The Lions of the North (Domesday Series Book 4)

by Edward Marston

  “That is absurd.”

  “Is it? If I did not have my dear Golde beside me, I would be tempted myself. Inga certainly merits special attention.”

  “I am only concerned with her testimony,” said Gervase. “And with that of my lord Nigel. Why did he confront us in person when he might so easily have let his reeve speak on his behalf? Why did he wish to have the dispute resolved so quickly? Why try to woo us with a show of assistance?”

  “I do not know,” conceded Ralph. “I do not trust him, but no more do I trust Inga and her mother. They made some wild accusations. Nigel Arbarbonel does not resemble in any way the ugly portrait they drew of him.”

  “We shall see.”

  “What next?”

  “We need to pick our way more carefully through this sheaf of documents from my lord Nigel. There is something I have missed here, I feel certain.”

  “I leave that task to you, Gervase. I would not know what to look for and my Latin would be woefully unequal to the demands made upon it. And when you have finished?”

  “I need to speak with Inga once more.”

  “Ah!” teased Ralph. “So she has touched off a spark in you.”

  “It is not like that,” said Gervase. “She is a witness in a dispute and nothing more. But there is something that I must tell her.” Ralph's rich chuckle threw him even more on the defensive. “I must remind her that the burden of proof lies on her mother. If they are to win this dispute, they must produce the documents that they claim to have.”

  “Otherwise, Nigel Arbarbonel retains that land.”

  “Quite so.”

  A discreet cough turned their heads towards Brother Francis. He had been so quiet and unobtrusive that they had completely forgotten he was there.

  “Will you require my services again today?” he asked.

  “Not for some time,” said Ralph.

  “Then I will withdraw, my lord.”

  “Please do, Brother Francis. You have earned a rest.”

  The monk beamed. “It has been an education to me.”

  “You bore up well in the presence of women. Brother Simon would have been reduced to a quivering wreck. He prefers the safety of the cloister.”

  “It has its compensations, my lord.” He padded towards the door. “You know where to reach me. Farewell.”

  Golde was finding life at the castle increasingly irksome. There was nowhere in the building where she could feel completely at ease. If she went to the solar, she was met by the unwelcoming smile of Herleve. If she strolled in the courtyard, she was the target of lustful comments from the soldiers. If she stayed in her apartment, she was bored. When she ventured down to peer through the lions' cage, she only sent Romulus and Remus into a frenzy of snarling.

  Her growing discomfort made her ask herself what exactly she was doing at the castle. She loved Ralph enough to follow him anywhere but events had forced her to view their relationship through the eyes of others. The romantic glow in which she had abandoned her home in Hereford had faded to a dim flicker in York. Proud to be his lover, she resented being seen as Ralph's mistress. When she looked into the unforgiving face of Herleve, she was made to feel that she was no more than his whore. It was humiliating.

  Golde was distressed. Leaving her house, her occupation and her sister had not been done on impulse. She had given her decision great thought. Her Christian upbringing taxed her conscience sorely and her strong ties with Hereford provided further resistance. Yet she left. When Ralph asked her to go with him, making no promise of marriage or, indeed, of anything else, Golde had accepted his invitation because it contained both rescue and hope for her. They were delightfully happy when alone together but a dark shadow was now falling across that happiness. As she sat brooding in her apartment, Golde began to wonder if their love would be resilient enough to survive what might well be a lengthy stay in York.

  Unable to relax, she adjourned to the one place in the castle that offered peace and seclusion. The chapel was empty. Its very coldness was a source of refreshment to her. Kneeling at the altar rail, she offered up a silent prayer and asked for guidance. No answer came but her mind slowly began to clear. She was able to consider her situation in a more honest and objective light. What was her moral duty? What were her true feelings for the man with whom she shared her life? Where did her future lie? She remained on her knees for a long time. Golde was still trying to reconcile conflicting values when a figure crept up behind her.

  Ralph had returned briefly to the castle. Finding her in the chapel, he was struck by her attitude of submission and by the deep concen-tration on her face. Without saying a word, he moved forward to kneel beside her and took her hand gently between his own. Golde did not need to open her eyes. She knew that it was him and drew immense strength from his proximity. Ralph, too, was touched. A wayward Christian, he yet sensed the true power of spiritual commitment in the tiny chapel. He also felt closer than ever before to Golde.

  Whatever disapproval they might meet, whatever sneers they might hear, whatever obstacles they encountered, they would not be separated from each other. That certainty now united them. In their hearts and, at that precise moment, in the sight of the Almighty, they were conjoined as firmly as any husband and wife. Golde's doubts fled. She would withstand anything to be with Ralph Delchard. Reading her thoughts, he squeezed her hand softly in reciprocation.

  They remained side by side in perfect union. It was a scene at once so solemn and so joyful that even the watching Herleve was moved. She stole quietly away.

  Tanchelm of Ghent more than proved his worth in the shire hall that afternoon. Not only did he ask searching questions of evasive witnesses, he also acted as an intermediary between Canon Hubert and those who could understand only the Saxon tongue. Gervase Bret's customary role of interpreter was taken over by Tanchelm, whose command of languages was impressive. He was even able to converse freely in Latin with his two colleagues.

