The Foxes of Warwick

Chapter Five

Adam Reynard was waiting impatiently for Grimketel’s return.

He was a big, pale-skinned, fleshy man of middle years with heavy jowls and protruding eyes which gave him an almost comical appearance. When he heard the approaching hoofbeats, he hauled himself to his feet, waddled across the room to fling open the front door and peered out into the evening gloom. Grimketel dropped down from the saddle of his borrowed horse and came trotting obediently across to him.

‘I expected you back sooner than this,’ complained Reynard.

‘I was delayed.’

‘Why?’

‘I came back the long way,’ said Grimketel with a knowing smirk. ‘Through the forest. I had someone to see.’

Reynard gave a satisfied nod and beckoned him inside. Glad to escape the chill wind, Grimketel followed his master back into the building. It was a long, low house with a thatched roof and a sunken floor. Divided into bays, it was originally the home of a Saxon thegn but was now occupied by Adam Reynard and his family. Though he was a man of property, his holdings were scattered far and wide throughout the county, a source of continual regret to a man whose corpulence needed a larger setting than the few hides on which he actually resided.

Spreading his bulk in front of the fire, he rubbed his buttocks with podgy hands and looked at his visitor with anticipatory pleasure.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘He is gone.’

‘Dead and buried?’

‘Six feet under the ground,’ said Grimketel. ‘I watched them lower the coffin into the grave and stayed until they began to cover it with earth. Martin Reynard is a rotting corpse.’

‘Good.’

‘You will have no more trouble from him.’

‘I need not have had trouble at all if the fool had remembered that he was my kinsman. Blood is thicker than water. Martin should have known where his true loyalties lay. Instead of which,’

he said, moving a step forward as the heat from the fire grew too 56

The Foxes of Warwick

strong, ‘he preferred to serve that old fool Thorkell of Warwick.

No doubt he was at the funeral.’

‘He was,’ said Grimketel ruefully, ‘and he let me know it.’

‘Harsh words?’

‘He called me vile names.’

‘Thorkell has a ripe tongue when he chooses.’

‘And he made threats against you.’

‘Not for the first time,’ said Reynard with a contemptuous laugh.

‘Well, I have lived with his displeasure for years and I will increase it when I take that property away from him. Thorkell will really have good reason to curse me then.’ He scratched his belly. ‘What did you find out about the commissioners?’

‘They are four in number.’

‘Their names?’

‘Ralph Delchard is their leader,’ said Grimketel, giving information he had taken great care to remember. ‘Seated alongside him will be Philippe Trouville, Theobald, Archdeacon of Hereford, and a Gervase Bret.’

‘I like the sound of these,’ said the other complacently. ‘Thorkell will find little favour there. Norman judges prefer a Norman landholder.’

‘Do not be so sure of that, master.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They are serious men who strive to be impartial.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Ednoth the Reeve.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘To beware of the young lawyer,’ said Grimketel, shivering slightly and wishing that his master would not hog the fire. ‘Ednoth has taken their measure. He said that the lord Ralph may thunder and the lord Philippe is like to bully but the one to watch is Gervase Bret. A shrewd, sharp-minded fellow who believes in the supremacy of the law.’

‘I believe in it too,’ said Reynard easily, ‘when I have the law on my side. And, in this dispute, I certainly do. I have a charter which attests my legal right to those holdings. Any lawyer will see at once that my claim is far stronger than that of Thorkell of Warwick.’

‘But he is not your only rival here,’ Grimketel reminded him.

‘He is the only one of consequence.’

‘What of the Bishop of Lichfield?’

‘Another grasping prelate.’

‘Ednoth told me that the bishop also has a charter.’

‘I am sure that he does,’ sneered Reynard, ‘but I am equally sure that it is a forgery. The bishop has no legitimate claim to that property. He is simply trying to build up his holdings in the county. It is rumoured that he acquired land to the north of Coventry with a forged charter but he will not succeed here. Nor will Thorkell,’ he said with a dark chuckle. ‘Now that he has lost the persuasive voice of his reeve. My kinsman cannot help him from beyond the grave.’

‘No, master.’

‘What news of Boio?’

‘Arrested and thrown into a castle dungeon.’

‘Have they beaten a confession out of him yet?’

‘I do not know.’

‘They will, they will.’

