The Lions of the North

CHAPTER TEN

Tanchelm of Ghent had been methodical. As he retraced the man’s footsteps through the city, Ralph Delchard came to admire both his energy and his application. Tanchelm had spoken with almost everyone of significance in York. Through the unwitting channel of Canon Hubert, he had even put indirect questions to Archbishop Thomas at the minster. The Fleming had used the disguise of innocent curiosity and the information had come flowing in.

Some of what he had learned was irrelevant to his needs and much of it was too trivial even to remember, but Tanchelm had separated the wheat from the chaff as he went along. Ralph found his own work as a commissioner fatiguing and all-consuming. It was astonishing to him that his former colleague sat on a tribunal all day yet still found time to explore the city, to meet its denizens and to garner intelligence from a wide variety of sources.

Ralph talked to many of those who had talked to Tanchelm. They all told the same story. He was an astute and personable man with an insatiable interest in everything around him. Nobody seemed to suspect for one second that his interest might have a deeper purpose.

Hours of painstaking research left Ralph weary. He amazed himself by seeking out the company of Canon Hubert in the minster precinct.

“My lord?”

“Is there somewhere we may sit down? My feet ache.”

“Step this way.”

Hubert conducted him to a stone bench and they sat down beside each other, dwarfed by the minster behind them. A fastidious man, the canon wrinkled his nose with disgust as he caught an unpleasant odour.

“Fish!” he said.

“I have been to the harbour. They were unloading their catch.”

“You smell like part of it, my lord.”

“Then sit further off if it offends you.”

“What were you doing by the river?”

“Watching the boats come in. Talking to the sailors.”

“Why?”

“My lord Tanchelm did the same thing, it seems. I was searching for someone who might have spoken to him and who remembers what he said. Even the tiniest clue may be valuable.” He saw Hubert’s pained expression. “Stop sniffing away like a dog at a rabbit hole.”

“It is such a pernicious aroma, my lord.”

“It will wear off.”

Ralph did not tell him what he had discovered at the harbour.

Tanchelm’s affable enquiries had been directed at fishermen who had sailed up the Ouse from the North Sea. He wanted to know about the movements of vessels off the coast and the state of the tides. His particular interest was in how long it would take a boat to sail around Spurn Point, up the Humber Estuary and thence into the River Ouse.

Hubert slipped into his familiar mode of condescension.

“While you were conversing with fishermen,” he said, “I was speaking with Archbishop Thomas. He sent for me.”

“To excommunicate you?”

“To ask about the murder of my lord Tanchelm.”

“It has reached the ears of an archbishop?”

“Everything of importance in this diocese reaches Thomas of Bayeux.

The Church is a fount of knowledge. No man understood that better than our late colleague, for he made extensive use of the fact. That is how his name came into the hearing of Archbishop Thomas.”

“Tanchelm?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go on.”

“It seems that he was conducting an inquiry here.”

“At the minster?”

“Apparently so.” Hubert sounded peeved. “I have to say that I took it amiss at first. Brother Simon and I had already furnished him with so much information about the minster. What need did he have of more?”

“I have no idea,” said Ralph artlessly.

“And why did he not mention it to me?”

“It?”

“His clandestine inquiry. When he had drained us of all that we could tell, he turned his attention, it now emerges, to other figures in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The provost, the dean, the treasurer, the precentor, even the master of the schools. All were quizzed about the comings and goings at the minster.” He stared pointedly at Ralph.

“And the comings and goings in York itself. The Church never sleeps.

Its eyes watch over the whole city.”

“What did the archbishop say?”

“He told me of this startling curiosity.”

“And?”

“He wondered if I could account for it.”

“What did you say, Canon Hubert?”

“The truth,” said the other. “That I could not. I did not know my lord Tanchelm well enough to discern the real nature of his interest.”

“Did that answer satisfy him?”

“Yes, my lord. Archbishop Thomas asked what progress had been made in the murder investigation, then promised to include my lord Tanchelm in his prayers.”

