The Foxes of Warwick

Chapter Six

Dawn brought a flurry of snow which quickly turned to a driving sleet. Those abroad in the streets of the town found themselves picking their way through a quagmire and dodging the urgent rivulets which poured from the eaves of the houses. Dogs had the sense to remain under cover. No beggars ventured out. The working day began without enthusiasm.

Gervase Bret was awakened by the pelting noise on the shutters. When his eyes flickered open, the first thing he did was to chide himself for being so carelessly distracted on the previous night. Instead of falling asleep as usual, lulled into a warm contentment by fond thoughts of Alys, he was speculating on the startling news which Heloise had given them regarding Philippe Trouville’s earlier marriage. When exhaustion finally got the better of him, Gervase was still wondering if the lady Marguerite was in any way the cause of the suicide.

A new day with its new form of inclement weather found him penitent. Alys filled his mind wonderfully and the creeping cold of his chamber seemed to fade slowly away.

He was on his way down to breakfast when the guard found him.

‘Master Bret?’ asked the man.

‘Yes. Good morrow, friend.’

‘You have a visitor.’

‘At this hour?’

‘She insisted that you would want to see her.’

‘She?’

‘The woman who waits at the castle gate,’ he said. ‘A ragged creature. But she has walked a long way in foul weather to see you so it must be important.’

‘Did she give her name?’

‘Asmoth.’

Gervase shook his head. ‘I know nobody of that name.’

‘She mentioned a forge.’

‘A forge?’

‘It belongs to Boio the Blacksmith.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember her now.’

‘Will you see her or shall I send her on her way?’

‘I’ll come back with you at once.’

‘You will need a cloak in this weather.’

‘I do not fear a little sleet,’ said Gervase. ‘What did you call her?’

‘Asmoth.’

‘And she comes alone?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Looking more like a drowned rat than a human being. She speaks no French and we only have a smattering of English between us but she made herself understood. She knew your name well enough and kept repeating it.’‘Let us go and find her.’

Gervase followed him down the stairs and out through the door at the base of the keep. Stone steps were set in the mound on which it was built and the sleet had taught them treason.

The guard almost slipped over twice and Gervase himself had to walk very gingerly. He regretted his folly in not wearing a cloak and cap for protection and his face was soon layered with icy moisture. They hurried across the bailey and under the cover of the gatehouse. The woman was huddled in a corner, sitting on the cold stone to recover from the journey and ignoring the sneers of the other guards on sentry duty. Gervase’s arrival astonished the men who did not believe that a royal commissioner could be summoned at the behest of such a bedraggled creature. The woman herself clearly had doubts that he would come to speak to her and she looked up with a mixture of relief and surprise.

‘Your name is Asmoth?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What do you want with me?’

Gervase read the message in her eyes then offered a hand to help her up. Asmoth wanted to speak to him in private and not under the hostile gaze of Norman soldiers. Glancing round the bailey for another source of shelter, Gervase came to a decision and braved the sleet once more to conduct her towards the little porch outside the chapel. Asmoth scuttled beside him, her sodden cloak wrapped tightly around her body and her leather sandals squelching through the mud.

The porch gave them only a degree of cover but it ensured privacy. Gervase took a closer look at the woman and saw that she was soaked to the skin. Her face was glistening with damp and pale with fatigue.

Grateful that he had answered her call, Asmoth was still not sure if she could trust him and caution reduced her voice to a hesitant whisper.

‘Where is Boio?’ she said.

‘Locked up in the dungeon.’

‘Still alive, then?’

‘Yes, Asmoth. Still alive.’

‘What have they done to him?’

‘I do not know,’ he said tactfully.

‘He is well?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

The consideration in his tone made her relax slightly as she sensed that she was talking to a friend. She took a step closer.

‘What did you do with the bottle of medicine?’

‘We showed it to the lord Henry.’

‘Did he believe that Boio was telling the truth?’

Gervase sighed. ‘I fear not.’

‘There was a stranger with a donkey,’ she insisted.

‘We could not convince the lord Henry of that.’

‘There was, there was!’

‘I believe it.’

‘I know it for sure,’ said Asmoth, clutching at him. ‘I asked my neighbours. I went for miles in the dark last night until I found someone else who saw the man.’

‘A witness?’

‘Two of them.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Wenric and his wife. They met the stranger on the road and talked with him. He was riding a donkey and said that Boio had just shoed it.’

