The Foxes of Warwick

Chapter Eight

The afternoon session at the shire hall gave them a severe jolt.

After such an efficient start to their deliberations that morning, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were confident that they could continue in the same vein and, with the help of colleagues who were now proven assets, build on their earlier success. It was not to be. Everything conspired against them. When the session was due to begin, Philippe Trouville was not even there, arriving late with profuse apologies but so preoccupied thereafter that he seemed in some sort of dream. Archdeacon Theobald, too, was far less effective than during his first outing, nervous, hesitant and uncharacteristically slow in grasping salient detail. The burden of the examination fell squarely on the shoulders of Ralph and Gervase.

Had the case before them been a simple one they would not have minded but it developed complexities which had not been visible when they’d first studied the documents relating to it.

Holdings which ran to several hides were being fought over by three different people, each of whom appeared to have a valid claim, but in the interval between the visit of the first commissioners and the arrival of the second team, one of the disputants had died and left a controversial will which was being hotly contested and whose provisions spilled over into the shire hall. The tribunal found itself presiding over a ferocious family battle before it could begin to address the problem of who rightfully owned the property in question.

The session was long, convoluted and increasingly tedious.

When the bell was heard ringing for vespers they were still no nearer a decision and had to adjourn the proceedings until the following day. As they gathered up their things, the commissioners were tired and jaded. Alone of the team, Brother Benedict retained his buoyancy.

‘That was intriguing,’ he said.

‘It was the apotheosis of boredom,’ groaned Ralph.

‘Surely not, my lord. All human activity has interest.’

‘I disagree.’

‘Who would have thought that such an apparently civilised group of people could descend to such violent abuse of each other? You did wonders in controlling them, my lord. The dispute itself had so many twists and turns. It was stimulating.’

‘I wish that I could say the same,’ observed Theobald drily. ‘I have to admit that I had great difficulty following those twists and turns. If Gervase had not been so sure-footed a guide, I would have been lost.’

‘I was myself at times,’ confessed Gervase.

‘So was I,’ said Ralph, ‘and the worst of it is that we have more of the same nonsense tomorrow. If the judgement were solely in my hands, I would divide that property into three equal parts, give one to each of the claimants, then throw them out on their ungrateful necks.’

‘That would not be kind,’ said Benedict.

‘Nor ethical,’ said Theobald.

‘Nor legally defensible,’ said Gervase.

Ralph grinned. ‘Who cares? It would give me peace of mind.’

As soon as the session ended, Trouville hurried back to the castle but the others returned at a more leisurely pace, walking through the darkened streets with their escort behind them. When they went in through the gate Theobald headed straight for the chapel but his colleagues lingered in the bailey. It was the first opportunity which Ralph had to tell Benedict about their visit to Adam Reynard’s manor house. The monk was keen to hear all the details and kept one eye on the dungeons as he did so, running a meditative hand over his bald pate and murmuring softly to himself. Though the questioning of Grimketel produced no new murder suspect, it confirmed all three men in their belief that the blacksmith was innocent of the crime.

‘I will visit him again,’ decided Benedict. ‘He is like a caged animal down in that dungeon. Alone and bewildered. It will ease his despair to know that we are working on his behalf.’

‘Not only us,’ said Gervase. ‘Asmoth is doing her share.’

‘That news will rally him the most.’

‘If you are allowed to pass it on to Boio,’ said Ralph.

‘I will be, my lord.’

‘The lord Henry may obstruct you.’

‘I can talk my way past any obstruction.’

It was a cheerful boast but it soon foundered. When the three men reached the keep the constable was waiting for them, his body rigid with anger and his eyes smouldering. Only a room as large as the hall could contain his anger and he led them to it before rounding on them with a voice like the swish of a battleaxe.

‘Hell and damnation!’ he roared, stamping a foot for emphasis.

‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’

‘Doing, my lord?’ asked Ralph innocently.

‘You went riding off to Adam Reynard’s house.’

