The Foxes of Warwick

Chapter Four

Funerals are occasions for honesty. Gervase Bret had attended far too many of them not to realise that. Grief stripped most people of their petty deceptions and revealed their true feelings to the public gaze. When he joined the congregation in the parish church of St Mary that afternoon, Gervase knew that he would find out a great deal about the man who had died and about the family and friends whom he had left behind. There was the vague hope that the funeral might even provide him with clues which might in time help to establish beyond all reasonable doubt the guilt or innocence of the man who was charged with the crime. It still vexed Gervase that he was not allowed to speak with the prisoner and he wondered why Henry Beaumont had reacted so unfavourably to the notion. Did the constable of Warwick Castle have something to hide?

The question posed itself again when the man himself arrived at the church, accompanied by his wife, his steward, the captain of his garrison and other senior members of his household. Martin Reynard had evidently been held in high regard at the castle though Gervase detected no real sorrow in Henry’s demeanour, only the suppressed anger of a man who has had something of importance stolen from him. The lady Adela was a dignified mourner, head bowed and face clouded by sadness. The rest of the castle contingent also seemed to be genuinely distressed at the loss of a former colleague and friend.

Family members had pride of place at the front of the nave. It was not difficult to pick out the grief-stricken widow, her elderly parents and her close relations. There appeared to be no children from the marriage unless they were too young to attend or were being spared the ordeal. Three mourners in particular caught Gervase’s eye. One was Ednoth the Reeve, wearing a dolorous expression and keeping a supportive arm around a sobbing woman whom Gervase took to be his wife. The second was the striking figure of Thorkell of Warwick, instantly recognisable by his Saxon attire and air of authority, and clearly distressed by the loss of his reeve. Four retainers, who had ridden into the town that morning with their master, had stayed to attend the funeral with him.

But the person whom Gervase was able to study most carefully was the short, slight, fair-haired individual in his twenties with a ragged beard through which he kept running nervous fingers.

Like Gervase himself, the man took a seat at the rear of the nave and was more of an observer than a mourner, yet he was patently no stranger because several people gave him a nod of acknowledgement when they first arrived. His mean apparel showed that he held no high station in life and, since the service was conducted in a mixture of Latin and Norman French, Gervase was not sure how much of it the young Saxon actually understood for the solemn words did not still his restless hand nor his darting glances.

Though the parish priest was in attendance, it was the chaplain from the castle who conducted the service, another indication of the respect which Martin Reynard had earned from his former master. During his sermon the chaplain spoke of the deceased as a man whom he had known and admired for some years, and furnished many personal details about him, some of which were so touching that they set the widow and family members off into a flood of tears. Gervase noticed that Ednoth nodded in agreement throughout the sermon, Henry Beaumont sat immobile and Thorkell lowered his head in dejection. The fair-haired young man was uncertain what expression was most appropriate and he tried several before settling for a studied lugubriousness.

The sizeable congregation took time to file out into the churchyard. Gervase was the last to leave and he stood on the periphery of the crowd which ringed the grave. In a high, reedy voice the chaplain recited the burial service and the coffin was lowered into ground so hard that it sorely taxed the muscles of the gravedigger. As the first handful of earth was tossed after Martin Reynard, the mourners tried to remember him for his good qualities and to forget the gruesome way in which he’d been killed. When people slowly began to disperse, Gervase saw the fair-haired young Saxon steal away, only to be intercepted by Thorkell of Warwick, who pointed an accusatory finger at him and said something which provoked a vigorous shaking of the other’s head. When the young man left there was quiet fury mingling with the sadness in Thorkell’s face.

On impulse, Gervase walked across to the old man and introduced himself. Pleasantly surprised to hear a royal commissioner talking in English, Thorkell was nevertheless wary.

‘What are you doing here, Master Bret?’ he asked.

‘Gathering information.’

‘About whom?’

‘Martin Reynard. Judging by the size of the congregation, he was a respected man who was well known in the town.’

‘Funerals are private matters. You had no place here.’

‘I did not come to intrude, my lord.’

‘Only to pry.’

‘Your reeve was to have appeared before us,’ said Gervase. ‘On your behalf. When our predecessors, the first commissioners, visited this town several months ago, they were impressed with the way that Martin Reynard spoke for your cause. You have lost a skilful advocate.’

