“You had to, my friend.”
“I took to my heels like a frightened rat.”
“You survived, Ragnar.”
“But Toki did not.”
“He took his chance and failed,” said Olaf, crouching beside the other. “You lived to fight another day. That is the way to serve his memory. By striving to achieve what Toki was after. By continuing the battle.”
Ragnar stared down at the fire again. The embers had lost their glow and the face had turned to white ash. He gritted his teeth and turned back to Olaf Evil Child.
“You are right, Olaf. I must fight on.”
“With us?”
“With you.”
“This is where he must have got in,” said Ralph Delchard. “And made his escape by the same means.”
“In and out in a matter of minutes.”
“With a man's life snuffed out in the process.”
“Why were the shutters unlocked?” said Aubrey Maminot. “They are usually kept bolted from the inside. Anyone might lurk here otherwise to eavesdrop on what is being said in the room. The murderer must have slipped into the building earlier to release the bolt on the shutters.” “Unless he had a confederate who did that office.”
“That, too, is a possibility.”
The two men were standing in the lane at the rear of the shire hall. Like many other buildings in the city, it had a sunken floor. What was a high window on the back wall of the interior was only at chest height when viewed from outside. Entry would not have been difficult. The alley was no more than a muddied track and hundreds of feet had churned it up since the time of the murder. A search for clues was fruitless.
Men-at-arms had been stationed at either end of the alley by the deputy sheriff to question people who used it on a regular basis and to ask if they had witnessed anything suspicious taking place around the time of Vespers on the previous day. Aubrey was sceptical about their chances of learning anything.
“They are too late and too lenient,” he said. “The time to ask questions was directly after the event and the way to do it was with threats and fists. These people will never give their help willingly.”
“Someone must have seen him.”
“They did, Ralph. This alley is in constant use. Several people saw him clamber in through that window. But you will not get them to admit it. We are Normans.”
“Tanchelm was not.”
“He served the King. That is all they need to know. We may mourn a friend but the rest of the city will be rejoicing. We are an island in a sea of hatred.”
Ralph was rueful. “I helped to create that hatred.”
“So did I,” said Aubrey, “and I have no regrets. We had to crush the North and we did it in the only way that would have a lasting effect.”
“Yes, Aubrey. We saw some of those lasting effects on the way here. They were not inspiring sights.”
“You are getting soft, old friend. Live in York and you would soon change. There is no room for softness here.”
“I will be harsh enough when we catch our villain.”
“Then let's about it,” said Aubrey. “I need to speak to the deputy sheriff again to put a burr under his backside.”
“I would like to take another look inside.”
“We will meet back at the castle.”
While Aubrey marched off with six men-at-arms, Ralph walked around to the front of the shire hall. People were still showing a ghoulish interest in it as they walked past and small clusters formed as speculation thrived afresh. Accompanied by two of his men, Ralph unlocked the front door and stepped into the hall. It was bare and cold. All the shutters were locked now but shafts of light crept around them to stripe the floor and lend it a ghostly quality.
When he looked at the table, Ralph could envisage the scene clearly. The stern, judicial figure of Canon Hubert was seated between the urbane Tanchelm of Ghent and the scribbling meekness of Brother Simon. All three had worked well together and neither of the ecclesiastics would ever know that their good-natured companion was using them to mask his other activities in the city. Ralph crossed to the stool on which Tanchelm had once sat. It had been replaced behind the table now and he lowered himself onto it.
The two men-at-arms were puzzled when he started to read some invisible documents in front of him. When he turned over a nonexistent page, they exchanged a look of disbelief. Neither was prepared for what came next. Ralph put his hands to his neck, struggled with an unseen assailant and fell backwards. As the stool rolled onto the floor, the two soldiers ran to the assistance of their master.
“I am fine,” he said, grinning up at them.
He got back to his feet and righted the stool before taking a final look up at the window. Satisfied at last, he went out again with his men at his heels. Ralph strode around to the alley at the back and walked its full length. Soldiers at the far end were questioning a man and his wife about their movements the previous evening. Ralph caught sight of the deputy sheriff nearby and decided that he would communicate his own sense of urgency to the investigation.
Before he reached him, however, someone else captured his attention and brought him to a halt. Further along the street, huddled into the doorway to ensure some privacy, were two men locked in animated conversation. Given what he knew of them, he was surprised that they were even acquainted with each other, yet Aubrey Maminot was talking familiarly with Brother Francis.
“The Abbey of St. Mary?” said Golde. “I did not see it, my lady.”
“It lies outside the city wall to the north-west.”
“Your husband did mention it when he conducted me around York.
It is still in its early stages, I believe.”
“Yes, Golde.”
“There is no shortage of work for stonemasons.”
“We will keep them busy for many years to come,” said Herleve proudly. “It will be a majestic sight when it is finished and has its own fortified precinct. Nothing will ever challenge the minster in magnificence, of course, but the abbey will fulfil a significant role.”
“It is fortunate to have such patrons as yourself.”