His interest quickened. ‘It has to be the same man.’

‘They remembered him well.’ Asmoth looked pleased, recalling the relief she had felt on hearing their words.

‘When did they see him, Asmoth?’

‘On the morning that Boio said.’

‘Where?’

‘On the road north. Wenric lives not far from Kenilworth.’

‘Would he and his wife swear that they met this man?’

‘Yes. They know Boio. They want to help.’

‘Did they say where the stranger was heading?’

‘Coventry.’

‘Why?’

‘To sell his medicines.’

‘Is he a healer of sorts?’

‘He told Wenric he could perform miracles.’

‘You are the one who has performed the miracle, Asmoth,’ said Gervase warmly. ‘This may change everything. If this Wenric and his wife are reliable witnesses, the lord Henry will have to listen to them. What sort of man is Wenric?’

‘A cottager.’

‘On whose land?’

‘That of Adam Reynard.’

Gervase’s excitement was checked. The word of a mere cottager would not impress the constable of Warwick Castle and the fact that Wenric had a dwelling and, at most, only a small acreage on property held by Adam Reynard also cast a cloud. Going on the man’s repute, Gervase had the feeling that Reynard would never allow one of his cottagers to contradict the more damning evidence of Grimketel. Asmoth saw the change in his manner and grew anxious.

‘Did I do the right thing?’ she said.

‘Yes, Asmoth. You did.’

‘And it will help Boio?’

‘I hope so.’

‘But we have witnesses now. They talked to the stranger.’

‘We may need more than that,’ he warned her, ‘but at least we know where to look now. If this Wenric saw the stranger, it may be that someone in Kenilworth also remembers him. This is no weather for travelling around the country. There is a strong chance that the man may still be in Coventry, if that was where he was heading. We have all sorts of possibilities,’ he said with gathering confidence, ‘and I will exploit them to the full. We brought men-at-arms of our own. If the lord Henry will not spare a posse to track down the stranger, we may be able to find him on our own.

You were right to come, Asmoth. Nobody could have done more to help Boio than you have.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I am only sorry that it was such an ordeal to get here.’

‘I would have walked ten times as far.’

Asmoth gave a weak smile and the hare lip rose to expose a row of irregular teeth. For the first time Gervase noticed the dimple in her cheek. He recalled what Benedict had said about the nature of her relationship with the blacksmith. Asmoth had not taken such pains on his behalf out of simple friendship. She loved him.

‘Where is he?’ she said, eyes roaming the bailey.

Gervase pointed. ‘Over there. Below the wall.’

She followed the direction of his finger and saw the entrance to the dungeons. It was close to the outer wall. The ground sloped sharply away in that corner of the bailey and the cells had been built at the bottom of the dip, nestling against the wall and partially underground. Small windows admitted only meagre light and ventilation. Thick bars made it impossible for anyone to climb in or out. Asmoth gave a shudder and turned her gaze away.

Gervase saw the desperation in her face.

‘You must be hungry,’ he said. ‘Let me get you food.’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Something to drink at least.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure? I can have it sent from the kitchen.’

‘I do not need it.’

‘Then rest before you leave,’ he advised.

‘Please.’

‘I will tell the guards to let you shelter in the gatehouse until you are ready to set off again.’

‘No,’ she begged. ‘They will only laugh at me.’

‘Not if I speak to them sharply enough.’

‘Let me stay here.’

‘In the porch?’

‘In the chapel,’ she said. ‘It will be quiet in there and nobody will mock me. Please let me go in. I can pray for Boio.’

Gervase was touched. Reluctant to leave her alone, he was yet keen to pass on what he had learned from her to Ralph and to Benedict. The chapel was the one place in the castle where she would be safe from prying eyes or the sniggers of the guards. He opened the door to let her in, then felt a squeeze of gratitude on his arm. Gervase nodded, closed the door behind her then hurried off towards the keep. The sleet was now dying away. He took it as a good omen.

Asmoth waited only a few minutes before she opened the chapel door to peer out. Seeing the bailey was deserted, she crept furtively out and, keeping to the wall, trotted in its shadow until she reached the dungeons. With no heed for her comfort or cleanliness, she slithered down the steep bank then crawled along in the ditch at the bottom and looked into each of the windows in turn. When she came to the last she saw a dim figure in the straw. From beneath her cloak she brought out something concealed in a piece of cloth and dropped it through the bars.