‘Ah, you have heard.’

‘He came here in person to complain to me.’

‘I had a feeling that he might.’

‘You had no right whatsoever to interrogate him or his man.

No right, in fact, to be anywhere near his land. Why did you do it?’‘Calm yourself, my lord,’ soothed Ralph with a smile. ‘It is not as sinister as it sounds. Gervase and I found the shire hall excessively musty this morning. Needing some fresh air, we went for a ride outside the town and found ourselves on Adam Reynard’s property. It seemed foolish not to make his acquaintance when he is shortly to appear before the tribunal.

So we elected to call on him.’

‘You went there deliberately.’

‘Only to discuss this claim he is making.’

‘To question him about the murder of his kinsman.’

‘The subject came up of its own accord,’ said Ralph.

‘Oh, I see,’ countered Henry with heavy sarcasm. ‘And I suppose that Grimketel strayed in of his own accord as well? Whatever did you hope to gain by grilling him and his master?’

‘More detail, my lord,’ said Gervase.

‘The only detail which you need to know is that I have taken charge of this investigation. And I need no assistance from any of you. No assistance,’ he repeated, ‘and no unwarranted interference.’

‘Evidence came our way by chance, my lord.’

‘What evidence?’

‘Proof that the blacksmith’s alibi was not a lie,’ said Gervase.

‘The stranger with the donkey does exist. Two witnesses saw him on the road near Kenilworth on the day in question. The fellow was heading for Coventry and is liable still to be there.’

‘So?’

‘His testimony may save Boio.’

‘It will not even be admitted.’

‘But it must. The man is a crucial witness.’

‘Let him be sent for,’ suggested Benedict.

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I place no value on the word of an indigent traveller.

I know such men too well. They sneak from town to town to prey on the credulous and soft-hearted. The blacksmith shoed his donkey without payment. Out of gratitude the man will say almost anything which Boio asks him.’

‘Would you send an innocent man to his death?’ said Ralph.

‘Due process of law will be followed. All relevant witnesses will be summoned. Those who overheard the blacksmith arguing with Martin Reynard. Those who can testify to Boio’s hatred of the man. And, most important of all, the witness who saw him near the murder scene.’

‘The slimy Grimketel.’

‘His evidence is vital.’

‘I would not trust a word that man says.’

‘You do not have to, my lord,’ said Henry, glowering at him.

‘Why do you take it upon yourself to get involved here at all? You are my guests and you are flouting my hospitality. It is intolerable.

Have I tried to hinder your own work in the town?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Have I questioned your judgements at the shire hall and gone behind your back in the hope of subverting them?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then have the grace to treat me with the same respect that I show you. Devote your energies to the matters which brought you to Warwick. Stop worrying about the fate of a man you have never even met.’

‘ I have met him, my lord,’ said Benedict.

‘That, I now see, was a mistake.’

‘I offered him succour.’

‘You listened to his arrant lies.’

‘I believe him to be innocent.’

‘That is your privilege, Brother Benedict.’

‘Let me speak with him again.’

‘No!’ snapped the other.

‘But the poor man has information locked away in that slow-moving brain of his which needs to be teased out. I am the person to do it. Boio trusts me, my lord.’

‘He may do so; I do not.’

Benedict was hurt. ‘Do you doubt my integrity?’

‘I doubt your motives. From this moment on,’ he announced,

‘your involvement in the case must cease. That goes for all three of you. I have been insulted enough by your meddling. I will stand it no more. Tell me, my lord,’ he said, turning to Ralph. ‘Do you have a busy day ahead of you in the shire hall tomorrow?’

‘Very busy!’ sighed Ralph.

‘Will it leave time for rides into the countryside?’

‘I think not.’

‘Or for pointless speculation about a man on a donkey?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Good,’ said Henry with a nod of satisfaction. ‘That means all three of you will be safely out of my way while I get on with the important business of putting a murderer on trial.’

