The Owls of Gloucester d-10

by Edward Marston

  ‘I will not seek their permission.’

  ‘How else can you go?’

  ‘The way that others have done so before me.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed his friend.

  ‘Siward was one,’ recalled Kenelm. ‘Before him, it was Dena.

  Both of them simply took to their heels and fled from the abbey.’

  ‘Where to, though?’

  ‘Does it matter? Escape is escape.’

  ‘Yet nothing was ever heard of Siward and Dena again. Doesn’t that worry you? Some terrible harm may have befallen them. And what of their grieving families? Think of the pain they inflicted on their loved ones by running away like that. Do you want to hurt your parents in that way? Do you intend to desert all the friends you have made here?’

  ‘Only because I am forced to, Elaf.’

  ‘By whom? By what?’

  ‘My conscience.’

  ‘Salve it with a penance.’

  ‘It is too late for that.’

  ‘But you mustn’t go,’ said Elaf fervently. ‘We need you, we love you.’ He saw the tears in his friend’s eyes and reached out to embrace him. ‘Stay with us, Kenelm. Stay with me, please. I, too, have my doubts but I can fend them off if you are beside me.

  Let us help each other. We can do anything together. I’d never forgive myself if you ran away. Promise me that you’ll stay here.

  Will you, Kenelm? Will you?’

  Kenelm nodded gently but his mind was still in turmoil. Touched by his friend’s display of affection, he was willing to soothe Elaf with a token agreement but he was not sure that he could keep his promise.

  ‘Hamelin of Lisieux presented his case very effectively,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Almost too effectively,’ said Gervase. ‘I had the feeling that every word had been rehearsed beforehand with the assistance of his wife.’

  ‘The lady Emma had no place here,’ complained Canon Hubert.

  Ralph chuckled. ‘I disagree. She lit up this cheerless place like a roaring fire. The lady Emma is welcome to decorate the shire hall whenever she wishes. She was a joy to look upon.’

  ‘That was the intention, my lord. She was there to divert you.’

  ‘What an absurd suggestion, Hubert!’

  ‘It is not absurd at all,’ said Gervase. ‘Hamelin brought his wife here with a purpose, though it was not merely to distract us. The lady Emma was there to lend her husband a softness and appeal which he lacked in Strang’s report of him. That’s what worries me about Hamelin’s claim. If it really is as incontrovertible as he believes, why did he need the support of his wife? The lady Emma was clearly schooled by him.’

  ‘Then she is an apt pupil,’ said Ralph with admiration.

  ‘She is an irrelevance,’ argued Hubert.

  ‘A terrifying one,’ said Brother Simon under his breath.

  The four commissioners were taking a short break at the shire hall and enjoying some light refreshment. As they supped their wine and nibbled the pastries which had been provided, they reflected on the long and searching examination of Hamelin of Lisieux. Even when pressed, the man had remained courteous and obliging, deflecting some of the more testing questions with a combination of charm and skill. Emma, too, had shown herself a clever advocate. Individually, each could have mounted a more persuasive argument than Strang the Dane. Together, they were formidable. Gervase was troubled.

  ‘They were too plausible,’ he ventured. ‘Too good to be true.’

  ‘The lady Emma was true enough,’ said Ralph through a mouthful of pastry. ‘As large as life and twice as beautiful.’

  ‘I think they were hiding something.’

  ‘What could it be?’

  ‘Only time will tell.’

  ‘Hamelin was more affable than the Dane,’ noted Hubert, ‘but the affability was worn for our benefit. Another face greets those who dare to trespass on what he believes is his land.’

  ‘Who do you believe, Hubert? Strang or Hamelin?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘You think they are both lying?’

  ‘No, my lord. I think it would be foolish to make a judgement before we have examined all four claimants. Querengar would seem to have a more slender case, and we do not even know what the Archdeacon of Gwent is going to argue, but both deserve to be given the same opportunities as their rivals.’

  ‘That is ever our policy. Let all speak before a verdict is reached.’