She was off again at once, scrambling up the slope then pulling herself to her feet before hurrying towards the gate through which she had come into the castle. Asmoth did not even hear the cruel jeers of the guards as she swept past them and went out into the town.

*

*

*

Boio was still asleep when something fell through the window of his cell and landed on the floor with a thud. The noise brought him awake but it took him time to work out what caused it. Sleep had restored him and he felt something of his old strength coursing through him again but the burns on his flesh were still smarting.

The medicine had not taken those away. Snow and sleet had blown in through the window to dampen the straw beneath it.

Boio was about to move towards a drier patch near the door when he noticed something directly below the aperture. It was a piece of cloth and he had no idea how it had got there.

Crawling towards it, he reached out to touch the material and found that it was wrapped around a piece of solid iron. Unwinding the cloth with growing curiosity, he took out something which caused his spirits to lift at once. It was a large file. What he was holding was a tool which he had actually made himself for use in the forge. Only one person would have known where it was kept and had the courage to bring it to him. The sound which roused him from his sleep was now explained. As he fondled the ribbed iron, tears of affection came into his eyes. She cared, she thought about him, she held faith.

He raised the piece of cloth to his lips and kissed it.

When he was told about Asmoth’s visit to the castle, Ralph Delchard was circumspect. Brother Benedict also counselled prudence. Both men were heartened to learn of the new evidence concerning the traveller with the donkey but they were also alive to its inherent weakness.

‘We need something more solid than the word of a cottager and his wife,’ said Ralph. ‘The lord Henry would discard them out of hand and I do not wish to go to him again until we have marshalled more of a case in the blacksmith’s defence. Our host will not be easily convinced.’

‘I agree,’ said Benedict, nodding sagely. ‘Indeed, I would go further. I think that we need to produce this mysterious stranger himself before we can even hope for a serious hearing. But it proves one thing,’ he added. ‘Our journey to the forge was indeed worthwhile.’

‘Something else has been proved,’ said Gervase.

‘What is that?’

‘Your judgement of that woman was correct, Brother Benedict.’

‘Asmoth?’

‘She is much more than his friend.’

‘I knew it at once,’ said the monk, cheeks turning to red apples as they rounded in a smile. ‘Life within the enclave does not make us quite as unworldly as you might suppose. We learn to watch and listen. I do not miss much when it comes to a bond between a man and a woman.’

Ralph grinned. ‘Golde and I will have to be more careful.’

‘You are blessed in each other, my lord.’

‘I’ll wager that you will not say the same of the lord Philippe and his wife. You detect no blessing there.’

‘I detect a form of love.’

‘Love of ambition.’

‘You slander them unfairly,’ said Benedict with reproach. ‘Their marriage may not exactly be akin to your own, nor, I suspect, to that which Gervase and his wife enjoy, but in their own way the lord Philippe and the lady Marguerite are admirably suited.’

‘Two hearts hewn from the same piece of granite.’

‘They were drawn together by the mystery of desire.’

‘You might not think that if you had lingered at the table last night,’ said Gervase. ‘Heloise let fall a confidence which took our breath away. She told us that the lord Philippe had been married before.’

‘That is no news,’ scoffed Ralph. ‘The lady Marguerite said as much to Golde. A man of that age was almost certain to have been wed before.’

‘Did the lady Marguerite say what happened to his first wife?’

‘Not according to Golde.’

‘I am not surprised.’

‘Why is that, Gervase?’

‘Because the lady died by her own hand.’

Benedict was horrified. ‘She committed suicide?’

‘That is what Heloise told us.’

‘How?’

‘We were too shocked to ask.’

‘Poor woman, to be driven to such a terrible extreme!’

‘Who can blame her?’ said Ralph, adjusting quickly to the news.

‘If I was married to a man like that, I think that I would prefer to kill myself.’

‘My lord!’ scolded Benedict.

The arrival of the other guests brought the conversation to an abrupt end. It was not something which could be discussed openly. While they ate their breakfast, the three men nursed their individual thoughts about the wife’s untimely death. None of them felt any urge to talk at length with Philippe Trouville, and the man himself, tested by a jarring night, munched his food in a ruminative silence. All that he wished to do was to get to the shire hall and lose himself in the business of the day so that he could block out his memories of the testing night he had just endured with the lady Marguerite. Archdeacon Theobald, also privy to the revelation about the suicide, kept that knowledge completely hidden behind a quiet impassivity.