“That is kind,” said Ralph seriously. “I will mention that to his widow. It might bring a crumb of comfort.” He saw the shrewd look in Hubert’s eye. “Why are you staring at me like that? If you are going to tell me yet again that I stink of fish, I shall get up and walk away.”

“My nose detects something other than fish.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are keeping something from me.”

“Why on earth should I do that?”

“For reasons of your own. I will not pry, my lord. But let me say this.

I am not a fool. You found my lord Tanchelm searching the harbour for information. I now learn that he was equally inquisitive here.”

“Why, so was Golde,” said Ralph airily. “She visited the harbour with my lord Aubrey, then he showed her every nook and cranny of the minster.”

“There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

“She saw only with the eyes of an innocent traveller.”

“What are you saying, Canon Hubert?”

“I believe that my lord Tanchelm’s death may somehow have been connected with his strange curiosity. I do not wish to know any details. They do not concern me. But I would say one thing.”

“Well?”

“I am part of this, my lord. Use me.”

“In what way?”

“Any way that will help. I, too, can ask questions. And I can get to people and places beyond your reach. Use me.”

Ralph’s face was inscrutable but his mind was whirring. He had underestimated his rotund colleague and that was a mistake. Canon Hubert had caught the whiff of subterfuge. Having come to get certain information by stealth from him, Ralph now wondered if a more direct approach was possible. Hubert might prove an unlikely ally.

“I have no comment to make on Tanchelm,” he said. “His reasons for being here lie in the coffin with him.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“But there is a favour I would ask.”

“It is yours.”

“How trustworthy is Brother Francis?”

“Brother Francis?”

“Is he discreet?”

“I have always thought so.”

“Sound him out for me.”

“Why, my lord?”

“Just sound him out.”

Canon Hubert beamed. “I will.”

“Thank you.”

Ralph rose from the bench. His companion sniffed again.

“The stink of fish has gone, my lord.”

“Has it?”

“Yes,” said Hubert. “You smell of horse again.”

The castle was small but well fortified, and its position on the ridge allowed it to command an excellent view in all directions. Halfdan was seen a mile away by the sentry above the gate. Long before he reached the palisade, he was told to stop and state his business. When Halfdan announced that he would speak only with Nigel Arbarbonel, the guard was minded to send him on his way with an earful of abuse and a torrent of threats, but the visitor was persistent and held his ground, claiming that he had something to impart of a personal nature to the castellan. The guard decided that he might be one of the many paid informers used by his master. He was admitted.

Nigel Arbarbonel was duly summoned.

“How do I know this is not some kind of ruse?” he said.

“I swear a solemn oath, my lord.”

“Only an idiot would trust your word.”

“Then keep me here as a hostage,” volunteered Halfdan. “If anything happens to you, let your men kill me.”

Nigel sensed that his unprepossessing guest was telling the truth.

His offer was certainly an attractive one.

“Tell me more about this girl,” he said.

“She is very comely, my lord.”

“What is her name?”

“She would not say.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen, eighteen. Not much more.”

“The right age,” mused Nigel. “Firm and healthy?”

“Yes, my lord. And of good family. She has breeding.”

“Is she a virgin?”

“No question of that.”

“I will not look at her else.”

“She is a maid, my lord. Take my word. She has the bloom still upon her. I envy the man who relieves her of her maidenhood. She is beautiful.”

“I will come,” he decided.

“And how much will you give us for her?”

“I do not know until I have seen the girl.”

“Murdac told us you would pay handsomely.”

“Why, so I will if she fits your description.” He took Halfdan by the throat. “If she does not, I will cut your tongue out so that you cannot lie again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the other, backing away.

Nigel Arbarbonel shouted orders to his men, and six men were soon in the saddle behind him. He nudged Halfdan.

“Lead me to her,” he said. “You have whetted my appetite.”

Riding in the company of Olaf Evil Child was an education to Gervase Bret. When he travelled with his colleagues, they moved steadily along a main highway with a sizeable escort. Olaf and his band shunned the roads altogether. Scouts were sent on ahead to reconnoitre. When the others moved, they did so in short bursts, galloping across open ground until they found fresh cover, then resting until the next stage of their journey had been ratified by the scouts.