  He drained his cup. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘perhaps this Querengar will also produce a wondrous wife to brighten up our day.’

  Simon gulped. ‘She would only darken mine.’

  ‘One thing is certain. Abraham the Priest will come alone.’

  ‘Do not be so sure, Ralph,’ teased Gervase. ‘Some of the older Welsh clergy are married. Idwal is.’

  Ralph choked on his last pastry. ‘That name again!’

  ‘He spoke very fondly of his wife.’

  ‘What kind of woman would marry someone like that?’ asked Ralph incredulously. ‘It defies logic. She must have one eye, no teeth and swing from the trees by her tail!’

  ‘That is ungentlemanly,’ reproved Gervase.

  ‘Priests should be celibate,’ said Hubert seriously. ‘It is quite disgusting for them to have carnal relations with a woman.’

  Ralph was jocular. ‘It all depends on the woman, Hubert. When you saw someone as gorgeous as the lady Emma sitting before you, I suspect that even you began to regret your vow of chastity.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’

  ‘Nor did I!’ murmured Simon.

  ‘No urgent little twitch beneath your cowls?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Fleshly desire is beyond my ken,’ insisted Hubert.

  ‘The lady Emma will be disappointed,’ mocked Ralph. He looked up as one of his men came into the hall. ‘Ah, it seems that Querengar has arrived. Let us start anew, my friends. Take your places.’ The other three returned to their seats and Ralph waved to his knight. ‘Is the Breton alone?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘No wife, no concubine?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Send him in while we master our regret.’

  Hubert reprimanded him for his levity but Ralph took no notice.

  Resuming his own seat, he consulted the papers before him and waited for the arrival of the third claimant. It was a lengthy wait and Ralph became restive. He was about to go in search of Querengar when the man finally entered. The delay was explained at once. While Strang had marched and Hamelin had glided, Querengar had to drag himself into the shire hall on his crutches.

  One leg heavily bandaged and dangling uselessly, he made his way with painful slowness to the bench in front of them. They could see the effort that it cost him.

  Gervase leaped up and went forward to help him but Querengar brushed him away with a shake of the head. He was too proud to accept any assistance. A short, compact man, he was shrunk by his injury into an almost dwarfish shape. Each of the commissioners felt a sharp tug at their sympathy. Lowering himself gingerly on to the bench, the newcomer set his crutches aside and turned a wizened face up to the table.

  ‘I am Querengar the Breton,’ he said firmly. ‘I expect justice.’

  It was not until dinner was over that Brother Frewine was able to slip away on his errand. Having eaten a frugal meal of fish, vegetables, cheese and milk, the Precentor left the refectory and made his way to the cell vacated by the untimely death of Brother Nicholas. When he reached the door, he paused out of respect rather than fear, halted by the grim thought that he would never again see alive the monk whose corpse lay in the morgue awaiting burial. Death had robbed him of any personal reservations he had about Nicholas. Frewine mourned him like a brother.

  Letting himself into the little room, he gazed sadly around it.

  Built of stone, it was cool in summer but icy in winter; there was no source of heat. The ceiling was low, the floor sunken. All that the cell contained by way of furniture was a small table, a s
tool and a rough mattress. A crucifix stood on the table, its shadow magnified on the wall behind it by the shaft of light which came in through the little window. It was a bleak room but contained all that a monk would need. Frewine wondered if it might also contain something unsanctioned by the Benedictine Rule. Brother Nicholas would not be the first monk to harbour forbidden items in his private abode.

  His search began on the ceiling then moved to the walls.

  Frewine’s old fingers probed for loose masonry or chance crevices.

  None could be found. Lowering himself to his knees, he began to grope around the floor of the cell, wishing that there was more light to assist him. What he could see was that the place had been only superficially swept. A thick layer of dust was largely untouched in some areas of the room. It was especially noticeable at the foot of the bed and he brushed it away with his hand to reveal something which had been invisible before. The floor was scored with parallel lines as if the mattress had been dragged out from the wall and replaced again many times.

