The Foxes of Warwick

Chapter One

From the moment they set out from Winchester, he’d been in a rebellious mood. Two days in the saddle did not improve Ralph Delchard’s temper nor dispel his sense of persecution. On their third departure at dawn, he voiced his displeasure once more to Gervase Bret, who rode alongside him, body wrapped up against the biting cold and mind still trying to bring itself fully awake.

‘I am too old for this!’ moaned Ralph.

‘Age brings wisdom.’

‘If I had any wisdom, Gervase, I would have found a way to wriggle out of this assignment. I am too old and too tired to go riding across three counties in wintertime. Surely I have earned a rest by now? I should be sitting at home beside a roaring fire, enjoying the fruits of my hard work, not having my arse frozen off in deepest Warwickshire.’

‘Oxfordshire.’

‘Have we not crossed the border yet?’

‘No, Ralph. We have to get beyond Banbury first.’

‘Well, wherever we are, it is miserably cold. My blood has congealed, my body is numb, my pizzle is an icicle of despair.’ He gave an elaborate shiver. ‘Why is the King putting me through this ordeal?’

‘Because of your experience.’

‘Experience?’

‘Yes,’ said Gervase. ‘You have proved your worth time and again.

That is why the King sought you out. Whom is he to trust as a royal commissioner? Some untried newcomer who proceeds by trial and error, or a veteran like Ralph Delchard with immense experience?’

‘You are starting to sound like William himself.’

‘It is an honour to be taken into royal service.’

‘There is no honour in going abroad in this foul weather. It is a punishment inflicted upon us by a malign king. Wait until we are caught in a blizzard, as assuredly we will be sooner or later,’ he said, scanning the thick clouds with a wary eye. ‘Tell me then that it is an honour. You should be as angry as I am, Gervase.

We are both victims of the royal whim here. How can you remain so calm about it?’

‘I call my philosophy to my aid.’

‘And what does that do?’

‘Provide an inner warmth.’

‘I prefer to find that in the marital bed.’

Gervase suppressed a sigh. He was as reluctant as his friend to set out once more from Winchester but he saw no virtue in protest. A royal command had to be obeyed even if it meant leaving a young wife at home with only fond memories of their fleeting connubial bliss to sustain her through his absence. Ralph might complain but his own spouse, Golde, was riding loyally behind him and would be able to offer comfort and conversation along the way. Gervase had no such solace. The burden of separation was heavy. He was less concerned for himself, however, than he was for his beloved Alys, shorn of her husband for the first time and wondering where he might be and what dangers he might encounter.

Ralph glanced across at him and seemed to read his thoughts.

‘Are you missing Alys?’

‘Painfully.’

‘Why did you not bring her with us, Gervase?’

‘There was no question of that.’

‘She would have refused to come?’

‘I was not prepared to ask her,’ said Gervase. ‘Apart from the fact that she does not have a robust constitution and would be taxed by the rigours of the journey, I had to consider my own position. Much as I love her, I have to confess that Alys would have been a distraction.’

‘Rightly so.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘We all need a diversion from the boredom of our work.’

‘That is the difference between us, Ralph. I do not find it boring.

It is endlessly fascinating to me. We may seem only to be learning who owns what in which county of the realm but we are, in fact, engaged in a much more important enterprise.’

‘What is that?’

‘Helping to write the History of England.’

‘And freezing our balls off in the process.’

‘In years to come, scholars will place great value on our findings.

That is why I take our work so seriously and why I could not let even my wife distract me from it. Alys will be there when this is all over.’

‘So meanwhile you sleep in an empty bed.’

‘We both do.’

‘You take self-denial to cruel extremes.’

‘Yours is one way, mine is another.’

Ralph tossed an affectionate smile over his shoulder at his wife.

‘I think I made the better choice.’

‘For you, yes; for me, no.’

‘You lawyers will quibble.’

‘It’s a crucial distinction.’

‘I disagree but I’m far too cold to argue.’

Ralph gave another shiver then nudged his horse into a gentle canter. Gervase and the rest of the cavalcade followed his example and dozens of hoofs clacked on the hard surface of the road.