‘Thorkell was enraged by the loss of his blacksmith.’

‘He will be even more upset when Boio is hanged.’

Grimketel sniggered. ‘If they find a rope strong enough.’

‘Everything works to our advantage here.’

‘Hopefully.’

‘A celebration may soon be in order,’ he decided, clapping his hands together. ‘A small banquet with close friends. A special dish to grace the table. I think you know what that will mean?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Grimketel.

And the two of them went off into peals of laughter.

When Gervase and Benedict returned to the castle, the first person whom they sought out was Ralph Delchard. He listened to them with a mixture of interest and irritation, fascinated by what they told him but annoyed that he was not involved in the discovery itself.

‘Why did you not take me with you?’ he said.

‘Because we were not certain if we would find anything,’

explained Gervase Bret. ‘It might just as easily have turned out to be a wild-goose chase and you would not have thanked us for taking you along.’

‘True,’ conceded Ralph.

‘Besides,’ said Brother Benedict, ‘we did not have time to search for you, my lord. Shadows were already falling when we set out.

Had we delayed any longer, we might never have found our way there in the dark. As it was, we had barely enough light to see in the forge.’

‘But you found this,’ said Ralph.

He held the stone bottle up against the flame of a candle to inspect it. They were in a small antechamber in the keep, aware of the kitchen clatter through one wall and hearing, from time to time, the angry voice of Henry Beaumont coming through another.

Uncorking the bottle, Ralph had a tentative sniff and found the aroma pleasing. He replaced the little stopper and handed the bottle back to Gervase.

‘Who was this woman?’ he asked.

‘She would not give us her name,’ said Gervase. ‘And she scampered off when we tried to question her.’

‘She was a friend of the blacksmith’s?’

‘Something more than friendship was involved,’ said Benedict with a genial smile. ‘She told us that she came to the forge to clean for Boio but the place was in chaos. No busy housewife’s hand has been there in ages. I think she came to enjoy his companionship.’

‘She was distressed to hear he was being held,’ noted Gervase,

‘and it was much more than the distress of a friend or neighbour.’

‘Yet you know nothing about her?’ said Ralph.

‘I fear not.’

‘What do you intend to do now?’

‘Go to the lord Henry with this evidence,’ said Gervase.

Ralph was sceptical. ‘A stone bottle from a mysterious stranger, given to you by a woman whose name you do not even know? It is hardly conclusive evidence.’

‘It is proof that Boio was telling the truth,’ argued Benedict.

‘Possibly.’

‘It is, my lord. We simply have to convince the lord Henry of that.’

‘He does not sound in a mood to be convinced,’ said Ralph as their host’s voice was again raised in the adjacent hall. ‘I think you will need more than a stone bottle to secure Boio’s release.’

‘It may at least force the lord Henry to have second thoughts,’

said Benedict. ‘I will reason with him. He is not an ogre. I will persuade him that he has the wrong man in custody.’

Ralph pondered for a full minute before reaching a decision.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Gervase and I will tackle him. If he realises that you went off to the forge, he will not respect your cowl, Brother Benedict. Your holy ears will hear warmer words than any which have so far come through the wall. The lord Henry allowed you to talk to the prisoner in order to coax a confession out of him, not to take up his cause. Leave this to us. We are used to foul language.’

‘I am not afraid of abuse,’ said the monk happily.

‘The lord Ralph is right,’ said Gervase. ‘We must keep you out of this as much as possible, Brother Benedict. You will not be allowed near the prisoner again if it is known that you are acting in his defence.’

‘Very well!’ sighed the other. ‘But I am disappointed.’

‘This is work for us.’

‘Then I will leave you to it, Gervase, and talk to Boio’s other friend.’

‘Other friend?’

‘God,’ said the monk. ‘I will pray to Him to intercede on behalf of an innocent man. You will find me in the chapel when you need me.’

Benedict padded off and the others rehearsed what they were going to say to their host. When they were ready they knocked hard on the door which connected with the hall. Footsteps were heard coming swiftly towards it, then it was pulled open and the unwelcoming face of Henry Beaumont appeared. Seeing his guests, he composed his features into a semblance of friendliness.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘We crave a word in private,’ said Ralph.

‘Can it not wait until later?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘It concerns the murder investigation,’ said Gervase.