“It is my prime interest, Golde,” said the older woman. “And my husband's one indulgence of me.”
“Indulgence?”
Herleve lowered her head. She and Golde were still alone in the solar, talking quietly, allowing their friendship to roll forward at its own gentle pace. Golde had learned not to press her hostess for answers or she would retreat into herself as she was doing now. It was only when she felt relaxed that she would volunteer information about herself.
“Where will you live?” asked Herleve.
“Ralph will decide that.”
“His estates are in Hampshire, are they not?”
“They are, my lady, but he has spent precious little time there this year. The King's business compels him to travel and I have cause to be grateful. That is how we met.”
“When he came to visit Hereford with his colleagues.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And how did they welcome you?”
“Gervase has been wonderful to me. He says that I help to calm Ralph down and is delighted for both of us.”
“What of the others?”
Golde grimaced. “Canon Hubert disapproves,” she sighed. “He has said nothing to my face and has always been quite pleasant to me, but I feel the weight of his censure. It is not surprising. We cannot expect him to understand. Still less can we ask for understanding from Brother Simon.”
“Your scribe whom I met this morning?”
“Woman are an abomination to him, my lady.”
“I wondered why he was startled by my approach.”
“He worships celibacy.”
“It has much to commend it,” said Herleve wistfully. A smile brightened her face. “Ralph is blessed in you.”
“And I in him.”
“You are the one to make sacrifices, Golde. You gave up everything to ride at his side. Even y
our respectability.”
“That was the easiest sacrifice.”
“And yet you grieve at its loss. Any woman would.”
A taut pause. “Yes, my lady. In some sort, I do.”
“Well, you need fear no more disapproval from me. I like to think I am a true Christian and that has taught me the value of tolerance. When I was cold towards you …”
Her voice faded and she seemed to be in mild distress.
“Let us put that behind us, my lady,” suggested Golde.
“But I need to explain.”
“Your friendship is explanation enough.”
“I owe you the truth, Golde.”
“Not if it causes you sadness.”
“I have learned to bear that.” She lifted her chin and locked her hands in her lap. “It is difficult for me, Golde. I have never talked to anyone about this, not even in the privacy of confession. I hope I can talk to you.” “I am listening, my lady.”
“When you first came here, I was very unkind and resentful. That was not your fault, Golde. Before I knew anything about you, I made a very harsh judgement. There was a reason for that.”
“I appreciate how it must have seemed.”
“This is nothing to do with you and Ralph Delchard,” said the other woman quietly. “It is to do with my husband and myself. We have not been happy. Whatever it was that Aubrey wanted in a wife, I have been unable to supply.”
“I am sure that is not true, my lady.”
“It is, Golde.”
“But he talks so fondly of you.”
“Yes,” sighed Herleve. “He talks fondly of me to everyone because that is his way. He never speaks thus to me. I have let him down. I never gave him the children he wanted or the love he needed. Aubrey has many good qualities but he also has wants, Golde. Like any other man. I have never been able to satisfy those wants.” Her eyelids flickered. “He was bound to look elsewhere.”
“I see.”
“That is why I was so cold towards you. I thought you were simply another one. It never crossed my mind that you and Ralph could be … as you are. I thought you were her.”
“Who?”
Herleve sat up with as much dignity as she could.
“My husband's mistress.”
Aubrey Maminot lay sprawled on the bed while she ran a hand languidly through his hair. He was still panting and perspiring freely. Her youth excited him and her passion seemed boundless. Each time he visited her, they seemed to reach new heights of pleasure and invention. Aubrey had found something he did not believe existed: a woman who never disappointed him, a love that never staled.
He rolled over to cradle her in his arm, running his finger down her nose and onto her lips. She kissed it.
“Are you happy, my love?” he asked.
“Very happy.”
“And were you pleased with my present?”
“Delighted!”
“Do you mean that?”
“It is the nicest gift you have ever given me.”
She reached out with her hand for the garment that lay beside the bed. Clipped onto it was the gold brooch in the shape of a lion. She brought it up to her face so that she could rub the animal against her cheek.
“I love him,” she said.
“Does he have a name?”
“Of course. I call him Aubrey.”
He was thrilled. “He is named after me?”
“No,” she said. “He is you.”
“In what sense?”
“You are my real lion!”
Aubrey laughed and embraced her with renewed ardour.
Chapter 9
BROTHER SIMON WAS the first to admit it. He was spiritually and constitutionally unsuited to the rigours of the workaday world. A simple journey through the streets of York was an assault on his sensibilities. The pungent smells made him swoon and the swirling activity all around him unsettled his stomach. The swooping birds frightened him and the packs of roaming dogs seem to elect him for special persecution. But it was the sight and sound of countless females that really edged him towards hysteria. Fishwives screeched, washerwomen cackled, ancient dames traded gossip and every mother in the city seemed to be engaged in haggling aloud in the market.