There were seventeen of them in all. Ralph and Gervase were at the head of the procession, with Golde and Archdeacon Theobald immediately behind them. A dozen men-at-arms from Ralph’s own retinue came next, riding in pairs and offering vital protection for the travellers, those at the rear pulling sumpter horses on lead reins. Last of all came the strange figure of Brother Benedict, a stout monk of uncertain age with a round, red face and a silver tonsure which looked more like a rim of frost than human hair.

Benedict was at once a member of the group yet detached from it, a scribe to the commissioners and a lone spirit, sitting astride a bay mare as if riding into some personal Jerusalem, eyes uplifted to heaven and hood thrown back so that his head was exposed to the wind and he could savour the full force of its venom.

Brother Simon was their customary scribe and Canon Hubert of Winchester their usual colleague but both men were indisposed, obliging Ralph and Gervase to accept deputies. Benedict, who bore the name of the founder of his monastic Order like a battle standard, replaced Simon but the more ample presence of Hubert required two substitutes. Theobald, Archdeacon of Hereford, was one of them, a tall, slim, dignified man in his fifties, already known and respected by the commissioners as a result of their earlier visit to the city, an assignment on which even Ralph looked back with pleasure since it was in Hereford that he first met Golde. His wife was delighted to befriend someone from her home town and, since the archdeacon had been visiting Winchester, she was able to stave off the tedium of travel by talking at leisure with him on their way north.

The other commissioner was due to meet them at Banbury.

‘What do we know of this Philippe Trouville?’ asked Ralph.

‘Little enough,’ said Gervase. ‘Beyond the fact that he fought bravely beside the King in many battles.’

‘That speaks well for him. I did as much myself.’

‘The lord Philippe has substantial holdings in Suffolk, Essex and Northamptonshire. I heard a rumour that he looks to be sheriff in one of those counties before too long.’

‘An ambitious man, then. That can be good or bad.’

‘In what way?’

‘It depends on his motives, Gervase.’

‘The King obviously thinks highly of him.’

‘Then we must accept him on that basis and welcome him to the commission. It will be good to have another soldier sitting alongside us. Canon Hubert has his virtues but that cloying Christianity of his makes me want to puke at times.’

‘Hubert is a devout man.’

‘That is what I have against him.’

‘Archdeacon Theobald is cut from the same cloth.’

‘By a much more skilful tailor.’ They shared a laugh. ‘I like this Theobald. We have something in common: a shared dread of that mad Welshman, Idwal, who plagued us first in Hereford and then again in Chester. Theobald told me that he was never so glad to bid adieu to anyone as to that truculent Celt. Yes,’ he added with a smile, ‘Theobald and I will get along, I know it. He is a valuable addition.’ His smile gave way to a scowl. ‘I cannot say that of our crack-brained scribe.’

‘Brother Benedict?’

‘He talks to himself, Gervase.’

‘He is only praying aloud.’

‘In the middle of a meal?’

‘The spirit moves him when it will.’

‘Well, I wish that it would move him out of my way. Benedict and I can never be happy bedfellows. He is far too holy and I am far too sinful. The worst of it is that I am unable to shock him.

Brother Simon is much more easily outraged. It was a joy to goad him.’

‘You were very unkind to Simon.’

‘He invited unkindness.’

‘Not to that degree,’ said Gervase. ‘But you may have met your match in Brother Benedict. He is here to exact retribution.’

‘If he survives the journey.’

‘What do you mean?’

Ralph jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Look at the man.

Baring his head in this weather. Inviting the wind to scour that empty skull of his. I swear that the fellow would ride naked if there were not a lady present. Benedict actually courts pain. He relishes suffering.’

‘He believes that it will enhance the soul.’

‘What kind of lunacy is that?’

Gervase smiled. ‘This may not be the place for a theological discussion.’

‘Are you saying that you agree with that nonsense?’

‘No, Ralph,’ replied the other tactfully. ‘I am simply saying that Banbury is less than a mile away and — God willing — our new colleague will be waiting there for us.’

‘Let us see what Philippe Trouville makes of this Benedict.’