‘I am all too aware of that.’

‘What interests me is whether his murder was a case of accident or design. The fact that he was killed days before our arrival here may not be entirely a coincidence.’

‘It was not.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Instinct.’

‘Does that instinct tell you who the murderer was, my lord?’

‘No,’ said Thorkell, ‘but it tells me who it was not.’

‘Boio the Blacksmith?’

‘He would never raise a hand against any man.’

‘The lord Henry believes otherwise.’

‘He does not know Boio as I do.’

‘Ednoth spoke of his gentle nature. He said how kind and even-tempered a man your blacksmith is. I have never met the fellow but he does not sound like a murder suspect to me.’

‘Have you voiced that opinion to the lord Henry?’

Gervase nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I did.’

‘Unfortunately?’

‘It brought his anger down upon my head. He upbraided me for poking my nose into the business and told me to let justice take its appointed course.’

‘Justice!’ Thorkell’s tone was rancorous. ‘What does the lord Henry know about justice? He should be out hunting down the real killer, not imprisoning one of my men on false evidence.’

‘But a witness saw Boio in the forest near the murder scene.’

‘Grimketel!’

‘Can his word be trusted?’

‘Not by me. Grimketel is a liar. He even had the gall to attend the funeral today. I spoke to the villain as he was leaving and demanded that he tell the truth. All I got was further lies.’

‘I watched you talking to the man,’ said Gervase.

‘I would as soon have struck the villain.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I do not believe that he saw Boio in the forest on the morning in question. It is a tale he invented. Grimketel is deliberately trying to throw suspicion on to him.’

‘For what reason?’

‘To embarrass me and to conceal the real killer.’

‘You think this Grimketel is in league with him?’

‘It would not surprise me.’

‘How can his evidence serve to embarrass you?’

‘Boio is my man. If he is convicted, I will be tainted.’

‘Why should this Grimketel work against you?’

‘To advantage his master.’

‘And who is that?’

‘Adam Reynard.’

Gervase was startled by the intelligence and it set his mind racing. Extensive land in the possession of Thorkell of Warwick was at the heart of the major dispute which the commissioners had come to resolve. Two claimants were contesting the ownership of the property and each seemed to have a legitimate cause for doing so. One of the claimants was Robert de Limesey, Bishop of Lichfield, currently domiciled in nearby Coventry, and the other was Adam Reynard, kinsman to Martin. In locking horns with Thorkell of Warwick’s reeve, Adam Reynard would have been fighting with his own blood relation. Gervase slowly began to realise the full implications of that situation.

‘Is he here today?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Adam Reynard.’

‘No, Master Bret.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he and Martin were hardly on speaking terms,’ said Thorkell gloomily. ‘They were only distant relations but Adam tried to use the blood tie for gain and urged Martin to give him covert help. When my reeve refused, he was roundly chastised, but he felt that his first duty was to his master.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Martin Reynard’s sense of duty to me may have proved fatal.’

‘You point a finger at his kinsman, then?’

‘He is a far more likely killer than Boio.’

‘Strong enough to crush his victim to death?’

‘No,’ admitted the other, ‘but rich enough to employ someone to do the office for him. I have no evidence to offer beyond my low opinion of Adam Reynard but I tell you this, Master Bret. Instead of torturing an innocent blacksmith, the lord Henry would be better employed asking stern questions of my reeve’s kinsman.’

‘What sort of kinsman fails to pay his respects at a family funeral?’

‘You may well ask.’

‘Yet he sent this Grimketel along?’

‘To act as his spy, the skulking devil!’

‘What exactly did you say to Grimketel?’

‘That is between me and his master.’

‘You sent a message to Adam Reynard?’

‘He knows my opinion of him and of that wretch he employs.’

Thorkell gestured to his men that it was time to leave and the four of them gathered around him. There was a bluntness about the thegn which convinced Gervase that he was telling the truth.

Thorkell was not one to dissemble. Though his manner with Gervase was polite, he made no effort to ingratiate himself with the young commissioner and that too weighed in his favour. As the old man turned to go, Gervase put out a hand to detain him briefly.

‘One last question, my lord.’

‘Ask it quickly. I have other business in hand.’