‘So soon?’ protested Gervase.

‘It is unjust, my lord,’ said Benedict.

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Boio needs more time to marshal his defence.’

Henry was contemptuous. ‘He has no defence. I have never seen a more guilty man. He will stand trial for the killing of Martin Reynard, then be convicted and sentenced. By the time you finish your day’s work in the shire hall, I will have his miserable carcass dangling from a rope.’

Both legs were free. Boio enjoyed such a sense of euphoria that he wanted to skip around in the straw to celebrate but he wisely restrained himself. Split asunder by the steady assault of his file, the fetters now lay on the floor. They had left peeled skin and ugly red weals around his ankles but he did not mind. Given the use of his legs once more, he sensed that he had a fighting chance of escape. How it could be effected, he did not yet know but he hoped that it would become clear in time. If he remained in custody, he was certain, his life was forfeit. Too many people believed him guilty. Too many actively wanted him to die, Grimketel among them, a man whom he could never bring himself to befriend and who would take pleasure in giving evidence which would help to convict him.

Boio was out of his depth. His true element was his forge. He was his own master there. He knew how to speak to the horses who came to be shoed, whispering softly to subdue them so that they did not shy when he hammered in his nails. Hauled into a court and interrogated under oath, he would be completely lost.

He did not have words enough to keep his accusers at bay. His simple plea of innocence would be swept aside.

At least they were leaving him alone. No more food had been given to him but neither had he been subjected to any more torture. The guards were biding their time. They were keeping him under lock and key until his trial and that, he feared, would be very soon. Henry Beaumont believed in swift justice. Boio had seen examples of it swinging in the wind as they hung from the gallows, condemned men displayed by way of warning. It would be his turn next. Thorkell of Warwick could not save him and neither could Ansgot the Priest. Brother Benedict showed compassion but offered no practical assistance. Only one person actually wanted to aid his escape and it was her belief in him which impelled him along and instilled boldness.

Though his arms were aching and his hands sore, he picked up the file once more. It was his only weapon. Asmoth had taught him the way to save himself. His fetters had been discarded but the manacles on his wrists remained. His file rasped away at one of the iron bands as another long and painstaking task began.

His eyes were on his work and his ears were pricked for the sound of the guards.

But his mind remained solely and devotedly on Asmoth.

When she came round the bend in the road she saw the forge ahead of her, silhouetted against the sky. Evening shadows had matured into the darkness of night but Asmoth’s eyes were accustomed to the gloom and she picked out the familiar profile of the dilapidated buildings without difficulty. Her stride lengthened. She was thirty yards or more away when she heard the sound. It stopped her in her tracks. Asmoth strained her ears to listen. It was no illusion. It was there, a steady, unvarying, repetitive banging noise. The distinctive note of the forge. For a brief second she dared to believe that Boio had somehow been released and sent back to his work. He was free. She broke into a run.

It was then that she realised there was no light in the forge, no telltale glow of fire and no clang of the anvil. The place looked deserted. What was causing the noise was the door of the forge as it was opened and shut for amusement by the wind. Asmoth slowed to a walk, reached the building, held the door wide open and peered in. Her body tensed at once and her mouth went dry.

Somebody was there. She could hear movement and sense danger.

Boio’s home had been invaded by a stranger. Her fear disappeared beneath a sudden urge to protect her friend’s property.

‘Who is there?’ she cried out.

The reply was immediate and came in the form of a snarling bundle of fur, which raced across the floor and brushed her leg as it flashed through the door. Asmoth was both startled and relieved, frightened by the creature’s departure but glad that the intruder was no more than a wildcat in search of food. Going into the forge, she bolted the door behind her then went through into the house itself. She groped around until she found a candle.

When it was lighted she set it on the little table and lowered herself into the crude chair which Boio had fashioned out of spare timber. Built to accommodate his huge frame, it was far too big for her but Asmoth was not in search of comfort. She needed reassurance. When she sat in his chair she felt safe, wanted, close to him.