‘I fear that he will be as intolerant as you.’

‘Why?’

‘Soldiers never understand the impulse to take the cowl.’

‘Who but a fool would choose to be an eunuch?’

‘I rest my case.’

They came around a bend in the road and, as the trees thinned out on their left, got their first glimpse of Banbury. Situated on a crossroads, it was a thriving village which fanned out from the church at its centre. Three mills harnessed the power of the river and served the needs of the hundred or more souls who lived in Banbury or its immediate vicinity. The spirits of the travellers were revived by the sight. The village would give them an opportunity to break their journey, take refreshment, find a brief shelter from the wind and make the acquaintance of their new colleague. Anticipation made them quicken their pace.

Ralph was eager to meet Philippe Trouville and thereby acquire a companion with whom he could discuss military matters, a subject on which neither Theobald nor Benedict could speak with any interest or knowledge. Notwithstanding his skill with sword and dagger, Gervase too had no stomach for reminiscences about past battles or arguments about the technical aspects of warfare.

Marriage to Golde may have softened Ralph in some ways but he remained a soldier at heart with a fund of rousing memories. In the new commissioner, he hoped for a sympathetic ear and a ready comprehension.

That hope was dashed the moment he set eyes on him.

‘You are late!’ complained Philippe Trouville. ‘What kept you?’

‘Frosty roads slowed us down,’ said Ralph.

‘Nimble horses make light of such problems.’

‘We made what speed we could, my lord.’

‘And forced us to sit on our hands in this godforsaken hole!’

It was an odd remark to make when they were outside a church but Ralph let it pass without challenge. Sitting astride his destrier, Philippe Trouville was waiting for them with six men-at-arms and a pulsing impatience. He was a big, hefty, black-eyed man in helm and hauberk, with a fur-trimmed cloak to keep out the pinch of winter. His face was pitted with age and darkened with anger.

His voice had a rasping authority.

‘Let us set forth at once!’ he ordered.

‘We looked to rest for a while,’ said Ralph.

‘You have delayed us long enough.’

‘That was unavoidable.’

‘We must press on.’

Ralph stiffened. ‘I will make that decision, my lord,’ he said firmly. ‘I bid you welcome and invite you to join us but you must do so on the clear understanding that it is I who will control the timing and the speed of our movements. I am Ralph Delchard and you should have been instructed that I am the arbiter here.’

He lifted an arm to signal to the others. ‘Dismount and take your ease.’

Trouville glowered in silence and remained in the saddle while the travellers got down from their horses. When Ralph introduced the other members of his party, the new commissioner was barely civil, managing a rough politeness when he met Golde but lapsing into undisguised contempt when Theobald and Benedict were presented to him. The archdeacon accepted the rebuff with equanimity but the scribe glowed with sudden benevolence.

‘I forgive you this unwarranted bluntness, my lord,’ he said.

‘When you come to know us better you will appreciate our true worth and set a higher value on our acquaintance.’

‘Do not preach at me!’ warned Trouville.

‘I merely extend the hand of Christian fellowship.’

‘Crawl back to your monastery where you belong.’

‘I have been called to render assistance to your great work and I do so willingly, my lord. You will find me able and quick-witted.’

‘I have no time for canting monks!’

‘God bless you!’ said Benedict with a benign smile as if responding to a rich compliment. ‘And thank you for your indulgence.’

Ever the diplomat, Archdeacon Theobald took him by the sleeve and detached him with a mild enquiry, leaving Trouville to mutter expletives under his breath before turning to bark an order to one of his men.

‘Ask my lady to join us!’

The soldier dismounted and crossed to a nearby cottage.

‘Your wife travels with you?’ said Ralph in surprise.

‘I would not stir abroad without her.’

‘It is so with me,’ said the other, sensing a point of contact at last. ‘Golde is indispensable. When she is not at my side I feel as if a limb has been hacked off. I am only happy when she is here.’

‘That is not the case with me,’ grumbled Trouville. ‘I would prefer to travel alone but my wife insists on riding with me. It is one of the perils of marriage but it must be borne.’

‘I do not see it as a peril.’