‘Why did your reeve quit his position at the castle?’

‘I begin to wish that he had not. It might have been his salvation.’

‘If the lord Henry held him in such high regard, why let him go?’

‘He did not, Master Bret.’

‘Oh?’

‘He expelled him from the castle.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘A personal matter,’ said Thorkell wearily. ‘I did not enquire into the details and Martin was too hurt to talk about the rift.’

‘Were you not curious?’

‘No. All that concerned me was that I was acquiring an able and experienced man. Martin Reynard may have left the castle under a cloud but he was beyond reproach in my service. The lord Henry was a fool to release such a man,’ he said sharply. ‘His loss was my gain.’

Pulling his cloak around him, he turned on his heel and led his men out of the churchyard, picking his way between the gravestones before disappearing around the angle of the church itself. A pensive Gervase watched him go. The few minutes in the company of Thorkell of Warwick had been a revelation. Before he could reflect on what he had learned, however, there was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find himself under the disapproving gaze of Henry Beaumont.

‘What are you doing here, Master Bret?’ he asked.

‘Every death deserves the tribute of a passing sigh.’

‘The lord Philippe warned me that you would be coming.’

‘Does my presence require a warning, my lord?’

‘You never even met Martin Reynard.’

‘I have now.’

There was a long silence. While Henry searched his face and tried to divine his real purpose in attending the funeral, Gervase made a mental note to be more careful what he said in front of Philippe Trouville now that he knew the latter would report it to their host. Their profitable session together in the shire hall had not bonded the commissioners in the way Gervase assumed.

Trouville’s discretion could not be counted on. It was more important for him to befriend the lord Henry than to show loyalty towards his colleagues.

Most of the mourners had now departed and only the family members remained at the grave, paying their last respects and being comforted by their parish priest. Gervase glanced across at them.

‘Martin Reynard has left much suffering in his wake,’ he said.

‘He was loved and respected by all.’

‘Your household was well represented here, my lord.’

‘Martin was part of it for many years.’

‘Until you dismissed him.’

Henry winced slightly. ‘That is a matter for regret.’

‘There must have been a serious falling out,’ said Gervase artlessly.

‘Who told you that? Thorkell of Warwick?’

‘He was the beneficiary of your argument with Martin Reynard.’

‘Do not believe everything that Thorkell tells you,’ said Henry quietly. ‘He is very old, often confused. And he is embittered.’

‘By what, my lord?’

‘My refusal to let him visit the murderer.’

‘Thorkell does not believe that Boio is the murderer.’

‘That is the reason I forbade him access.’

‘And is it the same reason you turned down my request?’

‘No, Master Bret,’ said Henry. ‘I resented your interference in a matter where you can be of no help whatsoever. Thorkell at least does have a personal involvement here. Boio is a freeman on his land. He will be very sorry to lose his blacksmith.’

‘Especially if there is some doubt about the fellow’s guilt.’

‘Not in my mind.’

‘What did he stand to gain from Reynard’s death?’

‘Do not apply your lawyer’s dictum of cui bono? here,’ said Henry with impatience. ‘It is not relevant. Boio is a halfwit. He does not think in terms of gain. Anger was motive enough for him.

Martin argued with him and the blacksmith flared up. It is as simple as that.’

‘Is that what he has admitted?’

‘Not yet. But he will.’

‘Under duress, most men will admit to anything.’

‘I have given him a second chance.’

‘Second chance, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry, glancing in the direction of the castle. ‘When I interrogated him with the aid of his priest, Boio was stubborn and would confess nothing. I resolved to loosen his tongue by other means. But your scribe persuaded me to let him speak with the prisoner, to offer him solace and sound him out at the same time. Brother Benedict is a wise and plausible man. I have a feeling that he will get the truth from the blacksmith. You see, Master Bret?’ he added with a thin smile. ‘I am not the cold, heartless monster you take me for. I believe in giving every man a fair chance to clear his name.’

His words had the ring of a taunt.