They had been kind to him. Olaf had dressed his wound and loaned him a horse. Ragnar Longfoot had confirmed that Inga was a good friend and he was most anxious to rescue her. During the search, Gervase tried to stay beside Olaf.

“How did you get your name?” he asked.

“From my father.”

“Sweinn Redbeard?”

“He did not like me at first.”

“Your own father?”

“When I was born, I was puny,” said Olaf. “So I am told. My father could not believe that such a strong man as he could produce such a weak son. It was an insult he could not bear. He gave me a name that made me sound frightening. Olaf Evil Child. There is strength in a name like that.”

“It does not become you.”

The other laughed. “It serves its purpose.”

They were waiting in a grove until the scouts signalled their next advance. There was no sign of weakness in Olaf now. Gervase had observed his physical power and his strength of mind. He was a natural leader. The others deferred to him at all times and he never had to enforce his primacy.

Olaf saw the wave from the distant hilltop.

“They have found something! Come on!”

Gervase was too slow to keep up with him this time. Olaf set off at a gallop with his men behind him in a tight cluster. They went up the wooded slope until they reached the crest. Gervase was the last to arrive.

The man was on the ground, cowering before Olaf’s spear.

“Where is she?”

“I do not know,” blubbered the captive.

“Where is the camp?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Would you rather die here?”

“No, no!” he pleaded. “Spare me.”

Gervase was overtaken by the certainty of recognition.

“He was part of the ambush,” he said. “Who is he?”

“One of Murdac’s men.”

“Murdac?”

“Yes,” said Olaf. “Pray hard for your young friend.”

“Why?” said Gervase.

“She could not have fallen into worse hands.”

Murder made him suspicious of everyone. Ralph Delchard was reading significance into every word and deed of those around him and it was hampering his investigation. Innocence should be presumed unless guilt was conclusively proven. He told himself to collect sufficient evidence before he rushed to judgement again. Aubrey Maminot was entitled to speak with Brother Francis if he wished. Nigel Arbarbonel should be allowed to endow the Abbey of St. Mary without being mis-trusted. The name of Robert Brossard should not be under a shadow simply because it was due to come before Tanchelm of Ghent in a property dispute. Men should not be condemned out of hand because they were half-brothers.

Ralph saw how sceptical he had become and it made him feel slightly ashamed. Aubrey was an old friend who was giving them the warmest hospitality, yet he was being repaid with deception and distrust. If Ralph had even the remotest doubts about him, the best way to dispel them was to raise them with Aubrey himself.

“Our work suffers while this continues,” said Ralph. “It will not be easy to take up the reins again once this crime is solved.”

“Then take them up right now,” urged Aubrey Maminot. “My lord sheriff and I have resources enough to pursue the killer. Resume the work that brought you to York.”

“I could not do so with a clear conscience. Tanchelm was my fellow.

I have an obligation to solve his murder myself.”

“Then let the others act in your stead. Canon Hubert and Gervase are worthy judges. They will manage alone.”

“No, Aubrey. We are all of one mind. Tanchelm’s death must first be redeemed, then all three of us will sit together as before with Brother Simon as our scribe.” He clicked his tongue. “The murder enforces a double loss. A valued colleague is taken from us but so is Brother Francis. I will be sorry to lose his cheerful presence.”

“Yes,” said Aubrey. “He is an amiable fellow.”

“You know him, then?”

“Exceeding well. Herleve is a patron of the abbey. I never thought to waste my wealth on a collection of black cowls but there’s no help for it. My wife must be kept content. And the abbey was the lesser of two evils.”

“Evils?”

“Herleve was desirous of founding a convent.”

Ralph chuckled. “I cannot see Aubrey Maminot in the company of holy nuns!”

“A defiance of nature! Such cruel waste!”

“So you chose the abbey instead.”

“Yes, Ralph,” said the other. “The monastic ideal is no more use to me than a hole in the head but I am interested in design and structure.

When this castle was rebuilt, I helped to plan it. That is why Brother Francis is so useful to me.”

“Useful?”