‘You are not wed to Marguerite.’

At that precise moment, the soldier stood back from the door of the cottage to allow a short, bulbous woman of middle years to come bustling out, her face, once handsome, now cruelly lined with age and puckered with disapproval, her body swathed in a cloak which failed to keep out the cold entirely and which, framing her features, accentuated the curl of her lip even more. Ralph could see at a glance that she was a potent woman with, no doubt, a demanding tongue and he even found himself feeling vaguely sorry for Trouville, imagining without much difficulty the lacerating encounters in the bedchamber which the man must endure, and deciding that they were the reason for his unrelieved surliness. But his conclusions, he soon discovered, were far too hasty.

‘Hurry up, Heloise!’ bellowed Trouville.

The woman who scurried across to her waiting palfrey was not the wife at all but Heloise, her maidservant and companion, a subordinate figure in the entourage yet one who exuded visibly the strong opinions she was not entitled to voice in company and who was not abashed by the presence of a troop of armed men, even the most lustful of whom was deterred from ribald comment by her forbidding appearance. There was a long pause before Philippe Trouville’s wife came out of the house as if she had deliberately been keeping them waiting in order to heighten their interest and assure complete attention from her audience.

The lady Marguerite was as unlike Heloise as it was possible to be. She was young, graceful and possessed of the kind of dazzling beauty which would make a saint catch his breath and consider whether his life had been quite as well spent as he believed.

Her cloak and wimple in no way diminished her charms. Indeed, they seemed to blossom before the watching eyes like snowdrops sent to hurry winter on its way and presage spring. Though almost thirty years younger than her husband, she was no innocent child sacrificed to a grotesque marriage by uncaring parents but a creature of poise and maturity with a haughtiness in her gaze which could unsettle the most strong-willed of men. Trouville immediately dismounted to draw her into the group and perform brief introductions. Marguerite surveyed them with a glacial indifference. It changed to mild curiosity when she saw Golde but reverted to disdain when she realised that Ralph’s wife was a Saxon. Golde was taken aback by the woman’s blatant rudeness.

‘Could you not wed a Norman lady?’ Marguerite asked him.

‘I could and I did, my lady. She died, alas.’

‘So you married a Saxon in her stead?’

‘I married the woman I love,’ said Ralph proudly.

Golde thanked him with a smile but Marguerite smouldered.

‘Why do we dawdle here?’ she snapped. ‘Let me ride away from this hateful place. I only stepped into that cottage to get warm but the stink of its occupants was a high price to pay for the comfort of their fire. Low-born Saxons have no self-respect. Take me out of here, Philippe.’

‘I will, Marguerite.’

‘When we have rested the horses,’ said Ralph.

‘Am I to be kept here against my will?’ demanded Marguerite.

‘There is nothing to prevent you from riding on ahead, my lady.’

‘Then that is what we will do.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said her husband, bowing to caution. ‘We will be travelling through dangerous countryside and need more protection than six men-at-arms can offer. Winter makes outlaws more desperate. Tarry awhile and we ensure safety.’

‘I wish to leave now, Philippe,’ she insisted.

‘The delay will not be long.’

‘Banbury depresses my soul.’

‘It uplifts mine,’ said Benedict cheerfully. ‘This church is a beacon of joy in the wilderness. It is a pleasure to linger here and feel God’s presence. Reach out to Him, my lady,’ he advised Marguerite, beaming familiarly at her and exposing huge teeth.

‘Let the touch of the Almighty bring you peace and happiness.’

Philippe Trouville glared at him, his wife stifled a retort and the teak-faced Heloise snorted with derision but the monk was unmoved by their hostile response. Ralph exchanged a worried glance with Gervase.

There would be a long and uncomfortable ride ahead of them.