  Brother Simon was suffused with admiration for the new commissioner, and Hubert came to rely more and more on the timely interventions of the Fleming. Only one small doubt lingered in the canon's mind. He wondered why Tanchelm was so keen to question certain witnesses and he had the occasional feeling that their answers were not translated back to him in full. While functioning as a commissioner, Tanchelm of Ghent seemed to be conducting a supplementary inquiry of his own.

  As another dispute was resolved, Hubert turned to him.

  “You have missed your vocation, my lord,” he said.

  “Have I?”

  “Instead of being a soldier, you should have taken to the law. You are a born interrogator.”

  “I could never match your expertise, Canon Hubert.”

  “Thank you,” said the other, basking in the flattery but not allowing it to deflect him. “Why did you ask that last witness about Olaf Evil Child?”

  Tanchelm feigned surprise. “Did I do so?”

  “More than once. My knowledge of Saxon is fragmentary but I did recognise that name. You used it four times, yet it was not included in your translation.”

  “That is because it was not germane to the dispute in hand,” explained Tanchelm. “When I mentioned Olaf Evil Child, I did so out of idle curiosity. The man is a fascinating blend of outlaw and benefactor. What other robber would steal our sumpter-horses and then return part of their cargo to us? He interests me.”

  “What did the witness say of him?”

  “He had to guard his words for fear of giving offence. Everyone in York knows that we were set on by Olaf and his band. The witness could hardly praise an outlaw in front of his victims.”

  “Did you sense a hidden approval of the rogue?”

  “It was more of a reverence, Canon Hubert. The man to whom we have just restored four carucates of land was unfairly deprived of them. Olaf Evil Child, he told me, was likewise dispossessed when his land was annexed. While most people tried to regain their property by legal process, Olaf had the courage to take up arms and
fight back. That has made him something of a hero.”

  “Only to ignorant fools. Crime is never heroic.”

  “I would agree with you there.”

  “Olaf is a coward and a thief.”

  “He could be defended against the charge of cowardice but he is certainly guilty of theft. But then,” said Tanchelm, indicating the papers before him, “so, it seems, are a number of outwardly respectable magnates. Who is the more reprehensible thief, Canon Hubert? A man who steals five horses or one who seizes upon five hundred acres of someone else's land?”

  Gervase Bret pored for a long time over the documents relating to the property of Nigel Arbarbonel. A clear pattern emerged. By a series of annexations, the Norman lord had slowly connected his scattered holdings into a solid unit. Militarily, it might have some purpose but it must also have left much hardship in its wake as tenants found themselves paying increased rent for land they had once owned. Yet everything seemed to have been done legally and to the satisfaction of the first commissioners, who had effectively ratified his multiple acquisitions. It was only over the transfer of Thorbrand's holdings that a question still hovered.

  A tap on the door went unheard. It was only when a louder rap was delivered that Gervase raised his head.

  “Come in!” he called.

  Inga let herself into the room. He sat up with a jolt, surprised at how pleased he was to see her again. It was a few moments before he even noticed that she was not alone. Brunn the Priest had followed her in. Gervase felt a resentment at his presence but he could see why it was necessary. With the priest beside her, Inga was absolved of all charges of trying to exert undue influence on a royal commissioner.

  Gervase stood up and walked across to them. Inga was watchful but Brunn volunteered a weary smile. The priest spoke in Saxon.

  “We have not come to importune you,” he said.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Something of a personal nature is vexing Inga.”

  Gervase looked into her face and saw the anguish. She was deeply troubled. Turning for help to someone whom she regarded as a natural enemy was an added source of pain. In her eyes, Gervase was a figure of authority from whom she could expect no sympathy, yet he might hold information that was crucial to her peace of mind.

  “When we spoke earlier,” she said, “I mentioned a friend.”

  Gervase nodded. “His name was Toki.”

  “You behaved strangely when I talked of him.”

  “Did I?”

  “Toki is not only an important figure in this dispute, he is very dear to me.”

  “That became obvious. He was a fortunate man.”

  “Was?”

  One word gave a glimpse of the truth. Gervase braced himself to impart the bad news. Inga tensed and Brunn reached out a hand to support her. They feared the worst. Gervase ran his tongue across his lips before speaking.

  “You came back because you had the feeling that I might know what had happened to your friend.”

  “Yes,” she said. “There was something about the way you looked at me when I described Toki to you. Have you seen him?”

  “I think so.”

  “When? Where?”

  “It might be wiser if you sat down,” he advised.

  “Tell me!” she demanded. “I must know the truth.”

  “I am not certain that I know it myself, Inga. For your sake, I hope that I am mistaken. But I fear that I may have met Toki. Your description tallied with … what I saw.”

  “Go on.”

  “I believe that your friend may be dead.”

  Inga reeled and Brunn had to steady her. When she recovered, she gave a faint nod to show that she wanted the details. Gervase felt uneasy at having to pass on such dreadful tidings but they could not be kept from her.