“He keeps me informed of the building of the abbey at every stage.

And he does so with a touch of merriment. He is the only monk I have met who does not make me feel sinful.”

“Yes. Brother Francis is a tolerant Christian.”

“It comes from his having lived in the world before taking the cowl,”

said Aubrey. “The fellow bore arms in his youth. He is no pale imita-tion of a real man like your Brother Simon.”

Ralph was reassured. Finding his host in the solar, he was glad that he had raised the subject of his jovial scribe. It encouraged him to touch on another matter that had aroused his suspicion.

“You helped to plan this castle, you say?”

“After it was destroyed,” said Aubrey. “I did not move the site or alter the basic shape but I introduced many improvements. The keep was reconstructed to my design.”

“Did that include the lions’ cage?”

“Of course. It was built into the base of the tower so that Romulus and Remus could be released onto the mound. Fresh air blows in through the bars to combat their smell.”

“I noticed a trapdoor in the bottom of the cage.”

Aubrey grinned. “And what did you think it was?”

“I have no notion.”

“A wine cellar? A treasure house? A secret room where I keep a bevy of mistresses? No, Ralph,” he said easily. “It is no more than a vault where we store the herbs to lend some fragrance to Romulus and Remus.”

“I guessed it might have some such purpose.”

“They guard it well. My lions would allow nobody into that vault except Ludovico and myself. It is the most well-defended part of the castle.” He grinned again. “If the keep were ever stormed, that is where I would hide.”

Inga lay on the ground in silent agony. Ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, her back was aching and she was starting to feel the first twinges of cramp. Her physical discomfort was mild compared to her mental torment. Everything was lost. Instead of finding Ragnar Longfoot, she would be sold off to Nigel Arbarbonel like a side of meat in York market and subjected to the most unspeakable treat-ment. If rumours were to be believed, Inga would not be the first young woman to vanish behind the walls of his castle. Her fate was linked to that of her mother and Brunn the Priest. Intolerable pain would be inflicted on both of them.

Even as she contemplated her own hideous destiny, she found time to spare a thought for Gervase Bret. A fearful blow had knocked him from his horse. He might still be lying on the road, bleeding to death.

Inga felt strangely culpable. If she had not been with him, it might have been different. He offered her friendship but all she brought him was bad fortune. It was Gervase who had told her about Toki and he had done so with a gentleness and concern that touched her. But for him, she might never have known what happened to her beloved Toki.

Rough hands seized her and dragged her backwards.

“Sit up for him,” said Murdac gruffly. “He’ll want a proper look at you, girl.”

“Let go of me!” she protested.

“We’ll have you here, I think.”

Murdac propped her up against a tree and stood back to appraise her. Jeers came from the other men. Their ribald comments and lustful glances burned into her brain. She was entirely at their mercy and she knew that there was worse to come. When she heard the approach of horses, she froze with apprehension.

The outlaws rose to their feet as Halfdan led the way into the clearing. Nigel Arbarbonel and his men drew up in a semicircle. When he saw his prize, trussed up and helpless, he burst into harsh laughter.

“I’ll have her!” he insisted. “Whatever the price.”

“She does not come cheap, my lord,” said Murdac.

“You’ll get your money.”

“We knew she would take your eye.”

“She does,” said Nigel, dropping to the ground. “You could not have found me a finer gift. She is mine!”

He strode across to Inga and stood over her with his legs apart and arms akimbo. There was a world of mockery in his voice.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Keeping company with such foul ruffians?”

“Go away!” she exclaimed.

“But I have come to save you, Inga.”

Murdac blinked. “You know her, my lord?”

“Oh, yes. I know her but I intend to know her a lot better before I have finished with her.” The others grinned. “Inga and I are old friends.”

“I am no friend of yours!” she protested. “And you will not get away with this. They will come after you.”

“Who will?” he taunted. “Your mother? The valiant priest? We would all quake in our shoes before him! No, Inga. Nobody will come. You are just one more traveller who disappeared on a lonely road. Everyone will think that you were caught and killed by outlaws.”

“Caught, my lord,” said Halfdan, “but never killed. I’d have kept her alive to serve my pleasure.”