Henry gave a sigh of exasperation but invited them into the hall with a wave of his hand. Grateful for the interruption, the man who had been talking to his master turned to leave. Henry flicked his fingers.

‘No, stay.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The man halted obediently. Wearing helm and hauberk, he was a short, thickset individual with a livid scar down one cheek.

Ralph was unhappy about the presence of a stranger.

‘We would prefer to talk with you alone, my lord,’ he said.

‘This is the keeper of my dungeons,’ said Henry. ‘If you have anything to say concerning the prisoner, he should hear it. We have just come from interrogating the blacksmith.’

‘Did he confess?’ said Ralph.

‘No, my lord,’ said the other with a grimace. ‘We burned his arms and his chest but he hardly squealed in pain. Fire does not frighten him. He works with it every day.’

‘Do not torture him again.’

‘We must get the truth from him somehow.’

‘You already have it, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘He is innocent.’

Henry glanced at the gaoler. ‘Do you hear that? Innocent?’

The man lifted a cynical eyebrow but said nothing.

‘We have brought something to show you,’ continued Gervase.

‘When I asked Brother Benedict how he found the prisoner, he mentioned a stranger who might be able to provide the blacksmith with an alibi. This man, it seems, called at the forge at the very time when Boio is alleged to have been seen in the forest. Boio shoed his donkey for him but, since the stranger had no money to pay, he gave the blacksmith a bottle of medicine instead.’ He held up the object. ‘Here it is, my lord.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘At his forge.’

Henry flushed angrily. ‘You rode out there?’

‘I felt that it was important.’

‘How do you know that bottle was left by this stranger?’

‘There was a woman at the forge, a friend who calls there often.

She swore that it was not there when she came at the start of the week and when,’ he emphasized, ‘Martin Reynard was still alive. It must have been left in the way that Boio described.’

‘Must it?’ said Henry with disgust. ‘I am disappointed in you, Master Bret. This is feeble advocacy from a lawyer like you. All you have to go on is the word of a woman and the lie of a murderer.

They are in collusion here. How do you know that the bottle has not lain at the forge for weeks, even months?’

‘The woman was certain that it had not.’

‘Did she see this stranger give it to Boio?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Did anyone else?’

‘It appears not.’

‘Do you have any proof — beyond a stone bottle — that this man with the donkey ever existed?’

‘We have the blacksmith’s own testimony,’ said Ralph.

‘He invented the whole tale.’

‘From what I hear of him, my lord, he is not capable of that.

The poor man has difficulty stringing two or three words together.

His skill lies in his muscles not his mind. How could he make up such a story?’

Henry Beaumont flicked another glance at the gaoler, then held out his hand towards Gervase. When the bottle was passed to him, he studied it with patent misgivings.

‘This is no evidence at all,’ he said.

‘In itself, perhaps not,’ agreed Gervase. ‘But it may serve as a signpost to proof of a more secure nature. I speak of this stranger.

If he is travelling by donkey he will not have ridden by so far that he is beyond the reach of your men. Send out a posse, my lord.

Bring back this traveller and he will supply an alibi for Boio.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I sense it.’

‘Well, I sense deception.’

‘Search for the man.’

‘Where?’

‘In the neighbouring counties.’

‘Can you tell me in which direction he was riding?’

‘Unhappily, no.’

‘Then leave off. Even if this stranger exists — and I beg leave to doubt it — he may be several miles away by now. I cannot spare men to go searching for this phantom. In any case, what trust could I place in the word of an itinerant who tricks people out of money by giving them fake medicine?’ His hand closed tightly around the bottle. ‘There is something which you do not seem to have considered.’

‘What is that?’ asked Ralph.

‘If the blacksmith did not kill Martin Reynard — who did?’

‘Someone who stood to profit from his death.’

‘Yes,’ said Gervase. ‘That is my argument as well, though you dismissed it earlier, my lord. Murder requires motive. Boio had none. Others did, it seems.’

‘Name one,’ challenged Henry.

‘Thorkell had suspicions about Adam Reynard.’

‘He would! If your judgement goes in his favour, Adam is set to deprive Thorkell of some prime holdings. No wonder the old man wants us to hound Adam. It would remove one of his rivals. No,’

he asserted, ‘we already have the culprit locked up and you will need a bigger key than this bottle to open the door. Here,’ he said, tossing the object to the gaoler. ‘Give this to the prisoner.