Pulling her cloak around her, she closed her eyes in prayer, her words ascending to heaven like a thin but persistent wisp of smoke.

‘Do you know what else the lady Adela suggested to me?’ she asked.

‘No, my love.’

‘Are you not interested enough to listen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then stop fidgeting like that.’

‘I am not fidgeting, Golde. I am just distracted.’

‘That is all too obvious,’ she chided.

‘Do not be harsh with me.’

‘Then do not provoke me so. I thought you would want to hear.’

‘I do, my love. But not now.’

‘The lady Adela and I talked for hours.’

‘And so will we,’ promised Ralph, ‘when the time is ripe.’

Golde was peeved. She had so much to tell her husband that she did not even know where to begin. When he joined her in the privacy of her apartment, however, he was no sooner through the door than he wanted to go back out of it. Golde grabbed him and shook him hard.

‘What is the matter with you, Ralph?’

‘I have just had an idea.’

‘So have I,’ she said with playful menace. ‘My idea is that I beat you black and blue until you consent to listen to me. This concerns the lord Philippe and his first wife.’

‘I am agog to hear it, Golde.’

‘Then why will you not stay still?’

‘Because there is a man in the dungeon who will stand trial for murder tomorrow,’ he said with quiet urgency. ‘We do not believe that he is guilty of the crime and wish to help him. I have just thought of a means by which we may do so. I am sorry, my love,’ he said, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, ‘but this takes precedence over any gossip you may have picked up. Bear with me a while. When I have spoken with Gervase I will return at once to listen to all you have to say. Will this content you?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but I can see that I shall have to accept it.’

Ralph kissed her again before going off in search of Gervase.

The latter was leaving his chamber when his friend came down the steps. Ralph eased him back into the room.

‘I have just had a brilliant thought, Gervase!’

‘I’ll wager that it is the same one that struck me.’

‘Let me tell you mine first. We must have faith that this stranger with the donkey may be a valuable witness. At daybreak tomorrow, I will go in search of him.’ He beamed. ‘Did you think likewise?’

‘No, Ralph.’

‘Oh?’

‘My plan was to ride to Coventry myself while you remained at the shire hall to conduct the business of the day. Three commissioners are enough to dispatch the matter in hand, perplexing as it is. I will not be missed. Is it agreed?’

‘No, Gervase.’

‘Why not?’

‘If anyone goes it should be me.’

‘But you are our leader,’ said Gervase. ‘You are the one person who must not desert the tribunal.’

‘A lawyer’s mind is vital in the shire hall.’

‘Then I will bring it back from Coventry as fast as I can.’

‘You must stay. I will go in your stead. I am the finer horseman.’

‘The man we seek is a Saxon. I am fluent in his language.’

‘Golde will go with me as my interpreter.’

‘She would be missed at the castle and the lord Henry’s suspicions would be aroused. This must be done privily. Besides, Golde would slow you down on the journey. No, Ralph,’ he insisted, ‘this is work for me.’

‘For me. I had the notion first.’

‘Asmoth came to me with news about the man.’

They argued for several minutes before the issue was finally decided in Gervase’s favour. He would leave quietly at dawn with two of Ralph’s men as an escort and go in search of the man whose donkey had been shoed by the blacksmith.

‘Bring him back,’ said Ralph, ‘and the lord Henry will simply have to listen to his evidence.’

‘That is not the only reason to find him.’

‘What else?’

‘The man is a traveller,’ said Gervase, ‘with eyes sharpened by a life on the road. And we know that he was abroad at dawn on that day. If he skirted the Forest of Arden he might have seen something of value to us. Who knows? He may even have noticed Grimketel, off to check his snares among the trees.’

‘If that is what the wretch was actually doing!’

‘I have my doubts.’

‘And I. It seems too much of a coincidence that Grimketel should be approaching the spot where the body was found at the very moment when Boio was leaving it. Find this stranger in Coventry. Ask him exactly what he remembers of that morning.’