When they crossed the county boundary into Warwickshire, there was at first no discernible change in the landscape. Woodland then began to recede and, as they traversed the Feldon, they found themselves in a region which was heavily cultivated. Open-field strip holdings were now rimed with frost and lush pasture was deserted and hidden beneath a white blanket but the party was conscious of riding through an expanse of fertile soil. With few trees to protect them and no friendly contours to shield them, the cavalcade was largely exposed to the elements and, for the most part, deprived of the urge to converse, unless it be to mouth some fresh protest about the weather. Brother Benedict, riding once more at the rear of the column, was the singular exception, a grinning flagellant who revelled in the whiplashes of the wind and whose voice rose above its howl in a high and melodious chant. Only a blinding snowstorm would have increased his joy.

Ralph Delchard had never been so glad to spy a destination.

Light was fading badly when the town finally came into view and he could only see it in hazy outline but it had a stark loveliness to him. Set in the Avon valley, Warwick had grown up beside the river itself to become the largest community in the shire. It was almost twenty years since he had last visited the place, travelling on that occasion as a member of the Conqueror’s punitive army and pausing there long enough to see its castle being raised, its town walls strengthened and the additional fortification of an encircling ditch being dug. The closer they got, the more anxious Ralph became to renew his acquaintance with the town and rediscover the lost pleasures of eating, drinking and relaxing in warm surroundings.

Golde was now riding beside him at the head of the shivering procession. As Warwick emerged from the gloom ahead of them, she found her tongue again.

‘At last!’ she said with a weary smile. ‘I was beginning to think that we would never get there.’

‘I am sorry that you have had to endure such a ride, my love.’

‘Being with you makes the discomfort bearable.’

‘I still feel guilty that I brought you here,’ he said solicitously.

‘It might have been better for you to stay in Hampshire. On a day like this, the only sensible place to be is behind closed doors.’

‘I have no complaints,’ she said bravely.

‘I do, Golde. It would take an hour to list them all.’ He looked back over the long column which snaked behind them. ‘I just wish that I could have provided some amenable companions to divert you from the misery of the ride.’

‘Nobody could have been more amenable than the archdeacon.

We have talked for hours on end about Hereford. And Brother Benedict has always made some cheerful comment whenever we broke our journey.’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph with a roll of his eyes. ‘Brother Benedict thrives on adversity. He would make cheerful comments during a tempest. But I was not referring to him nor to the good archdeacon.

I was thinking of that eccentric trio who joined us at Banbury. It is difficult to decide which of them is the most objectionable -

the bellowing husband, the supercilious wife or that she-dragon who rides with them.’

‘The lady Marguerite is very beautiful.’

‘Her beauty is not matched by good breeding, my love. I will never forgive her the contempt she dared to display in front of you. Had she been a man, I would have buffeted her to the ground and demanded an apology. The lady Marguerite is a terrible imposition.’

‘She clearly views us as an imposition upon her.’

‘How does her husband put up with the woman?’

Golde’s eyes twinkled. ‘I would rather ask how she tolerates him.’

Ralph grinned before twisting in his saddle to stare back at the couple in question. Flanked by their men-at-arms, Philippe Trouville and his wife were riding in the middle of the cavalcade with Heloise directly behind them, all three sunk deep into a bruised silence as they nursed individual grievances about the journey. A warm fire might soon thaw them out but Ralph suspected that it would not make them in any way more agreeable.

Warwick was gated to the north, east and west but they approached from the south, which had the extra defences of river and castle. As soon as they clattered across the wooden bridge and entered the fortress, their situation improved markedly. Lookouts had warned the constable of their imminent arrival and Henry Beaumont was in the courtyard to give them a cordial welcome. The horses were stabled, the men-at-arms taken off to their quarters and the commissioners conducted to the hall with their wives and their scribe. Though a crackling fire lit up the room and filled it with a smoky heat, the lady Marguerite insisted on being shown to her apartment and Trouville, hovering between curiosity about his host and marital duty, eventually succumbed to the latter and excused himself before following his wife and Heloise out. The atmosphere seemed to brighten instantly.

‘You must be hungry after such a long ride,’ suggested Henry.

‘We are, my lord,’ said Ralph, noting that the long table had been set for a meal. ‘Hungry and thirsty.’

‘The cooks are busy in the kitchen and we have wine enough to satisfy any appetite.’

‘Water will suffice for me, my lord,’ said Benedict with studied piety. ‘Dry bread and cold water is all that I crave.’