If it really is medicine, it may help to soothe his wounds.’

‘At least question this Adam Reynard,’ urged Gervase.

‘We have already done so. He is not implicated.’

‘His man is the chief witness against Boio.’

‘What does that signify?’

‘Do you not find it a coincidence, my lord?’

‘Indeed. A happy one at that.’

‘Adam Reynard profits by the death of his kinsman and by the arrest of an innocent man on the charge of murder. Look more closely at him, I beg you,’ said Gervase. ‘He is Thorkell’s enemy.’

‘He is not the only one,’ retorted Henry. ‘You forget that another man is embroiled in the dispute over that property. Robert de Limesey.’ Mockery intruded. ‘Am I to arrest the Bishop of Lichfield as well?’

Robert de Limesey, Bishop of Lichfield, pored over the document which lay before him on the table and emitted a gentle wheeze of pleasure. With the candlelight directly behind it, the crucifix which stood before him threw its shadow on to the parchment as if conferring approval from heaven. It did not go unnoticed by the bishop. A slim man with a sensitive face and pale blue eyes, he had an aura of religiosity about him which was almost tangible.

It was difficult to believe that such a saintly man began life in so common a way as lawful copulation between a husband and wife.

Anyone viewing him now would imagine that he had dispensed with the ignominies of conception altogether and emerged full-grown from the pages of a Holy Bible in order to take up his mission among ordinary mortals and inspire them with his example.

Brother Reginald, his chosen companion, was still inspired by his master even though he was privy to the bishop’s human failings and aware of his occasional mistakes. When the monk had tapped at the door and let himself into the chamber, he stood there in quiet awe until the bishop deigned to look up from his work. Reginald was a round-shouldered man of middle height with a black cowl which seemed too large for him and an intelligent face which always lit up when he was alone with his master. The bishop’s voice was soft and caressing.

‘What news, Reginald?’ he enquired.

‘The royal commissioners have taken up residence at Warwick Castle, my lord bishop,’ said the other. ‘It may be a day or two before the dispute in which we are involved comes before them.’

‘Does it not take precedence?’

‘I fear not.’

‘But it is their main reason for coming to Warwickshire?’

‘That is so.’

‘Then why this delay?’

‘It is occasioned by this unfortunate crime, my lord bishop.’

‘Ah, yes. I was forgetting. Foul murder in the Forest of Arden.’

‘Since the victim was to have been involved in the dispute, the commissioners want the crime to be solved to see if it has any direct bearing upon the dispute itself.’

‘And does it?’

‘I do not know.’

Robert de Limesey sighed. ‘Then we will have to brook this delay,’ he said. ‘As long as it does not in any way imperil our own position.’

‘It does not,’ Reginald assured him. ‘If anything, our position is enhanced by this crime. One should never seek to profit by the death of another man — especially when it is such a violent death — but we are the unwitting beneficiaries of his demise.’

‘God may be sending us a sign here.’

‘Only a man as pious as you could discern it, my lord bishop.’

‘I believe that I do discern it, Reginald.’

The monk bowed. ‘I accept your word.’

The bishop sat back in his chair and surveyed the document on the table with a contented smile before picking it up between delicate fingers and offering it to his companion.

‘Read this for me,’ he instructed. ‘Aloud.’

‘Yes, my lord bishop.’

‘Let me see if my translation accords with yours.’

‘You are ever the finer Latin scholar.’

‘Nevertheless, I would value a second opinion,’ said the other, sitting back in his chair and putting his hands in his lap. ‘Hold it with care, Reginald. What you have in your possession is nothing less than the charter of confirmation for this monastery, issued in the first year of his reign by King Edward the Confessor with the concurrence and approval of thirty-eight prelates and great men of the realm. The monastery, as you know, was endowed by Leofric, Earl of Mercia, with the consent of the Pope and with the active support of the earl’s wife, Godiva.’

‘Hers is a name which still echoes through Coventry.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said the bishop with mild distaste. ‘Read to me.’

Holding the charter in both hands, Reginald angled it to catch the candlelight, blinked repeatedly as he studied the words, then translated them without a single pause.