‘And where he spent the night before.’

‘It must have been close by.’

‘That is one of a dozen questions I have for him.’

‘Take a spare horse with you,’ advised Ralph. ‘Speed is of the essence here. He will not be able to hurry back to Warwick on a mangy donkey.’ He pursed his lips and breathed heavily through his nose. ‘I am sorry that I will not be making this journey but I wish you luck. We will just have to pray that the fellow is still in Coventry.’

‘He is, Ralph.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He has to earn money to feed himself and his beast. He will not do that on the open road, especially when it is scoured by winter. No, he is still in Coventry.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘He has to be. For Boio’s sake.’

Necessity brings together strange bedfellows. The old man was used to sharing his sleeping accommodation with his donkey but he had never before settled down for the night with a dwarf and a performing bear. All four of them were in a stable near the marketplace in Coventry. There was no light and the straw rustled noisily whenever they moved but they were warm, dry and safe.

The two men compared their takings.

‘We did well in Worcester,’ said the dwarf. ‘They liked us. We stayed there a week before they tired of our tricks. We will go back to Worcester in the summer, I fancy. You?’

‘There have been slim pickings for me, my friend.’

‘How much do you charge for your potions?’

‘Enough to keep the two of us alive and no more.’

‘You are cheating yourselves.’

‘My mission is to help others.’

‘So is mine,’ said the dwarf cheerfully. ‘We give people good entertainment. We warm them up on a cold day and send them home with something to tell their friends. A bear that turns somersaults. Ursa and I help them to enjoy themselves but we want a fair price in return.’

‘You had more than that today.’

‘Where?’

‘In the marketplace,’ said the old man. ‘I watched you as the bear danced and did tricks. People threw money into your cap.’

The dwarf was rueful. ‘It was thrown in but just as quickly taken out again by that fishmonger. Ursa went berserk. I could not control him. He broke that barrel of fish open and the man emptied my cap in payment. All our work went for nothing.’

‘That is what happens some days.’

‘I don’t know what came over Ursa.’

‘He wanted some fun.’

‘He will smell of fish for a week.’

Chewing a hunk of bread, the dwarf took a swig of water from a leather flask at his belt. He was a misshapen man with a grotesque face yet his voice was oddly melodious. The bear whined and his master took the remains of an apple from inside his tunic and fed it to him through his muzzle. Ursa chomped happily.

The donkey brayed in disapproval.

‘Tell me about this miracle,’ said the dwarf.

‘You will have to come and see it yourself.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Cure a young boy who is possessed by demons.’

‘How?’

‘With simple faith in the power of God.’

‘No sorcery involved?’

A throaty chuckle. ‘I do not reveal my secrets.’

‘Is it a trick, then?’

‘No trick. Be there tomorrow. You will see.’

‘Ursa and I will be after an audience of our own.’

‘Keep him away from fish barrels this time.’

‘I will!’

The bear had now curled up in the straw and his master lay back to use him as a pillow, nestling into the crisp fur. Propped up against a wall, the old man could just see them in the gloom.

He was struck by the sense of companionship between man and beast.

‘Are you not afraid he will hurt you?’ he said.

‘Ursa? No, we are friends. I look after him.’

‘But he was so fierce when he crushed that barrel.’

‘He is not fierce with me,’ said the dwarf, patting the animal.

‘He is as gentle as a lamb. When you get used to his stink, a bear is as good a bedfellow as anyone else. His claws have been trimmed and the muzzle keeps his jaws together. But that is only for the safety of the spectators.’ He gave a yawn. ‘Even if he had the use of his claws and his teeth, he would never turn on me.’

‘What about me?’

‘Sleep easy, old man.’

‘Can I?’

‘Ursa does not like the taste of miracle workers.’

