue. Sunnifa and Brunn grew increasingly anxious. Inga attempted to reassure them.
Gervase prompted her. “Well?”
“The charters are in existence,” she said, “but we do not have them in our possession at the moment.”
“Where are they?”
“We will bring them to you.”
“When?”
Sunnifa and Brunn looked forlorn but Inga drew herself up to her full height. Her voice had a confident ring.
“Soon.”
Canon Hubert was quick to realise his error of judgement. Tanchelm of Ghent was by no means the silent observer he had anticipated. The Fleming became too interested in the cases before them to stand completely apart from the proceedings in the shire hall and began to make comments of his own. Hubert clicked his tongue in disapproval at first but he came to see how pertinent Tanchelm's questions were, putting more than one witness in difficulty and eliciting valuable information that might otherwise have remained hidden. Since the canon's authority was in no way jeopardised by his colleague's interventions, he began to encourage them.
As another case was dispatched, he turned to Tanchelm.
“Thank you for your assistance, my lord.”
“It was your interrogation that was decisive.”
“I sensed that the fellow was lying.”
“And I took my lead from you, Canon Hubert,” said Tanchelm. “That is why I pressed him so hard. Between us, we finally broke him.”
“Indeed we did. Though I do have a reservation.”
“Reservation?”
“Yes, my lord. At one point, you spoke to him in Danish.”
“That is the language he best understood.”
“But I did not understand it,” said Canon Hubert.
“No more did I,” added Brother Simon. “I could record nothing of what was said between the two of you because I have no command of that tongue.”
“I learned it from my wife. Marry a Danish woman and she will do the same for you, Brother Simon.”
“Never!” gasped the monk, blanching at the notion. “I prefer to remain ignorant of the language and isolated from females of every description. I embrace chastity.”
“It does you credit,” said Tanchelm without irony.
“Be more sparing in your use of Danish,” said Hubert pleasantly. “That is all we ask, my lord.”
“I obey your instruction.”
“Thank you.”
Canon Hubert was content. He shuffled through the papers in front of him to see what their next case was. Dispensing summary justice was a source of great pleasure to him. He had the satisfaction of sitting in judgement on lesser mortals without having to get too embroiled in complex legal debate. Ralph Delchard's absence was a double blessing. It saved Hubert from the usual bickering with his fellow commissioner and enabled him to have the final word in each case. Piety and practicality informed his approach. A high moral framework and an almost saintly fair-mindedness were tempered by the need to move the business of the day along. Brother Simon was duly impressed.
“You have shown the wisdom of Solomon,” he said.
“I simply wield the sword of justice, Brother Simon.”
“With consummate skill.”
“The Lord guides my hand.”
“You are too modest, Canon Hubert,” said Tanchelm. “Take pride in your own abilities. Without your knowledge of law and understanding of human nature, we would still be toiling through the first case that came before us. Thanks to your adroit handling of affairs, we have already settled half
a dozen disputes. I will sing your praises to Ralph Delchard.”
“That will be most gratifying, my lord.”
“My own contribution has been small, I know, but it is good to feel that church and state can work so effectively side by side.”
“Unhappily, that is not always so,” said Hubert with a sidelong glance at the adjacent building. “Some colleagues are not as amenable as yourself. However, we delay. Let us turn our attention to the next case. It concerns a dispute in the wapentake of Skyrack.”
Six of Tanchelm's soldiers stood on duty at the rear of the shire hall. Two of them were dispatched to bring in the people involved in the next case. Waiting for a fresh batch of witnesses, Hubert recalled the last who had stood before them. He turned to Tanchelm.
“What did you say to him, my lord?”
“To whom?”
“The man from Barkston Ash whom we examined even now. When you spoke in Danish, what did you ask him?”
Tanchelm of Ghent gave an enigmatic smile.
“Nothing of importance,” he said.
Intense discussion followed the departure of Inga, Sunnifa and Brunn the Priest. Their evidence had intrigued Gervase Bret but struck a different chord in Ralph Delchard. While the former believed that they had told the truth, the latter suspected that their stories were largely confected, especially as they could produce no written proof of their claims. Nigel Arbarbonel himself had still to be questioned, and they would reserve their judgement until that examination had been completed, but their respective sympathies were already tipping in opposite directions.
Brother Francis preserved a tactful silence. Completely detached, his sole aim was to fulfill his duties as a scribe in a satisfactory way. Ralph and Gervase were more than pleased with him. When they read through his record of what had so far transpired, they could see a penetrating mind behind the neat calligraphy. Brother Francis had missed nothing of significance in Inga's impassioned testimony.
Before continuing, the commissioners elected to take a break for refreshment. Ralph went out with Brother Francis, and the men-at-arms also vacated the room. Gervase remained behind to clear up his papers and put them back into the satchel. When he was ready to leave, he was astonished to see Inga standing just inside the door.
There was a long pause. Some of her earlier confidence seemed to have drained away and there was a hint of apprehension in her eyes. For the first time, Gervase saw how vulnerable she really was. His sympathy welled up.
“May I please speak with you?” she asked softly.
“Not if it concerns the dispute under consideration.”
“But there is something you must know.”
“You should have divulged it under oath when you had the opportunity.”
“And risk the scorn of your colleague?” she said with asperity. “You listened to what we said. He simply attacked our evidence.”
“My lord Ralph is a just man,” said Gervase firmly. “You will not find a more honest and impartial judge. It is his job to sift every allegation with care just as it is mine to support him. We may have a different approach but we seek the same end: to establish the true facts of every claim and to rectify any illegalities.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Do not try to advance your cause by seeking me out alone so that you may in some way influence me.”