‘Duke Leofric, by divine grace inspiring, and by the admonitions of the glorious and beloved of God, Alexander, Chief Pontiff, hath founded the monastery of Saint Mary the Mother of God and Saint Peter and All Saints in the villa which is called Coventry, and hath adorned and decorated it with liberal gifts and these underwritten manors with my full donation and grant hath there conferred, in aid of the sustenance of the abbot and monks perpetually serving God in the same place (that is to say) the moiety of the villa in which the said church is founded …’

Reginald’s voice rolled on, deep and confident, listing the twenty-four lordships with which the monastery was endowed, fifteen of them in the county of Warwickshire itself. The bishop’s lips moved as if speaking in unison with him. When the litany was complete he nodded his thanks then took the charter back into his own hands.

‘Leofric was a generous man,’ he commented.

‘They are princely endowments, my lord bishop.’

‘The noble earl will have received his gratitude in heaven.’

‘And the lady Godiva too,’ said Reginald solemnly. ‘All the records show that her piety was the equal of his.’

‘It is not her piety for which she is principally remembered,’

said the bishop primly. ‘Let us put her aside and reflect instead on the bounty which she and her husband bequeathed us. That phrase about the sustenance of the abbot. It appealed to me, Reginald. Yes, it had a definite appeal.’ He gave a quizzical smile.

‘What do you think of Coventry?’

‘A goodly town, my lord bishop.’

‘Bigger than Lichfield, to be sure. But more suitable?’

‘Only you could make that judgement.’

‘Your counsel is always respected.’

‘Then, yes,’ said Reginald, committing himself unequivocally.

‘In some ways, more suitable as the centre of the episcopal see.

Much more suitable, my lord bishop. It is just a pity that-’ He broke off abruptly.

‘Go on,’ coaxed the other.

‘It is not my place to make such an observation.’

‘You may speak freely in front of me.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Nobody else will hear — except God, of course, and I can rest assured that you will utter no words to offend Him.’

‘It is perhaps safer if I say nothing at all on this subject.’

‘Will you force me to insist?’ chided the bishop.

‘No, no!’

‘Then what is this pity of which you spoke?’

Reginald straightened his back. ‘I believe it is a pity that the title of abbot of this monastery is not vested in the bishop ex officio.’

Robert de Limesey savoured the idea for several minutes.

‘You are right,’ he said at length. ‘Coventry is more suitable.’

He ran a covetous hand over the charter then looked up from it to give Reginald a polite nod of farewell. The monk held his ground.

‘There is something else?’

‘A small matter but I felt that you should be informed.’

‘What is it?’

‘There is a man lately come to the town,’ said Reginald. ‘A pedlar of sorts, selling fake remedies to the foolish.’

‘Have these remedies caused any harm?’

‘Not as far as I know, my lord bishop.’

‘Has anyone been cured by them?’

‘Apparently. That is why I took an interest.’

‘An interest?’

‘The fellow does not merely sell potions,’ explained the other.

‘He rides around on his donkey and makes much larger claims.’

‘What sort of claims?’

‘He says that he can perform miracles.’

‘Miracles?’

‘Curing a leper by the laying on of hands.’

The bishop tensed. ‘I spy danger here.’

‘He boasts that he can drive out evil spirits from a house.’

‘Only a man of God could do that.’

‘This man scorns us, it seems. He practises on the sick and credulous. I only report what I have heard, my lord bishop, but I have to admit that I am alarmed. What should we do?’

‘Have him watched, Reginald.’

‘And arrested?’

‘In time. If it proves necessary.’

Boio was in considerable distress, too weary to stay awake and yet too restless to fall asleep. It was not only the pain which hindered his slumber. Years in the forge had accustomed him to flying sparks and the occasional burn. The poker which they used on him cauterised his flesh but inflicted nothing like the agony it would have done on any other man and he had too much pride to beg for mercy. The more they burned him, the more he pleaded his innocence. In the sense that they had soon given up their torture, he felt he had won a small victory. Yet he was still chained in a dungeon with no prospect of freedom.

What really kept him awake was the mental anguish. He brooded endlessly in the darkness, wondering what everyone would think of him. How would his friends react to the news of his imprisonment? What would his customers do now that he was not in his forge to serve them? Why had Thorkell of Warwick, his revered overlord, not come to his aid? One person in particular occupied his fevered mind and made sleep quite impossible.