When breakfast was over the commissioners adjourned to the town to begin their first session. Gervase carried his satchel of documents and Benedict was amply supplied with writing materials. Ednoth the Reeve was already at the shire hall, ordering a servant to stoke up the fire and taking a last look around the room to make sure that all was in readiness. The appearance of the commissioners sent him off into a display of hand-washing unctuousness. Ralph pointedly ignored his ingratiation.

‘Where are the first witnesses?’ he asked.

‘Waiting in the antechamber, my lord.’

‘Do they know what is expected of them?’

‘I have explained it thoroughly.’

‘I hope so. We have no time to waste here.’

‘They stood before your predecessors,’ Ednoth reminded him,

‘so they have experience of speaking under oath. Shall I send them in?’

‘When we are ready.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He backed away but hovered near the door. Ralph glowered.

‘Leave us, Ednoth.’

‘Can I be of no further help?’

‘Wait with the others.’

The reeve was slightly peeved and withdrew into the antechamber with a hurt expression. Ralph took his seat at the table with Gervase and Trouville either side of him. Their scribe sat at a right angle to them at the end of the table, thus able simultaneously to watch the faces of those who came before the commission and to catch any signals he might be given by his colleagues. When they had all settled into their seats Ralph gave them a brief lecture on how the proceedings would be conducted, then he looked towards the door, noting that it had been deliberately left a few inches open.

‘Send them in, Ednoth!’ he barked.

‘Yes, my lord,’ answered a voice.

Half a dozen people filed into the hall and were directed to the bench in front of the table. The reeve lingered annoyingly. Ralph shot him a withering glance and he retreated towards the door.

‘Close it properly this time!’ ordered Ralph.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘We will have no eavesdroppers.’

‘No, my lord.’

The reeve vanished once more and Ralph gestured to two of his men-at-arms to stand in front of the door. Six members of his escort had followed them to the shire hall to act as sentries and to indicate the status of the commissioners. An oath taken on the Bible was a powerful incentive towards honesty but Ralph had learned from experience that the presence of armed soldiers also helped to entice the truth out of people. He ran a searching eye over the faces in front of him.

‘Which one of you is William Balistarius?’

‘I am, my lord,’ said a square-jawed man in his thirties.

‘And which is Mergeat?’

‘Here, my lord,’ said a much older man in Saxon garb.

Ralph weighed the pair of them up then nodded.

‘Let us hear from William the Gunner first,’ he decided. ‘You will take an oath on the Bible that what you tell us is the truth.

If you are caught lying, God Himself will punish you in time but you will have to answer to me immediately. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Stand forth, William.’

It was not a complicated dispute. It concerned the boundary which separated one man’s land from another’s and which seemed to have moved substantially in the past couple of years. Left in Gervase’s capable hands, the whole matter would have easily been resolved during the morning session but Ralph thought it wiser to give Philippe Trouville and Archdeacon Theobald an opportunity to show their mettle. It would be an ideal way to baptise them into their roles. When the first claimant had taken his oath, therefore, and brandished his charter in the air, he was handed over to the new commissioners for examination.

Theobald was surprisingly impressive. A mild-mannered man whose questions were always couched in politeness, he burrowed slowly away until he began to unsettle the man who stood so proudly before him. It was not long before William Balistarius, a Norman soldier rewarded with land for services rendered to his overlord, was shifting his feet and beginning to stutter his replies.

When the archdeacon had revealed weaknesses, Trouville moved in to exploit them to the full. He was relentless. Question followed question like arrow after arrow until the witness was quite bemused. What struck the others was that Trouville did not have to browbeat the man at all. Everything was achieved with the blistering accuracy of his questions and the speed of their delivery.

There was no need for the watchful Mergeat to make more than a token contribution to the debate. His Norman neighbour was so clearly exposed as the one who had grabbed land unfairly from him by constant encroachment that the issue was never in doubt.

Ralph took charge once more and berated the losing disputant without mercy, warning him to cede at once the land which he had illegally seized from Mergeat. ‘On pain of arrest!’ he added.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Away with you!’

When the six of them had trooped out, the commissioners allowed themselves a smile of congratulation. A dispute which might have taken the whole of the allotted period of their first session had been settled in a quarter of the time. It gave them an unexpected respite.