Boio had been given water with which to bathe his wound and clean himself up, and fresh straw had been brought to his cell, but these were less acts of kindness to the prisoner than preparations for lord Henry’s next visit, concessions to his sensitive nostrils. The dungeon still bore a noisome stench but it was nowhere near as overpowering as it had been. When Brother Benedict was shown into the cell, he was in no way troubled by the foul smell and daunting coldness, luxuriating in both as tribulations he cheerfully welcomed. Boio was alarmed to see his visitor, fearing that the monk had been sent to administer last rites before summary execution. The blacksmith began to gibber his innocence but Benedict calmed him with soft words in his own language and won his confidence by feeding him the scraps of bread and chicken which he had concealed in the sleeve of his cowl.

Boio was gradually reassured. He munched the food hungrily and gratefully. Benedict introduced himself, explained what brought him to the town and bided his time. Only when he felt that the prisoner was starting to relax did he even try to begin a proper dialogue with him.

‘Do you believe in God, my son?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ murmured Boio.

‘Have you prayed to him since you have been in here?’

‘Many times.’

‘What have you prayed for, Boio?’

‘To be let out.’

‘You did not pray for forgiveness?’

‘Forgiveness?’

‘For your sins. And for this terrible crime.’ He leaned in close. ‘It was a terrible crime, Boio, and you must confess it before God.’

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ said the other simply.

‘Tell the truth.’

‘It is the truth.’

‘You are accused of murder.’

‘I did not do it.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘As God is my witness,’ said Boio, wiping the back of his arm across his mouth. ‘I am not a murderer. I would never deliberately take anyone’s life. Even if I hated them.’

‘If that is a lie, you will burn in hell for it.’

‘No lie. No lie. No lie.’

It was the frightened whimper of a child. Benedict was touched.

He could see that the blacksmith was in a state of quiet panic.

The man did not know what was happening to him and lacked the intelligence to defend himself properly. As he looked into the big, bewildered face, the monk could not believe that he was being misled.

‘Let me ask you once more,’ he said. ‘Did you commit murder?’

‘No.’

‘Did you attack Martin Reynard?’

‘No, no, I swear it.’

‘Did you have an argument with him?’

Boio’s mouth opened to issue a denial but the words did not leave his lips. He seemed to be struggling with a dim memory.

He put a hand to his forehead as if to aid the process.

‘I think that I did,’ he said eventually.

‘You only think?’

‘It is what they say about me. It may be true.’

‘They also say that you murdered a man. Might that not also be true?’

‘No!’ said the other hotly. ‘I may forget some things but I would not forget that. I did not like Martin Reynard. He was unkind to me and to … But I did not murder him. Why should I?’

‘You tell me, Boio.’

‘I would never do that.’

‘Not even when someone made you angry?’

‘No, Brother Benedict.’

‘So people do make you angry sometimes?’

A long pause. ‘Sometimes.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘I turn away from them.’

‘Does the anger go away?’

‘Usually.’

‘But not always?’ Boio shook his head. ‘What do you do then?

When the anger does not go away, what do you do then?’

‘I walk in the forest, Brother Benedict.’

‘Alone?’

‘It is peaceful in the forest.’

‘Have you ever met Martin Reynard there?’

‘No.’

‘Someone says that you have.’

‘He is wrong.’

‘You were seen in the forest near the place where he was killed.’

‘That cannot be.’

‘The man has given a sworn statement.’

‘I was not there.’

‘It was shortly after dawn.’

‘I was not there. I told Father Ansgot. I was in my forge that morning. With the donkey. I had to shoe the donkey for the stranger.’

‘What stranger?’

‘He did not tell me his name.’

‘And he was riding a donkey?’

‘A miserable beast, no more than skin and bone.’

‘What did the man look like?’

Boio screwed his face up in pain. ‘I cannot remember.’

‘Your life may depend on it.’

‘I know, Brother Benedict. I have tried and tried.’

‘Try once again. For me. Will you?’ Boio nodded and the monk patted him encouragingly on the arm. ‘Was the man old or young?’

‘Old, I think.’

‘Did he dress well?’

‘His cloak was tattered.’

‘Yet he could afford to have his donkey shoed.’

‘He had no money.’

‘Then how were you paid?’

Boio consulted his memory again and there was another delay.

‘He gave me a bottle,’ he said at last.

‘A bottle? What was in it?’

‘Medicine. That was it, Brother Benedict. He had no money so he gave me the medicine instead. He said it would cure aches and pains.’