  Frewine’s curiosity was set alight. Grabbing the edge of the mattress, the Precentor eased it into the centre of the room then walked to the end which had been pressed against the wall.

  Nothing unusual presented itself. The section of wall now uncovered was as bare and uneven as the rest. A spider was scurrying across it on long legs. It was only when Frewine began to explore with his fingers that he noticed something suspicious.

  One of the stones in the wall was protruding slightly, allowing him to get a purchase on it. When he jiggled it to and fro, he got more and more movement until it suddenly popped away from the wall altogether. He was right. Brother Nicholas did have a hiding place after all.

  Frewine set the stone down and reached inside the cavity until his hand closed on something soft and pliable. When he extracted it, the object was much heavier than it had felt at first. Holding it on one palm, he shook it slightly and heard the telltale chink.

  He did not know whether to be pleased that his instinct had been sound or shocked by the nature of his discovery. It gave him something to think about as he hurried off to report to Abbot Serlo.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Did you explain this to the first commissioners who visited the county?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was unfit to travel,’ said Querengar, indicating his wounded leg. ‘The accident happened only days before your predecessors arrived. I sent my reeve to the shire hall to represent me.’

  ‘Unsuccessfully.’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘Did you berate him?’ asked Ralph, remembering that Hamelin of Lisieux had seen fit to dismiss his own reeve for his inability to win ratification from the earlier commissioners. ‘Is he still in your employ?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You bear him no ill will?’

  ‘Why should I? He did his best.’

  ‘Yet he failed.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said the Breton. ‘My reeve must have made some impression or I would not be given this second chance to attest my claim. The fate of those hides in the Westbury Hundred remains in the balance.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Until I persuade you who has the moral right to them.’

  ‘The moral right?’ echoed Canon Hubert.

  ‘Moral and legal,’ said Querengar, ‘though I’m sure that you will agree with me, Canon Hubert, that all law should have a moral basis.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘I knew that you would appreciate that.’

  He gave a little nod of gratitude. Querengar the Breton was an enigma. Unlike the two claimants already questioned, he said nothing to the detriment of his rivals. Where the testy Strang had fulminated and the urbane Hamelin had airily dismissed, Querengar made no mention of the others, preferring simply to state his own case to the commissioners and to rely on their estimation of its worth. He was a curiously modest man, one of the many Breton mercenaries who had fought at Hastings and been repaid with grants of land in England and, in his instance, in Wales. Yet there was nothing boastful or belligerent about him. He spoke with quiet authority.

  Ralph Delchard looked down at the bandaged leg.

  ‘How serious was your wound?’ he asked.

  ‘Very serious, my lord. I all but lost my leg.’

  ‘Where did you come by it?’

  ‘A hunting accident.’

  ‘Were you hunting your lost hides, by any chance?’

  ‘No,’ said Querengar. ‘Wild boar. I have limited hunting privileges in the forest and try to make the most of them. My horse was startled by something and threw me. I fell awkwardly.’

  ‘You are not the only person to appear before us with a wound.

  Strang the Dane stripped his sleeve to show us a battle scar from a visit to the Westbury Hundred. According to him, it was inflicted by men in the service of Hamelin of Lisieux.’

  ‘They were not involved in my accident, my lord.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Unless they lay in the bushes to frighten my horse.’

  ‘Strang thought your claim worthless,’ said Gervase, trying to gauge his opinion of the Dane. ‘He shrugged it off completely.’

  ‘He is entitled to do so.’

  ‘It does not annoy you?’

  ‘No, Master Bret. Nor does it goad me into angry words about him. I am conscious that Strang did have a legitimate right to those hides at one time. What he forgot to tell you was that they were subsequently taken from him and granted to me.’

  ‘Hamelin of Lisieux makes an identical claim.’

  ‘Have you no abuse to unload on him?’ said Ralph.

  Querengar smiled wryly. ‘None that could compare with what Strang will already have offered. He has a sharper tongue and a hotter temper than me. Let them rail at each other. I refuse to engage in a war of words with either of them.’