‘That will hardly keep body and soul together,’ said Henry.

‘I will be happy to discuss the relationship of body to soul. The renowned St Augustine has much to say on the subject and the words of Cardinal Peter Damiani should also be quoted.’

‘Not by me, Brother Benedict,’ warned his host. ‘I am no theologian and I look to offer livelier conversation to my guests.’

‘What is more lively than a discussion of life itself?’

‘Take the matter up at another time,’ suggested Ralph quickly, keen to relegate the monk to a more junior position. He turned to Henry. ‘We are deeply grateful to you, my lord. Nothing would be more welcome than a restorative meal. When they have shaken the dust of the highway from their feet, I am sure that the lord Philippe and his lady will consent to join us. There has been little opportunity for refreshment on the way.’

‘How long do you plan to stay in Warwick?’ enquired Henry.

‘Gervase here would be the best judge of that.’

‘It is difficult to set a precise time, my lord,’ said Gervase, taking his cue. ‘When I first examined the disputes which have brought us here, I thought that we might be able to resolve them in little more than a week. But experience has taught us that these things can drag on to inordinate lengths. Unforeseen events sometimes cause irritating delays. I fear that we may well be forced to trespass on your hospitality for a fortnight or three weeks at least.’

‘Stay as long as you wish,’ said Henry with feigned affability.

‘My castle is at your disposal and the town reeve will do all he can to speed up the progress of your deliberations. It is just unfortunate that you arrive at this particular moment.’

‘Why so, my lord?’ asked Archdeacon Theobald.

‘A callous murder has disturbed the calm of Warwick.’

‘This is grim news. Who was the victim?’

‘A poor wretch called Martin Reynard.’

‘Reynard?’ echoed Gervase with interest. ‘Is that the same Martin Reynard who is reeve to Thorkell of Warwick?’

‘He is, Master Bret.’

‘We were to have called him before us as a witness.’

‘You arrive too late to do that, I fear. I could wish that you had come even later, when this whole business had been tied up and the town had been cleansed of the stain of homicide. But, alas,’

he said with a shrug, ‘it was not to be. I can only apologise that you have walked unwittingly into the middle of a murder investigation.’

‘It will not be the first time, my lord,’ noted Ralph, with a knowing glance at Gervase. ‘Do you know who committed this crime?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Has the villain been apprehended?’

‘My men are on their way to arrest him at this very moment.’

Working by the light of his forge, Boio the Blacksmith held the red-hot horseshoe on his anvil and shaped it expertly with well-placed strikes of his hammer. He was a big bear of a man with rounded shoulders and bulging forearms yet there was a gentleness in his bearded countenance that amounted almost to a kind of innocence. Though he was proficient at his trade, he practised it with a sense of reluctance as if unwilling to inflict violence upon anything, even if it was merely base metal. Boio held the horseshoe up to inspect it then gave it one more tap with the hammer before plunging the object into a wooden pail of water. Steam hissed angrily. The blacksmith ignored its spite.

He was about to shoe the horse when he heard the thunder of hoofbeats. Boio, listening to the sound and counting at least half a dozen riders, wondered why they should be coming so swiftly in his direction at that time of the evening. The visitors halted outside his forge and dismounted before rushing in to confront him. Boio recognised them as members of the castle guard but he was given no chance to ask them what their business was.

Their captain was peremptory.

‘Seize the murderer!’

Four men leaped on Boio, forcing him to drop his hammer, tongs and horseshoe. He made no effort to resist as they pinioned his arms. He turned a baffled look upon the captain.

‘I am no murderer!’ he pleaded.

‘Be silent!’

‘Has someone been killed?’

‘You know he has, Boio.’

‘But not by me. I am innocent, I swear it.’

‘Take him out!’ snarled the captain.

‘What am I supposed to have done?’

By way of an answer, one of the men used the hilt of his sword to club the blacksmith to the ground. It took four of them to drag him out and throw him across a packhorse. When he was tied securely in position, they took him off on a painful ride to the castle dungeon, leaving a thin trail of blood from his scalp all the way.