‘Was he some kind of doctor?’

Boio shrugged. ‘That is all I can tell you.’

‘Which way did he ride? Do you remember that?’

‘No.’

‘Did anyone else see this man at your forge?’

‘No, Brother Benedict.’

‘But he was there.’

‘Yes. With his donkey.’

‘And he can vouch for you? He can confirm that you were at your forge when this other witness claims you were in the forest?’

‘Yes,’ said Boio with excitement. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

‘Did you tell this to the lord Henry?’

The blacksmith’s face crumpled. ‘He did not believe me.’

‘But it is the truth?’

‘It is.’

‘This is not some story you invented?’ said Benedict, watching him through narrowed lids. ‘Come now, Boio. Be frank with me. If a man really did call at your forge that morning, I think you might remember a little more about him than you have. What did he say? What sort of voice did he have? Where had he come from?

How did he treat his animal? What was his trade? What kind of man was this stranger?’ His tone sharpened into accusation.

‘You cannot tell me, can you?’

‘No, Brother Benedict.’

‘Because there was no stranger.’

‘There was, there was.’

‘Only in your imagination.’

‘His donkey had cast a shoe.’

‘I think you went into the forest that morning.’

‘I was in my forge with the stranger.’

‘You met Martin Reynard and you came to blows.’

‘No, no!’

‘Is that how it started? With a fight? Then you got carried away and did not realise your own strength until it was too late and Martin was dead. So you hurried back to the forge and made up this tale about the stranger with the donkey.’

‘He came to my forge, Brother Benedict! I swear it.’

‘Then why has he disappeared into thin air?’

‘He came, he came.’

‘Do you want to burn in hell?’

‘No!’ howled the other and burst into tears. ‘Please — no!’

Brother Benedict put both arms around him and rocked him like a mother nursing a baby. The sobbing slowly abated and Boio wiped the tears from his eyes. He sat up and put his face close to the monk.

‘I am no murderer,’ he said gently. ‘That is God’s own truth.’

‘I know, my son. But I had to make sure.’

‘What else did the lady Marguerite say?’ demanded Ralph angrily.

‘Much more in the same vein.’

‘She is a viper!’

‘I have met nicer human beings, certainly,’ said Golde.

‘And she had the gall to pour scorn on you?’

‘Until I decided to strike back. The lady Marguerite soon curbed her arrogance then. I kept my calm as long as I could but no woman is going to crow over me like that with impunity. She is like so many of her kind: willing to wound but unable to face the prospect of retaliation.’

‘What did the lady Adela do throughout it all?’

‘Keep her composure.’

‘Was she not as offended as you?’

‘I think she was, Ralph, but she took care not to show it. Though there was a merry twinkle in her eye when I finally routed my attacker.’

Ralph chuckled. ‘I wish I had been there to see it!’

‘It could only have happened with you absent.’

‘Why is that, my love?’

‘Because you were the main target of her attack.’

‘Me?’

‘I fear so.’

When she recounted some of the things which had been said or implied about him, Ralph’s fury surged again and he paced their chamber restlessly, pounding a fist into the palm of one hand and muttering expletives under his breath. The idea that his wife had been shown such disrespect was galling enough but the comments about him were quite intolerable. He was all for tearing off to find the culprit so that he could confront her. Golde counselled tolerance.

‘Calm down, Ralph,’ she said. ‘If I had known that it would rouse you to this pitch, I would not have told you.’

‘I will not have my wife insulted.’ Ralph was scarlet with indignation.

‘Let me fight my own battles. I usually win in the end.’

‘That is true,’ he conceded with a wry grin. ‘But did that malevolent hag really say those things about me?’

‘Malevolent she may be, but no hag. The lady Marguerite is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen and I suspect that you would own as much if you were not so annoyed at her.’

‘She is very beautiful, Golde. I admit it.’

‘Any man would be attracted to her.’

‘At first, perhaps, until her true character came to light. The lady Marguerite may be beautiful on the outside but she is ugliness itself on the inside.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I almost envied the lord Philippe when I first clapped eyes on her but I pity the fellow now.’

‘They are two of a pair, Ralph.’

‘Yes, you may be right.’

‘Drawn together by their mutual desire.’