He cackled in the darkness. The old man liked him. The dwarf was a survivor, born an outcast and doomed to wander, pointed at as a freak, wherever he went, yet he was strangely free from bitterness or complaint. In spite of his unprepossessing appearance, the bearward was a pleasant character with an inner optimism which sustained both him and his beast. A traveller was at the mercy of the weather, the geography of the terrain and the temper of the people he encountered. More than one village had driven the old man out because they suspected him of black arts. He knew that the dwarf and his bear must have endured plenty of ill treatment themselves along the way.

‘Why did it happen?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘In the marketplace. When your bear picked up that barrel you say you lost control. Why was that?’

‘He is getting old and wilful.’

‘Yet the two of you work so well together.’

‘Ursa resents that sometimes,’ said the other. ‘He gets fed up with doing the same tricks. If I turn my back he gets into mischief.’

‘Why?’

‘To strike back at me. To show me that he can do what he wants from time to time. I could have flayed him for what happened out there in the marketplace today.’

‘At least it was only a barrel of fish.’

‘That was bad enough.’

‘He crushed that big barrel as if it was made of straw. Just think what he would have done if he’d held a man in his arms. Or a child.’

‘Ursa would never do that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘He only grabbed that barrel to annoy me.’

‘I see.’

‘It is a game he plays. Causing mischief.’

‘And what other kind of mischief has he caused?’

‘Oh, all kinds,’ said the dwarf, giving the bear an affectionate slap. ‘In Worcester he kicked over a pail of milk. In a village nearby he climbed on the roof of a barn. When we went through a wood he chased the pigs and we had the swineherd after us with a stick.’ The old man laughed. ‘Hold fast to your donkey, my friend. They can be stubborn animals but they will not get you into trouble the way a bear can.’

‘What is the worst trouble he has given you?’

‘That is easily told. It was this very week, not long after we came into Warwickshire. We spent a night in the Forest of Arden,’

said the dwarf with a shiver, ‘sleeping in a ditch, shielded from the wind. When I woke up, Ursa was not there. He had wandered off in the dark. It took me an hour to find him. I was going to beat him soundly for giving me such a fright but I was so pleased to see him that I cried my eyes out. I thought I had lost him for ever,’ he whispered, caressing the bear’s arm. ‘Why did he run away from me like that?’

‘And where did he go?’ asked the old man. ‘A powerful animal, on the loose for an hour or more. He might have caused all manner of damage. I am glad that I did not bump into him. He might have hugged me to death.’

As they lay entwined in each other’s arms, Ralph and Golde talked at length about Philippe Trouville and his wife. The pair were unwelcome additions to the party. Ralph had his reservations about Canon Hubert but he far preferred the latter’s pomposity to Trouville’s boisterous self-assertion and the lady Marguerite’s haughtiness. The fact that the couple were now estranged gave Ralph a perverse satisfaction. Golde was more interested in what happened to the man’s first wife.

‘We know what happened,’ said Ralph.

‘Do we?’

‘The lady Marguerite. When she came into his life, the lord Philippe went astray. She would turn the head of any husband.’

‘Does she turn yours?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘We have been through this before.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘You are only fishing for compliments.’

‘Have you none to spare?’

He gave her a warm hug. ‘It seems that you and the lady Adela got on much better alone together.’

‘We did. She is a remarkable lady.’

‘A tolerant one too, with a husband such as hers.’

‘She worships the lord Henry.’

‘I fear that he would not settle for anything less than adoration.’

‘They are very close.’

‘That is what I was hoping to hear.’

‘There is no scandal in their marriage, Ralph,’ she warned. ‘They met, they fell in love, they married. There was no more to it than that. The lady Adela dedicates her whole life to being a good wife.’

‘Good wives are attentive to their husbands.’

‘Is that a veiled complaint against me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then what?’

‘I am simply saying that the lady Adela may be able to help us.

If you can charm the information out of her, that is.’ He pulled her close. ‘My thinking is this. The lord Henry seems very anxious to make the wheels of the law turn swiftly. Why? Does he have a reason to want Boio out of the way so quickly?’