Inga was hurt. “Is that what you think I am doing?”
“Why else have you come?”
“To explain.”
“This is not the time and place for explanation.”
“A few moments is all that I crave.”
He shrugged his reluctance. “I must decline.”
“Was I so wrong about you?” she said, coming across to him. “All I seek is a fair hearing but you believe I am here to exert influence. How? Am I supposed to give you money? Or did you expect me to offer myself?”
Gervase was jolted. Without meaning to, he had clearly insulted her. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and his guilt deepened when he saw the first tear in her eye. He stepped around the table to stand next to her. Striking a note of appeasement, he spoke to her in Saxon.
“I am deeply sorry if I have offended you,” he said. “It was not intentional.”
Inga blinked at him. Surprised by the apology, she was even more surprised to hear it offered in the language of the common people. She scrutinised him with new interest.
“I had a Saxon mother,” he explained. “When you talked to your own mother and to your priest, I understood what you were saying. I feel that you should know that.”
“Thank you.”
“Not that you said anything that compromised you in this dispute. And I was certainly not eavesdropping in the hope of catching you out.”
They were only a couple of feet apart now and Gervase became more fully aware of her charms. When they had faced each other earlier across the table, she had been a bold advocate in search of justice. Inga was now a handsome woman with the bloom of youth on her. Gervase felt strangely drawn to her and had to school himself to remember his judicial role. She, too, sensed an affinity. As they gazed at each other, they shared a momentary tenderness that neither of them dared to acknowledge.
Inga lowered her head while she gathered her thoughts.
“Toki,” she said at length. “His name is Toki.”
“Whose name?”
“He has the evidence that you demand.”
“He is not listed among the witnesses,” said Gervase.
“No,” she said. “He works through us. Toki has been gathering proof on our behalf. His job was to provide the documents that would enable us to enforce our claim.”
“Then where are they?”
“We have no idea.”
“Why not?”
“Toki has vanished. There has been no trace of him for days. Something dreadful must have happened to him. He knew how important it was for us to appear before you while you are in York. It is our only hope of justice. Toki would never deliberately let us down.” She shrugged. “He gave me his word.”
Gervase did not need to ask what relationship she had with Toki. The softness in her voice and the wistfulness in her eyes told the same story. Toki was her beloved and she was patently shattered by his disappearance. Gervase was overtaken by a sense of uneasiness.
“What was Toki like?” he asked.
“The most caring man in the world.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Tall, fair and lean with a kind face.”
“And a beard?”
“Yes, Toki had a fine beard.”
Gervase felt a stab of recognition. It was him.
“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus et dismissis peccatis vestris, peducat vos at vitem aeternam …”
Philip the Chaplain conducted the burial service with brusque solemnity. Nobody was there to mourn the deceased. The mangled remains of an unknown man were lowered into the ground and the chaplain tossed a handful of earth onto the coffin as his chant continued. When the signal came, the gravedigger stepped in quickly with his spade to suffocate the foul smell that rose up from inside the rough wooden box. It was a hasty funeral.
The chaplain forced himself to stare down at the grave until it was almost filled with earth. As he turned away, he heaved a sigh of relief. A burdensome responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders, and an excrescence had been removed from his mortuary. He found it difficult to view the corpse as a human being. Romulus and Remus had left so little of the body that he had virtually consigned no more than a pile of bones and some rotting flesh to the grave.
His relief was overtaken by a sudden remorse and he turned to look back. The gravedigger was now stamping on the soft earth to press it down, executing a slow dance that seemed like a final act of contempt on a carcass that had already suffered the ultimate humiliation.
Philip the Chaplain thought of the dismembered corpse that had lain on his slab in an attitude of torment. It was difficult
to imagine a more cruel and agonising way to quit life than to be mauled by two lions. He found himself hoping that the man's family and friends never discovered how he was killed. It would be a kindness to protect them from such disturbing knowledge.
As he continued on his way, his pity surged. He was vexed once again by the cold anonymity of the burial.
“Who are you?” he asked.
It never occurred to him that Toki might soon answer that question from beyond the grave.
Chapter 5
OLAF EVIL CHILD chewed his way through the roasted capon and washed it down with a cup of strong ale. He and his men were camped near a stream so that the horses could be watered. There was abundant cover from trees and bushes but sentries were posted as a matter of course. Olaf had also sent out scouts to comb a wider area in search of prey or potential danger.
The giant figure of Eric dropped down beside him.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Return those packs to the castle.”
“The visitors needed them and we did not.”
“Then why did we steal them in the first place?”
“For this,” said Olaf, holding up the carcass of his capon before throwing it into the undergrowth. “We wanted their provisions and not their clothing. It will do no harm to let them see we can be bountiful.”
“But you took such a risk, going into York like that.”
“It was worth it, Eric.”
“Was it?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Imagine the look on my lord Aubrey's face when he opened the castle gates to find that we had walked right up to his fortress in the night. He would have been enraged. His guards will have been roundly swinged for not spotting us.”
“We know how to make use of darkness.”
“And of the river.”
Eric pondered. “Is that why we went?” he said, still not compre-hending. “To enrage my lord Aubrey once more?”
“No,” said Olaf. “We tried to win their good opinion.”
“Who?”
“The guests at the castle.”
“Ah.” More rumination followed. “Why?”
“It does not matter.”
“I want to know.”
“All will become clear in time. With luck.” The huge face beside him puckered with bewilderment. Olaf gave his friend a good-humoured slap on the thigh. “Do not puzzle over it, Eric. You are a fine warrior but a poor philosopher. Stick to fighting. Leave the thinking to me.”
The Lions of the North (Domesday Series Book 4) Page 8