‘Why, so were we, my love. Have you so soon forgot?’

‘Their desire is of a different nature. Political ambition.’

‘I hate people who lust after power.’

‘We are travelling with two of them.’

‘Which is the worse?’ he mused. ‘The noisy husband or the conceited wife? The crusty old soldier or the young siren?’

‘Each is as bad as the other. They are well matched.’

‘Yet the lord Philippe did not wish to bring her with us.’

‘Can you blame him?’ she said. ‘His wife will not let him rest until he has fulfilled his greatest ambitions. She drives him on relentlessly and expects to be the consort of a sheriff before too long.’

‘That, alas, is not impossible.’

‘Would the King be taken in by him?’

‘If he garners recommendation enough.’

‘But the lord Philippe is such a boor.’

‘That never stopped others from becoming sheriff,’ Ralph said with bitterness. ‘Indeed, it might almost be one of the qualifications for such high office. Think of some of the sheriffs whom we’ve encountered along the way — not least that oaf in your home town of Hereford.’

‘I would prefer to forget him!’ she sighed. ‘He was one of the most despicable men I have ever met.’

‘Wait until you get to know the lord Philippe better.’

‘Is he so objectionable?’

‘The signs are all there.’

Ralph sat on a stool and rested against the wall with his hands clasped behind his head. He surveyed her with smiling affection, then nodded sagely.

‘Beautiful on the outside — and the inside.’

‘How do I compare with the lady Marguerite?’

‘She pales into invisibility beside you, my love.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘Why not? I do it so well.’

She gave him a playful nudge then lowered herself on to his knee. Slipping an arm around his shoulder, she recalled some of the charges earlier made against her and pondered.

‘Ralph,’ she said at length.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘There may be a grain of truth in what she said.’

‘The lady Marguerite?’

‘In some senses I do hold you back.’

‘That is why I married you.’

‘I am serious. You are ten times the man that the lord Philippe is yet he is more likely to attain high office. Is that partly my fault?’

‘No, Golde.’

‘Should I be urging you on to fulfil your promise?’

‘Not if you wish to stay married to me.’

‘But you would make a fine sheriff.’

‘I would rather be a loving husband,’ he said firmly, ‘and, in my experience, a man cannot be both. Look at the lady Albreda in Exeter. Neglected and ignored because her husband is too busy coping with his shrievalty even to notice her. And the same goes for all the other wives of sheriffs whom we have met. They enjoy status but little beyond it.’

‘That would suit some women.’

‘You are not one of them, Golde. Nor would I subject you to that kind of existence. A sheriff may have power and wealth but he also has the most awesome responsibilities. I wish to be spared those.’

‘As long as I am not blighting your career.’

‘You are my career!’ he said with a laugh. ‘When I am able to enjoy it, that is. For the moment, the King of England comes between us but that will soon change.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I hope.’

Heedless of the fact that they would have to return to Warwick after dark, Gervase Bret and Brother Benedict left the town by the north gate and goaded their horses into a steady canter.

They only had a few miles to ride but the evening light was already beginning to fade and the breeze was stiffening. Gervase did not mind. Benedict’s account of his visit to the prisoner convinced him that they must act swiftly to help the man. Nobody else would do so.

‘Who was this mysterious stranger?’ Gervase asked Benedict.

‘I have no notion.’

‘Why does Boio remember so little about him?’

‘I am surprised that the poor soul remembers anything. They have him chained hand and foot and locked away in a fetid dungeon. He has been denied food and water and there was the most fearsome wound on his scalp. He has been cruelly treated.’

‘There may be much worse to come.’

‘That is why I am anxious to help him.’

‘Did you report your conversation to the lord Henry?’

‘Most of it,’ said Benedict with a private smile.

‘How did he react?’

‘Badly.’

‘That does not surprise me,’ said Gervase. ‘He has already made up his mind that the blacksmith is the murderer. The lord Henry would not believe for a second that this stranger with the donkey exists.’

‘To all intents and purposes, he does not,’ said the monk, a rare frown eclipsing his customary smile. ‘Unless we can somehow trace him.’

‘We will.’