Fearing for his own life, he yet thought more about her safety and her future.

Where was she?

The drawing of the bolts interrupted his reverie and made him sit up in the straw, wondering what was coming this time, the kindly Brother Benedict or the cruel instrument of torture. In the event it was neither. When the door swung open, the gaoler spoke roughly to him.

‘Here, you rogue!’ he snarled. ‘See if this will help you!’

Boio did not understand the words nor did he see the object which was hurled at him. But he felt the blow to his head.

Whatever was aimed at him drew a trickle of blood from his forehead. He groped around in the straw for the missile, wishing that more of the moonlight could find its way through his window to aid his search and wondering why the gaoler had thrown what felt like a stone at him. His hand eventually closed on the bottle and he felt a thrill of recognition. Barely able to see it, he knew it at once as the gift from the stranger whose donkey he had shoed.

Hope surged. Someone believed him. Someone had gone to his forge to find the bottle about which he’d talked. They would have to accept his story now. The truth slowly seeped into his befuddled brain. The bottle was not a means of rescue at all. It had been slung into the cell with a yell of derision. Hope withered instantly.

Lost in his despair, he sat there for an hour before it occurred to him that he was holding medicine. He remembered what the man had said to him. It was a panacea, a cure for any aches and pains. His swollen fingers had difficulty removing the stopper but he eventually managed it and lifted the bottle to his nostrils.

The smell was reassuring.

He put the bottle tentatively to his lips and sipped a small amount of the liquid. Its sharp taste made him grimace and he felt it course through him like molten iron. Then the miracle happened. It soothed him. It seemed to wash over his whole body like a cool wave. It eased his mind, it took the sting from his burns, it made him forget the chafed skin of his wrists and ankles. In return for shoeing a donkey, he had been given the one thing which could help him at that moment. Holding the bottle to his mouth again, he drained its contents in one gulp.

The sharp taste was followed by the coursing heat which in turn gave way to a wonderful feeling of peace and well being.

Boio fell asleep within minutes.

The meal which they shared in the hall that night was delicious but the occasion was a decidedly muted affair. Henry Beaumont excused himself, pleading the cares of office and, not wishing to be drawn yet again into discussions about the way in which he was conducting the murder investigation, and left his wife to preside at the table. Philippe Trouville rid himself of trenchant opinions on almost every subject which came up but nobody cared to challenge him and his diatribes eventually ceased. His wife, the lady Marguerite, outspoken guest and a proven scourge of social gatherings, was strangely quiet, attentive to her hostess and pleasant to everyone else but robbed of her usual need to draw attention to herself and to inflict humiliation on those she considered her inferiors.

Golde was relieved to find the woman in a more palliative frame of mind but Ralph felt cheated, waiting for Marguerite to insult his wife so that he could trade one barbed remark for another, and frustrated when it became clear that his weaponry would not be called into use. Gervase sat beside Archdeacon Theobald and they conversed happily about the influence which Lanfranc had had over the English Church since he became primate. Brother Benedict, wedded to his diet of bread and water, managed to get a conversation of sorts out of Heloise.

It was only when the prisoner was mentioned that tempers flared. Too much wine drew the full arrogance out of Philippe Trouville.

‘The lord Henry should have called for me,’ said Trouville, tapping his chest. ‘I know how to break a man’s spirit. I would have had that blacksmith confessing to his crime within minutes.’

‘That is a fearful boast,’ said Ralph.

‘No boast, my lord. I have had long experience in the trade.’

‘And what trade might that be? Butchery?’

‘Interrogation.’

‘Can you tell the difference between the two?’

‘Mock if you wish,’ said Trouville, ‘but I have reduced the strongest men to piteous wrecks. Shall I tell you how?’

‘No,’ said his wife nastily. ‘This is a barren topic.’

‘It is one on which I am an expert.’

‘A barren expert!’ murmured Ralph.

‘Pass on my offer to your husband, my lady,’ Trouville said to Adela, not even noticing her slight wince. ‘My services are at his command.’

‘I wish that your silence was at my command,’ hissed Marguerite.

‘What is that?’

‘Your speech is too vulgar, Philippe.’

‘I merely offered an opinion.’

‘It is not one we wish to hear.’