‘Well done, Theobald!’ said Ralph. ‘You tore him apart.’

‘It was the lord Philippe who did that,’ said the archdeacon with admiration. ‘I merely suggested that the man might be lying to us. The lord Philippe proved it in the most effective way.’

‘You are a cunning lawyer, my lord,’ said Gervase approvingly.

‘The fellow was dissembling,’ said Trouville.

‘Yet he bore himself well at first.’

‘All that I did was to look into his eyes.’

‘His eyes?’

‘I could see his dishonesty.’

‘That is more than I could,’ admitted Ralph.

‘When he started to blink, I knew that he was on the run.’

‘With you in hot pursuit.’

‘The smell of his blood was in my nostrils.’

‘Until you had the fellow cornered.’

‘William Balistarius was a stag at bay,’ said Trouville with a grin of triumph, pulling his sword from its sheath and thrusting it viciously into the air. ‘My first kill as a royal commissioner.’

His harsh laughter reverberated around the shire hall.

*

*

*

It was slow work. Though he was used to handling the file for lengthy periods and imposing its abrasive kisses on solid iron, he had never done so under such constraints. The first thing which Boio had to consider was the rasping noise. Two guards were on duty in the corridor outside his cell. The door was made of stout oak, inches thick and hardened with age, but he was not sure if it would block out all noise of his handiwork. As he rubbed away at the fetters on his ankles, therefore, he muffled the noise by covering the file with layers of straw so that his labours were almost subterranean. To further decrease the risk of being overheard, Boio sat as far away as possible from the door. It laid his neck open to the fierce draught from the window but he felt that a small price to pay for the opportunity which had been given him.

Immobility depressed him. It was unnatural. The blacksmith was only happy when employed and, though he did not enjoy the freedom of his forge any more, he was at least using his skill and his strength again. He angled the file expertly and rubbed away at the weakest spot. When he tested the iron with an exploratory finger, it was reassuringly warm from his attentions. Blowing the filings away, he attacked the fetters with fresh determination.

He was patient and methodical. However, just when he felt he was beginning to make real progress he was interrupted.

Footsteps approached and the bolts were drawn on the other side of his door.

Fearing discovery, Boio moved swiftly to hide the file under the straw and to fling himself full length to the floor as if sleeping.

When the door creaked open, he pretended to be stirring from his slumber.

A guard stood over him with a wooden bowl and kicked out.

‘Wake up!’ he roared. ‘Come on, you rogue!’

The prisoner dragged himself up into a sitting position. The bowl was thrust into his lap and a gourd of water dropped uncaringly after it.

‘Eat that! You must stay alive so that we can hang you!’

The man gave a raucous laugh and went out again, slamming the door behind him before passing on his jest to his colleague.

Boio took a grateful swig of the water then grabbed the dry bread in the bowl and thrust a handful into his mouth, chewing it with the desperation of a man who was suffering real pangs of hunger.

The water was brackish and the bread stale but they would help to sustain him. He was just about to push the last crust into his mouth when a thought made him pause. Reaching for the piece of cloth in which the file had been delivered, he wound it around the bread then thrust both of them inside his tunic.

Food had to be conserved. It might be needed later.

Since the next session in the shire was not due to start until the bell for sext was heard, the commissioners found themselves with a few hours of unanticipated freedom. Brother Benedict proposed to use some of that time to draft a report on the dispute with which they had already dealt, Theobald excused himself to visit the nearby church of St Mary and Philippe Trouville, having savoured blood as a commissioner, recalled his duties as a husband and excused himself so that he could return to the castle to repair some of the damage caused by his comments during the meal the previous night.

Ralph and Gervase watched all three of them leave the hall.

‘What did you think of the lord Philippe?’ asked Ralph.

‘I would rather sit beside him than stand in front of him.’

‘He is a merciless interrogator.’

‘Let us hope that he is not let loose on Boio,’ said Gervase.

‘Yes. I fear he would use something more deadly than words.’

‘He so enjoys giving pain.’

‘I know, Gervase,’ said Ralph. ‘It is a little unnerving. Though I suspect that the lord Philippe had his share of pain last night.

Perhaps that is what brought he and his wife together. A shared delight in inflicting punishment.’

‘Let us leave them aside, Ralph. My concern is for Boio.’

‘What do you suggest that we do?’

‘Send some of your men after this so-called miracle worker.’