They rode on along the hard track until the road curved between an outcrop of elms, now shorn of their leaves but still blocking out the view with their looming bulk. When the road straightened and the trees thinned out, the riders saw the forge up ahead, a straggle of buildings which leaned against each other for support like drunken revellers too unsteady on their feet to attempt movement. Forge, stable, house, barn and shed were in a fairly dilapidated state but they seemed a natural habitat for the shambling blacksmith. Reaching their destination, the two men reined in their horses and dismounted before approaching the forge. The door was unlocked and the whole place had a deserted air but, as soon as they went in, they sensed that they were not alone.

‘Is anyone here?’ called Gervase, one hand on his dagger.

‘We come as friends of Boio!’ added Benedict.

‘We are trying to help him.’

There was a grating noise from the rear of the forge, then a figure slowly emerged from behind a pile of logs. Large frightened eyes studied them closely before she came out of her hiding place completely. Gervase and Benedict held their ground but said nothing. The woman was only in her twenties but her ample girth and rough attire added years to her. She had a plump face with a snub nose and might even have been accounted comely if it had not been for the thick eyebrows. When she came forward into what was left of the light, they saw that a hare lip further disfigured her appearance. It also distorted her speech.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

Gervase pointed to himself and his companion in turn.

‘My name is Gervase Bret and this is Brother Benedict. We are guests of the lord Henry at the castle. That is where Boio is being held.’

‘Why?’

‘On a charge of murder.’

The woman gaped. ‘Boio would not kill anyone.’

‘That was the impression I had,’ said Benedict.

‘He is the kindest man I have ever met.’

‘You are his friend?’

‘I clean his house,’ she mumbled, almost blushing. ‘From time to time. When I came today, there was no sign of him and the fire had burned itself out. That meant trouble. Boio never lets the fire die.’

‘When did you last call here?’ said Gervase.

‘At the start of the week.’

‘Were you here when Martin Reynard called?’

She nodded and took an involuntary step backwards.

‘What about the stranger with the donkey?’ asked Benedict.

‘Donkey?’

‘Do you know anything about the man?’

‘No. Who was he?’

‘That is what we are hoping to find out. When I saw Boio today, he swore to me that this man had called here early one morning to have his donkey shoed. It is vital that we find him,’ said Benedict.

‘The stranger’s testimony may help to save the blacksmith.’

‘How?’

‘Let us find evidence that he was here first,’ said Gervase, looking around. ‘Boio spoke of a bottle which the man gave him in payment for his services. A bottle of medicine. Have you seen such a thing?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but I have not been here long.’

‘If it existed, where would Boio keep it?’

‘In his cupboard,’ she said, moving familiarly into the house.

They followed her as she crossed the sunken floor of the little room. A rough wooden cupboard stood against a wall and she lifted the latch to open it. Her eyes ran swiftly over the contents.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There is no bottle here.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Benedict. ‘Boio swore that he had it.’

‘There is nothing.’ There was a long pause as she burrowed through the jumble of items in the cupboard. ‘Unless this is it.’

In her hand was a tiny stone bottle with a cork stopper in it.

‘Have you ever seen that before?’ said Gervase.

‘No, never.’

‘When did you last look in that cupboard?’

‘At the start of the week when I put everything away.’

‘Then it must have come here after your visit.’ Gervase felt quite excited at the discovery. ‘The stranger did exist and he did pay Boio with a bottle of medicine.’ He held out his hand. ‘May I see it, please?’

Still wary of them, she surrendered the bottle. Gervase uncorked it, took a sniff then passed it to Benedict, who repeated the process.

‘A herbal compound,’ said the monk. ‘Though what its exact contents are, I could not guess. But this is an important start, Gervase. It is clear evidence that Boio was telling me the truth.

We must take this back to the lord Henry and confront him with it. A search for this stranger can then be instituted.’

‘What of Boio?’ said the woman, eyes widening in fear.

‘He will remain at the castle for the time being,’ said Gervase.

‘Will they hurt him?’

*

*

*

Four guards were needed to haul him to his feet and pin him against the wall of the dungeon. When Henry Beaumont stepped into the cell, he was accompanied by his armourer, who held a sizzling poker in his thick leather gloves. Acrid smoke rose from its tip. Henry was annoyed when the prisoner did not even flinch.

‘Start on his arm!’ he ordered. ‘We’ll see how brave he really is!’