  ‘What about Abraham the Priest?’ asked Gervase.

  A long pause. ‘Is he involved here?’

  ‘Did you not realise that?’

  ‘No, Master Bret.’

  ‘Hamelin of Lisieux did.’

  ‘He has friends in high places. Nigel the Reeve is one of them.’

  ‘You seem surprised to hear the archdeacon’s name.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Could he have a genuine claim to the land?’

  ‘Only he can tell you that.’

  ‘But you are sceptical?’

  ‘The only claim which concerns me is my own, Master Bret. As for the Archdeacon of Gwent,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘he will certainly fight tooth and nail for what he believes may be his.’

  ‘Not another bellicose Welshman!’ groaned Ralph.

  ‘A civilised fellow. You will like him, my lord.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘What of you?’ said Gervase. ‘Do you like Abraham the Priest?’

  The wry smile. ‘It is difficult not to, Master Bret. Even when you lose an argument with him, and I have lost a few in my time.

  He is a gentle soul with a gift for persuasion. It is impossible to take offence against the man.’

  ‘Wait until I meet him!’ warned Ralph.

  ‘We are straying from the point,’ said Hubert, examining the charter which the Breton had brought for their perusal. ‘This document is similar to the one offered by Hamelin of Lisieux yet they cannot both be authentic. Which takes priority? Before we can decide that, we will need to study both charters in detail.

  Each bears the royal signature.’ He sighed. ‘It is a pity that the King is not here himself to tell us why he gave away the same land twice.’

  Ralph shot Gervase a covert look, unnoticed by the others.

  ‘If that is what he did, Canon Hubert,’ said Querengar.

  ‘Can you offer another explanation?’

  ‘No, but having met you and seen what upright men you clearly are, I am sure that you will find that explanation.’ There was no hint of flattery in
his comment. ‘What else do you wish to ask me?’

  ‘Nothing at this point,’ said Ralph, ‘but we will need to call you before us again. I take it that you are remaining in the city?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Nigel the Reeve knows where I stay.’

  ‘Then we can thank you for your testimony and bid you good day.’

  During a flurry of farewells, Querengar the Breton struggled to his feet and used the crutches to propel himself towards the door. Gervase had to control the urge to offer his help. He admired the man, not least because of his own Breton ancestry, but he felt there was something missing from Querengar’s deposition.

  Strang the Dane and Hamelin of Lisieux had said far too much.

  Their rival was more economical with his words and less grandiose in his claims. It remained to be seen how the Archdeacon of Gwent measured against the others, but that treat, it soon transpired, would have to be postponed.

  Nigel the Reeve made one of his ostentatious entrances.

  ‘I fear that I bring bad news,’ he announced, striding towards them. ‘Abraham the Priest has been unaccountably delayed and will not be here before nightfall.’

  ‘We are ready to examine him now,’ said Ralph.

  ‘That will not be feasible, my lord.’

  ‘Did you not summon him in time?’

  ‘Of course. He had ample warning.’

  ‘Yet he fails to present himself on the appointed day. What are we to make of this?’ he asked, turning to his colleagues. ‘Is this a deliberate attempt to flout our authority or is the Archdeacon of Gwent so absent-minded that he forgot that he was due in Gloucester today?’

  ‘You will have to ask him,’ suggested Nigel.

  ‘Not if it means sitting on our arses in here until it grows dark,’ said Ralph sourly, rising to his feet. ‘We will have to delay the ambiguous pleasure of making his acquaintance until tomorrow.’ He glared at Nigel. ‘See that he presents himself here when the abbey bell rings for Prime.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘If he does not, he will not be heard at all.’

  ‘I will emphasise that to him,’ said Nigel, turning to leave.

  ‘One moment,’ called Ralph, checking his departure. ‘Hamelin of Lisieux was here earlier and seemed to know that Abraham the Priest was now included in this dispute, a fact of which the other two claimants were noticeably ignorant.’