‘In this weather? It would be hazardous travelling.’

‘That is why the fellow is like still to be in Coventry,’ argued Gervase. ‘He will get shelter and custom there. Dispatch some men to pick up his trail. Do it straight.’

‘Not so fast, Gervase.’

‘The blacksmith is in danger. We must help him.’

‘Must we?’

‘The man is innocent, Ralph.’

‘That is what he claims and we have readily accepted his word.

But the truth of the matter is that neither of us has ever even set eyes on the man. Benedict has talked to him and both of you have met this woman who claims to be his friend. On the other hand,’ he sighed, ‘a witness places him near the murder scene on the day the body was discovered.’

‘That witness’s testimony is disputed. Boio has an alibi.’

‘Does he?’

‘The stranger called at his forge.’

‘You and I believe that, Gervase. So does this woman Asmoth.

We might even track down this itinerant and get him to swear that the blacksmith was shoeing his donkey at the very time when he was supposed to be lurking in the forest. We might do all that,’ he stressed, ‘and still not prise apart the jaws of the law to release Boio.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the lord Henry will not be persuaded.’

‘He must be if we confront him with the traveller.’

‘No, Gervase. Put yourself in his position. Two witnesses stand before you, each putting the prisoner in a different place at the same time. Which would you believe? A local man whom you can trust and who knows Boio extremely well by sight? Or a wandering pauper who does not even have money enough to pay for his donkey to be shoed?’

‘The lord Henry refused to believe that the man even existed.’

‘I confess that I had doubts myself.’

‘He is real and can confirm Boio’s alibi. Even the lord Henry must lend some weight to that.’ Ralph shook his head. ‘Why not?’

‘You have met our host.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He wants the blacksmith to be guilty.’

‘He must still follow due process of law.’

‘Men like the lord Henry are a law unto themselves. No, Gervase,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘When I heard what that woman told you, my first thought was to dispatch men in search of this stranger but I fear that it will not be enough. It may serve to delay Boio’s conviction but I fear that it will not prevent it.’

‘Is it not at least worth trying?’ pleaded Gervase.

‘Our time and efforts may be better spent.’

‘In what?’

‘Answering the question put by lord Henry.’

‘What question?’

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

Gervase was halted. It was ironic. He was usually the one who advised caution while Ralph habitually favoured action. The situation was now reversed. Gervase’s urge to help what he believed was an innocent man had clouded his judgement. His friend’s calmer approach made him have second thoughts. Murder demanded a murderer. Boio would not be liberated until someone else took his place in the dungeon.

‘Well?’ prodded Ralph.

‘I know where I would start looking for him,’ said Gervase.

‘Where?’

‘At the house of Adam Reynard.’

‘Why there?’

‘That is where we would find Grimketel, the witness whose word can put a noose around Boio’s neck. When I saw him at the funeral, he did not have the look of a wholly dependable witness.

I would like to have a serious talk with this Grimketel.’

‘Then what are you waiting for, Gervase?’

‘You feel that I should go in search of him?’

‘We both will,’ decided Ralph. ‘If we ride hard there and back, we will not delay any proceedings here. Let us take advantage of the time lord Philippe’s fierce interrogation has granted us.’

‘I am ready!’

‘Ednoth will teach us the way.’

‘We may even be able to ride on to Coventry,’ teased Gervase.

‘Forget the man with the donkey.’

‘But he gives Boio an alibi.’

‘We may not even need this miracle worker.’

Bad weather was bad for business. As the man stood in a corner of the marketplace, only a small knot of people gathered to hear him and some of those were children who came to stare rather than to buy. He was not deterred. His voice had a confident ring and he raised it to full volume as if addressing a vast gathering.

Grey, gaunt and hooped by the passage of time, he belied his appearance. What they saw was an old man in a tattered cloak and torn cap but what they heard was a person of rare gifts and great importance. Even his donkey, shivering beside him, was held by his stirring rhetoric.

‘Gather round, friends,’ he urged. ‘Gather round. When you left your homes today you thought you were stepping out into a cold and cheerless world. When you return you will feel that this has been one of the most significant days of your life. And why?

That is what you are saying to yourselves. Why? Because you had the good fortune to meet me. And who is this strange creature who stands before you? Only the most cunning physician in the whole realm. That is who I am. For I tell you, my friends,’ he continued, using both hands to weave pictures in the air, ‘I have cured where no cure was thought possible. I have saved lives that were deemed beyond redemption. And I have eased pain which no medicine could even begin to soothe.’