‘But this matter affects us all,’ he argued, draining his cup.

‘Our work here is hampered by this murder enquiry. The sooner it can be resolved, the sooner we can discharge our duties. Put the interrogation of the prisoner in my hands and his confession is assured.’

She gave a shudder. ‘You say that with such relish!’

‘And you might be torturing an innocent man,’ said Gervase.

‘A guilty man!’ boomed Trouville. ‘I’d bleed the truth out of him.’

‘I can stand no more of this,’ said his wife, jumping to her feet and turning to her hostess. ‘Excuse me, my lady. I am sorry for my husband’s behaviour. The excellence of your wine has led him astray.’

As her mistress moved away, Heloise rose to follow but a glance from Marguerite made her resume her seat. Trouville did not know whether to go after his wife, repeat his boasts or drink more wine so he did all three simultaneously, vanishing at length through the door with a full cup in his hand, a bloodcurdling threat on his lips and the sudden fear that it might be a frosty night in the marital chamber.

Conversation returned to a gentler and more neutral level until Ralph and Golde took their leave, expressing their profound gratitude to their hostess as they went out. Brother Benedict soon drifted off to the chapel, leaving only four of them at the table. It was Theobald who now came into his own, gently probing the two women for information while appearing to offer mild flattery. Gervase was deeply impressed by the way in which — having drawn Adela into yielding confidences about her husband

— he turned his artless charm on the taciturn Heloise. It was interrogation of a much subtler kind than that described by Trouville. The disfiguring frown slowly melted from the older woman’s face.

‘The lady Marguerite would be lost without you,’ he remarked.

‘That is not so, Archdeacon Theobald,’ she said.

‘I have eyes.’

She almost simpered. ‘I merely do what I have always done.’

‘Attended to your mistress with admirable skill. Even when,’

he said with a glance towards the door, ‘your efforts are not always appreciated. How long have you been in the lady Marguerite’s employ?’

‘Several years. Before that I looked after her mother.’

‘Was she as beautiful as the daughter?’

‘Even more so,’ said Heloise. ‘Beautiful — and gracious.’

‘Tell us something about her. Did she hail from Falaise as well?’

‘Yes, Archdeacon.’

Encouraged by his words and the smiling attention of the others, Heloise talked fondly of her long years in a celebrated household in Normandy. Though she was too discreet to make any criticism of her mistress, she talked so lovingly about the mother that the contrast with the daughter became apparent. Something of her own blighted private life also emerged. Deaths in her family and the tragic loss in battle of a man who proposed marriage to her had deprived her of all hope of any personal happiness yet she was free from any hint of self-pity. In serving her mistress faithfully she felt she could at least provide a degree of happiness for someone else.

‘You are a true Christian!’ observed Theobald.

‘No, no,’ she said almost modestly. ‘I feel so inadequate beside someone like you, Archdeacon Theobald. Or when I see how devout Brother Benedict is. That is Christianity in action, not pandering to the whims of a beautiful woman.’

‘It is a duty you now share with her husband.’

‘At times.’

‘How long have you known the lord Philippe?’

‘Since he and the lady Marguerite first met.’

‘I have the impression that he has been married before.’

‘He has,’ she said.

‘Do you know what happened to his first wife?’

The question came out so easily and naturally that Heloise, relaxed and unguarded, answered it before she even knew what she was doing.

‘She took her own life.’

There was sudden silence. They were absolutely stunned. Adela brought a hand up to her mouth in horror and Gervase felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Theobald blamed himself for asking the question and prayed inwardly for forgiveness. All four of them were throbbing with embarrassment. Heloise let out a little cry. Realising what she had just admitted, she turned white and fled from the room.

The forge was in darkness, its fire long extinguished and its clamour fled. The figure who came trudging along the road was swathed in a sheepskin cloak to keep out the nibble of winter.

When she reached the forge there was barely enough moonlight for her to find the door to it but, once inside, she moved around with confidence. Her hands stretched out, groped, met with cold iron, then searched. Something fell to the floor with a clatter but her nimble fingers felt on in the numbing blackness. At last they found what they were searching for and closed gratefully around it. Wrapping the object in the piece of cloth which she had brought, the woman picked her way to the door and lunged back out into the night.

On the long walk back she now had something to comfort her.