‘I can hardly put that question to his wife.’

‘Put one that is linked to it, Golde.’

‘What is that?’

‘Why did Martin Reynard quit his household?’

‘Has the lord Henry not told you?’

‘He has merely hinted,’ said Ralph. ‘The lady Adela may be able to furnish more detail. From what I hear, Reynard was a ladies’

man. He would never have dared to flirt with the lady Adela but he was certain to have courted her favour. Find out what she knows about him.’

‘I do not see how this will help.’

‘Gervase and I have only been looking at the alleged murderer so far. It is time to examine the victim more clearly. The lord Henry wants this whole matter dispatched with indecent haste so that it can be forgotten. Martin Reynard may be the key to our understanding.’

‘How?’

‘The reason he left the household here may be the same reason which got him killed. Will you do this for me, Golde?’

‘I will try.’

‘It will have to be tomorrow. As early as possible.’

‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, my love. We must try everything.’

‘Is it so important to save this man?’

Ralph took Golde in his arms and looked seriously into her puzzled eyes.

‘What would you do if I was wrongfully accused?’

‘Anything in my power,’ she answered warmly.

‘The principle is the same here.’

When midnight came the guards in the dungeons were relieved by two of their colleagues. The newcomers did not look forward to their term of duty in the dank corridor. Before they settled down, they checked on their solitary prisoner, unlocking his door and thrusting a torch into the cell to cast a dancing light on him.

Boio was fast asleep in a corner, curled up in the straw like an animal, apparently still fettered and manacled.

‘Shall we wake him up for sport?’ said one man.

‘Let him sleep,’ said the other. ‘It is his last night on earth.’

‘We will need a thick rope to stretch that neck.’

‘Forget about him until tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘The night holds other pleasures for you first.’

They exchanged a coarse laugh then went out again, locking and bolting the door before putting a stool apiece either side of the brazier. They held their palms over the flames then rubbed them.

‘I will need warm hands for my office,’ said the smirker.

‘She will warm your hands, feet and pizzle.’

‘I will glow in the dark.’

‘Do not leave me alone here all night.’

‘Rutting must not be rushed.’

‘Have your fill of it, Huegon, but be back well before dawn.’

‘I will.’

‘And make sure you are not seen.’

‘Have I ever been caught in the past?’

‘No. You blend with the night.’

Huegon smirked again. ‘I blend with my mistress.’

‘I will look for the wicked smile on her face tomorrow.’

They chatted amiably for a long time until Huegon felt it was safe to leave his post. If he were caught, the penalty would be severe but the risk was well worth it. The comely wench who awaited him could not be denied. He went up the stairs, let himself out and looked around the bailey. It was empty and windswept. Sentries were posted on the ramparts but their gaze was turned outward. They did not notice the shadowy figure who ran nimbly across the grass. Huegon was still smirking as he went into the keep.

Hunched over the brazier in the dungeon, his companion remained at his post and tried to fend off envy. There had been other nights when he had been the one to take his pleasure while Huegon stayed on guard. Each man helped the other. To pass the time he took a coil of rope from a hook on the wall and amused himself by plaiting it into a noose, holding it up to inspect it and imagining the huge body of the blacksmith twitching impotently in the air.

A scuffling sound took his attention to the floor and he saw a rat darting past. He hurled the rope at it but the animal had vanished into the drain. Drawing his dagger, the man set it on the table so that he could have it to hand if the rat returned but the creature had somewhere else to go. Time passed and fatigue set in. The tedium of his work added to the man’s drowsiness and he eventually dropped off to sleep.

An hour slid past. He was snoring quietly when the noise started. The clang was muffled but it brought him instantly awake.