He paused for effect but his donkey chose that moment to empty its bladder with blithe unconcern and the moment was hopelessly shattered. Instead of holding his audience in a firm grip, the man looked at them through a blanket of rising steam.

The children giggled and one of the women clicked her tongue in disgust. A firm slap on the rump made the animal swing away and its owner stepped in front of it to block out the unseemly distraction. His voice soared above the fierce hiss behind him.

‘When I talk of medicine,’ he said, thrusting a hand inside his cloak, ‘I do not mean the useless remedies which any pedlar will sell you. I talk about magic, my friends.’ He produced a stone bottle and held it up for them to see. ‘Do you know what I hold here? A compound made up of two dozen herbs and a special ingredient known only to me. This is more than medicine. It is pure salvation!’

‘What will it cure?’ asked a voice.

‘Anything!’

‘I suffer from ulcers on my leg.’

‘This will remove them overnight.’

‘My wife has trouble breathing.’

‘Her lungs will be cleansed by my potion.’

‘My teeth ache,’ said a man, exposing his rotting fangs. ‘Will your medicine take away the terrible pain in my mouth?’

‘Take it away as if it was never there.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because you have my word on it.’

‘What if my teeth still ache?’

‘Then you can come to me and have your money back,’ said the old man. ‘Either that or I will draw out the teeth for you. For that is another skill that I possess. I have drawn teeth from royalty.’

‘What is in your medicine?’ asked a cynic.

‘That is a secret passed down to me.’

‘Was it passed by that donkey of yours?’ said the man, producing another giggle from the children. ‘The last time I bought a potion from a travelling pedlar that is what it tasted like. Are you a true physician?’

‘As true as any in the realm.’

‘Some say that you perform miracles.’

‘I do, my friend.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Yes,’ said another voice. ‘Prove it.’

‘Show us a miracle now.’

‘It is not as simple as that, my friend,’ soothed the old man. ‘A miracle is not a sideshow. I do not perform to entertain a crowd but to cure the sick and save the dying from the grave.’

‘The grave!’ repeated the cynic with a chuckle. ‘You look as if you just climbed out of one yourself.’

‘It is true, my friend. That is because I have no need of riches nor fine apparel. I come to help others and not to seek my own gain. When the Lord Jesus performed His miracles, He did not ask payment for them. Only the satisfaction of helping those in distress.’

His audience began to listen more attentively and the monk who had been standing a little distance away, but who remained within earshot, now moved in closer as he caught the scent of witchcraft.

‘Do you ask for a miracle?’ said the old man. ‘Then come back here tomorrow at this time and you will see one. I have been told of a boy who is possessed by evil spirits. He lives some distance away but, hearing of my gifts, his father has promised to bring him to Coventry tomorrow. Have you ever seen the Devil driven out, my friends? You will. Those of you who doubt me will have to believe. It will be a true miracle.’

Torn between wonder and disbelief, his listeners muttered among themselves. The children were fascinated, the donkey nodded its head. The monk watched with growing unease. Having secured the interest of his little audience once more, the old man sought to turn it to pecuniary advantage and held up the stone bottle.

‘Here, my friends,’ he said, ‘is another miracle. Buy it and see.’

‘Can you really save this boy?’ asked a woman.

‘I can.’

‘This is no trick?’

‘Come back tomorrow and be my witness.’

‘Will you give him some of your medicine?’

‘A taste of the medicine,’ said the old man, ‘and a touch of my healing hands. God heals through my fingers.’ He held out the bottle to her. ‘Will you take this to cure all the ills of your family?’

‘No,’ said the woman with blunt practicality, ‘but I will come back tomorrow. If that boy really is possessed by evil spirits and if you can drive them out, I will buy your medicine at once.’

‘So will I!’ shouted another.

‘And me!’ said a third.

‘Perform the miracle,’ said the cynic, ‘and even I will believe in you.’

‘So be it,’ replied the old man. ‘I make no idle boast. If the child has faith in me, he will be cured by laying on of hands. I can succeed where other physicians fail because I have been touched by God. Come tomorrow and see His healing powers for yourself.

God works through me and guides me in my mission.’

The monk had heard enough. Pursing his lips in outrage, he scurried off to the monastery to report what he had just heard.