With the supportive bulk of Canon Hubert beside him, he might have withstood it all had there not been the horrendous event in the shire hall. Tanchelm of Ghent had been murdered not ten feet from where Simon had earlier sat at the table. The monk felt the hand of death brush the side of his face. It reduced him to gibbering incoherence. York was a crucible of evil. He fled from its tumult into the minster.
Canon Hubert was more resilient. While his companion yearned only for solitude, he was ready to brave the turmoil of the streets in the interests of justice. Tanchelm had been a friend and a colleague. Hubert wanted to do all he could to assist the hunt for his killer. Having spent more time with the victim than most people, he felt that he knew him better and might therefore contribute details that would elude anyone else. An hour exploring a pile of documents convinced him that he had pertinent information to offer. Mounting his donkey, he wobbled off to the castle once more.
Ralph Delchard was less than ecstatic to see him.
“This is no place for you, Canon Hubert.”
“But we must have conference.”
“Our business here is postponed until we have tracked down a murderer. He occupies all our attention.”
“I have come to help you to that end.”
“It is soldier's work.”
“My lord …”
“Leave it to us.”
They were in the courtyard. Ralph had just returned to the castle when Hubert arrived at a bouncing trot. The canon was an unnecessary distraction. Ralph was pursuing enquiries independent of the investigation led by the deputy sheriff and he needed time alone to think and to plan. With a blunt farewell, he turned on his heel but Hubert would not be shaken off so easily. His bulbous heels took the donkey scurrying in a circle to obstruct Ralph's path.
“Hear me out, my lord,” he said. “I beg you!”
“Move aside.”
“I am as desperate as you to catch the murderer.”
“Then return to the minster and pray for our success. We will need all the assistance we can coax from above.”
“But I have a name for you.”
“A name?” Ralph was checked. “Of the killer?”
“I would not go that far without further proof,” said Hubert, “but one name might lead to another. It is at least worth considering.”
“As you wish,” said Ralph impatiently.
“May we not go somewhere more private?”
“The courtyard will do.”
“But someone may overhear us.”
“Only your donkey. Now, what is this name you brandish?”
Hubert dismounted and moved in closer to him.
“Yesterday,” he said in a confidential whisper, “you asked what disputes we were about to consider. One of them, you thought, might have a bearing on my lord Tanchelm's death.”
“That was Gervase's belief. He no longer holds it.”
“Why not?”
“That is immaterial.”
“Is there some fresh evidence about which I should hear?”
“No,” said Ralph, anxious to detach himself. “You know all. Now, what is this name?”
“The man has holdings in the wapentake of Burghshire. Several of them once belonged to Sweinn Redbeard.”
“I remember. The father of Olaf Evil Child.”
“The competing claims did not come before our predecessors here because neither Olaf nor his rival was able to appear before the commission.”
“The contest is void,” said Ralph. “Olaf cannot come to York this time either. If he dares to show his face in the city, he will be arrested as an outlaw.”
“My lord Tanchelm felt otherwise.”
“On what grounds?”
“That Olaf Evil Child had a strong case to of
fer.”
“A horse thief given the benefits of law?”
“I protested strongly on that account.”
“What was the answer?”
“My lord Tanchelm felt that Olaf at least had the right to be heard and that his other crimes came not within our purview.”
“This is madness!”
“So I represented to him.”
“He'd never get Olaf Evil Child near the shire hall.”
“My lord Tanchelm swore that he would.”
“How?” wondered Ralph. “How could he succeed where Aubrey Maminot and a hundred men have failed? They have been searching for Olaf for months. Did Tanchelm really believe he could entice the rogue here?”
“Yes, my lord. You forget something.”
“What is that?”
“He had a Danish wife.”
“So?”
“Olaf has Danish forbears.”
Ralph fell silent. Rash dismissal of Tanchelm's intentions might prove to be folly. The man worked in strange and subtle ways. If he was going to such lengths to lure Olaf Evil Child to the city, it might be for reasons unconnected with the disputed property. Ralph was glad he had been forced to listen to Canon Hubert. His perennial adversary might have stumbled on some valuable intelligence.
“You have still not told me the name.”
“No, my lord,” said Hubert. “I felt I had to acquaint you with the circumstances before I did so.”
“That was wise.”
“Olaf's claim is that he was ousted from his land.”
“By whom?”
“Robert Brossard.”
Ralph shrugged. “I have never heard the name before.”
“Nor I. It was my lord Tanchelm who discovered the coincidence. He said that you and Gervase mentioned him several times when you discussed a case of your own.”
“Mentioned whom?”
“The half-brother of Robert Brossard.”
“And who might that be?”
“Nigel Arbarbonel.”
Whooping with delight, Nigel Arbarbonel rode his horse at a gallop towards the hill with his men-at-arms behind him like a giant swallowtail. He had left York with a feeling of exhilaration that never abated. Everything had worked out to his satisfaction. His estates had been preserved, his enemies routed and the tribunal confounded. His position in the county would henceforth be invincible. He was once more a law unto himself.
The Lions of the North (Domesday Series Book 4) Page 16