When he rose to his feet the noise suddenly stopped. He gave a shrug and decided that the prisoner was merely rattling his chains in despair. Then he smelled the smoke. At first he thought it came from the brazier but his gaze soon turned to the door of Boio’s cell. Smoke was rising from beneath it. The guard flew into a panic. If there was a fire in the cell the prisoner would be burned alive and he would be held responsible. Fearful of opening the door alone, he was afraid not to do so. To summon help would be to admit that he condoned Huegon’s desertion of his post. He had to deal with the emergency himself.

Grabbing his dagger, he rushed to draw the bolts and unlock the door of the cell. Smoke was now thickening. When he pushed open the door he saw that straw had been piled up behind it and that it was smouldering. Before the guard could decide what to do, firm hands seized him and flung him so hard against the wall of the cell that his helm was dislodged and all the breath was knocked out of him. When he looked up in wonderment at a prisoner who was no longer manacled and fettered, a mighty forearm swung and knocked him senseless.

Boio moved quickly, stamping out the fire then fetching a bucket of water to dowse its last flickers. The guard was alone but he would call for help when he became conscious again. Seeing the coil of rope outside, Boio used it to tie the man up, tearing a strip from his own tunic to act as a gag. When the guard was securely bound, the prisoner locked him in the cell and threw the key into the drain. In his hand was the file which had eaten its way through his bonds then was used to create the sparks which ignited the straw. He held it tight. It was his talisman.

The bailey was in pitch darkness when he emerged furtively into the fresh air. Overpowering the guard had been simple enough but escape from the castle would be more difficult, even though he had been there a number of times and had a good knowledge of its design. The gates were locked and sentries were posted.

Boio was trapped. He lay behind the cover of the slope and cudgelled his brains until an idea finally seeped out of them.

With luck it might work.

A smile spread slowly in the darkness.

Only a token guard was on duty throughout the night. Attack was not feared because the county was quiescent and far too distant from the Welsh border to attract raiding parties. Yet sentries were strictly maintained by Henry Beaumont, partly as a means of training his garrison to remain alert and partly to supply the gates with porters in the event of unexpected nocturnal visitors.

Two men were on the rampart at the southern end of the castle but they did not stay there. Pinched by the cold and jaded by the dullness of their task, they slipped down to the guardhouse at the base of the wall to steal some rest. Its open door allowed one of them to keep an eye on the bailey.

‘How much longer until dawn?’ moaned the other.

‘Hours,’ said the watchful one.

‘I hate sentry duty, even in summer.’

‘Do not let the lord Henry hear you say that. He believes that it is good for discipline and does wonders for the soul.’

‘Why is he not out here with us then?’

‘There is an easy answer to that.’

‘Yes, he lies abed with the lady Adela and-’

‘Stay!’ interrupted the other.

He stepped quickly outside and scanned the bailey. His friend followed him out. It was as dark and deserted as ever.

‘I thought I saw a figure moving across the grass,’ said the first guard. ‘There is nobody there now.’

‘Perhaps you saw a ghost.’

‘I thought it might be that lunatic monk.’

‘Brother Benedict?’

‘He goes to the chapel at all hours of the night. It may have been him. Or nobody at all. Fancy sometimes plays tricks with my eyes. Let us go back inside away from this wind.’

They stepped back into the guardhouse but their respite did not last long. The sound of a loud splash made them start. It was as if something very heavy had dropped into the river outside.

One of them took a torch from its holder and they scrambled up the steps to the rampart. Looking over the wall, they stared down at the water, convinced that someone had jumped from the castle into the river.

‘Call the others,’ said the man with the torch.

‘Who but a madman would go swimming in this weather?’

‘We will find out. Call them. I will open the gate.’

More men were summoned and extra torches were brought.

They went running through the gate and over the bridge to the other side of the river, moving along the bank to see if anyone was trying to clamber up it. An uneventful night had at last delivered some interest for them. They were so caught up in the excitement of their search that they did not see the burly figure who stole out through the open gate, crossed the bridge and trotted off in the opposite direction.

Boio was soon swallowed up in the blackness of the night.