  “Earlier this week,” he said, “someone climbed into the castle belonging to Aubrey Maminot. The soldiers on duty that night were lax but the intruder could not evade the other guards who lay in wait.”

  “Other guards?” she whispered.

  “My lord, Aubrey keeps two lions at the castle.”

  Inga was rocked. As the full horror was borne in upon her, she emitted a cry of despair and began to sway to and fro. To lose her beloved was tragedy enough. The thought that he had been savagely torn to pieces was unendurable.

  “No!” she howled, flinging herself at Gervase and trying to beat him with her fists. “It's not true, it's not true!”

  Her rage was short-lived and she collapsed into his arms. With Brunn's help, Gervase carried her to the bench and sat her down. It was minutes before she recovered enough to realise where she was. When she saw that Gervase was supporting her, she pushed him away with contempt. There was a note of profound betrayal in her voice.

  “You knew,” she accused him. “You knew all the time.”

  “I did not, Inga. I swear it.”

  “You led me on to describe Toki so that you could be sure that it was him.”

  “No,” said Gervase. “On the night when he climbed into the castle, we were many miles away from here. Nobody in York had any idea who the intruder was. How could a stranger like myself guess his identity?” He knelt beside her. “It was only when you talked about the disappearance of Toki that I began to wonder if he might be the unfortunate victim.”

  “Master Bret speaks honestly,” decided Brunn. “Do not blame him. This was none of his doing.”

  “He is involved now,” she said angrily, “and he will use this against us to bring us down.”

  “Why should I do that?” asked Gervase.

  “Because you are a friend of my lord Aubrey. When you tell him that it was Toki who broke into his castle, he will come searching for us to exact punishment.”

  “Full punishment has already been exacted by Romulus and Remus,” said Gervase ruefully. “Besides, I do not intend to reveal Toki's identity to anyone as yet, so there is no question of retaliation against you. I will do everything in my power to save you from being pursued.”

  “Will you?” she said in wonderment.

  “I give you my word.”

  “Why should you protect us?”

  “Because I choose to, Inga. I am involved in another way here. I saw Toki's remains laid out in the morgue. No man should go to his grave in such a hideous condition without someone to grieve at his passing.”

  “Toki will have grief enough now,” she murmured.

  “Why did he climb into the castle that night?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What could he possibly be after?”

  “I cannot tell you,” she said with a hopeless shrug. “Toki and I were very close but there were things that he did not even tell me. Now I see why.”

  Gervase did not press her further. Inga patently had no notion of the motives that had led a man to risk his life by scaling a castle wall in York. She was still trying to cope with the enormity of his loss. Toki had not just been beloved. He was instrumental in gathering the evidence with which to confute Nigel Arbarbonel. Without that, Inga and her mother would have little chance.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Toki was buried this morning.”

  “May I see the place?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will they be watching the grave to see who visits it?”

  “I think not.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “I will take you there myself.”

  “Why are you being so kind to me?”

  Gervase could find no answer.

  Chapter 6

  WITH AN ARMED escort to clear a way through the crowd for them, Canon Hubert and Brother Simon walked towards York Minster with a sense of profound satisfaction. It had been a productive day. Many disputes had been settled and much land, albeit in small amounts, had been reassigned to its rightful owners. Some people had been foolish enough to try to give false evidence but Hubert exposed them ruthlessly with the help of Tanchelm of Ghent. The two men had com
plementary virtues. As a team, they were shrewd, effective and totally impervious to corruption. Canon Hubert was increasingly grateful that he had accepted the Fleming as his judicial partner.

  Another decision was also most pleasing in retrospect.

  “I was right to insist on lodging apart from the others,” said Hubert. “We belong on consecrated ground.”

  Brother Simon shivered. “To stay at the castle would have been an ordeal.”

  “I could never have tolerated those lions.”

  “The female presence would have been more disturbing to me, Canon Hubert. At least the lions are male.”

  “But wild and ferocious, by all accounts.”

  “It is in their nature. They have no control over their brutish inclination. A civilised man should.”

  “You speak of my lord Ralph?”

  “I think you know my feelings on that subject.”

  “I share them, Brother Simon.”

  “Then I will say no more.”

  “Please do. Give vent to your thoughts.”

  “I am not sure that it is my place to do so. I mean no disrespect to my lord Ralph. In many ways, he is worthy of admiration.” Simon drew in his breath. “In this instance, he most certainly is not.”

  “I have endeavoured to make that clear to him.”

  “What was his answer, Canon Hubert?”

  “Modesty forbids me from repeating such foul language.”

  “The lady is not his wife!” hissed Simon in alarm. “Yet he consorts openly with her. Since we ride with them, we will be seen as condoning their sinful behaviour. But I most assuredly do not condone it.”

  “No more do I. It offends me to the marrow.”

  “The woman is … the woman is …”

  “Do not be afraid to say the word, Brother Simon.”

  “His concubine!”

  “Quite so,” said Hubert. “She travels with him for one purpose only and that is to offer him delights of the flesh more proper to the state of holy matrimony, and then only in pursuit of lawful procreation.”

  “It is shameful to look on such concupiscence.”

  “Turn your gaze inward. Contemplate a pure soul.”