Nigel smiled. “You see what I rescue you from, Inga?”

“The bargain, my lord,” prompted Murdac. “It is not yet struck. How much will she fetch?”

“This much.”

Nigel detached a large purse from his belt and tossed it to the leader of the outlaws. Murdac opened it and dug his hands joyfully into the coins.

“The deal is done, my lord. Take her.”

“Yes,” said Halfdan, standing beside the tree. “And when you have done with her, bring her back to me. I’ll ride her hard when she’s been broken in!”

The outlaws guffawed but their amusement was curtailed. Thrown with venom, a spear came out of nowhere to pierce Halfdan’s throat before sinking into the trunk of the tree and impaling him. Armed men converged on the camp from all sides. As Murdac reached for his dagger, Eric’s club knocked him senseless. Before Nigel could draw his sword, two spears prodded his chest. Surprise gave the attackers a supreme advantage. Soldiers and outlaws were held captive.

Olaf Evil Child came into the middle of the clearing.

“Release her,” he said.

Inga was delighted when Gervase Bret ran across to sever her bonds and lift her up. As she looked gratefully around at the others, she saw the face of Ragnar Longfoot.

“I threw the spear,” he said proudly. “He will never use that filthy tongue on you again.”

Olaf strode over to confront Nigel Arbarbonel.

“You surprise me, my lord,” he said with sarcasm. “I did not think to find you paying for something. You and your half-brother have always taken what you want in the past. You stole Thorbrand’s holdings while Robert Brossard stole mine. No coins changed hands in those transac-tions.”

Nigel glowered. “I’ll not be taught morality by an outlaw.”

“It takes a thief to catch a thief.”

“And now that you have caught me,” challenged the other, “what will you do? Put me on trial in York? They will clap you in irons as soon as they set eyes on you, Olaf. Who would take the word of an outcast over that of a Norman lord?”

“I would!” affirmed Gervase Bret.

“Keep out of this argument,” warned Nigel.

“I belong in it, my lord. I was with Inga when she was abducted.

Anything that concerns her safety involves me.”

“I say the same!” vouched Ragnar Longfoot.

“Take him to York!” urged Gervase. “To face trial.”

“What is my crime?” said Nigel with a contemptuous smile. “Paying for my pleasure with a woman? You’ll not find many men to condemn me for that. They keep the city whores well fed with their own expen-ditures.”

“Inga is no whore!” asserted Ragnar, advancing on him with a dagger.

“You will pay for that insult.”

Olaf raised a hand to stop him. “No, Ragnar. He is mine. I have waited long for this chance. When I chase a rat, I like to kill him myself.”

“Brave words when you hold the advantage,” said Nigel. “How brave are you when we meet on equal footing?”

“Let us find out, my lord.”

Olaf signalled to the men whose spears still pointed at Nigel Arbarbonel’s heart. They withdrew a few paces. Nigel gave a confident laugh, pleased to have tempted Olaf into a combat that the outlaw was bound to lose. Gervase tried to prevent the fight but Olaf would not even hear his argument. Everyone moved back to give the adversaries more space. Inga was alarmed. It was largely because of her that the outlaw was being pitted against Nigel Arbarbonel. Having already rescued her, Olaf was now risking his life unnecessarily.

She ran forward to grab at his arm.

“No,” she pleaded. “Do not fight him.”

“I must,” said Olaf.

“He will betray you.”

“Have no fear for me.”

“But I do!”

He was touched by her concern and mesmerised for a second by the earnest beauty of her face but it did not deflect him. He signalled to Ragnar Longfoot, who detached Inga and led her to stand beside Gervase at the edge of the clearing. She looked on with mounting anxiety.

Olaf first wanted to clarify the rules of combat.

“Choose your weapons, my lord.”

“Sword and dagger.”

“What happens if I lose?”

“I’ll throw you over a horse and take you into York. Aubrey Maminot will pay handsomely for your pelt.”

“Inga must not be touched.”

Nigel scowled. “If I win, she is mine.”

“Never!” insisted Olaf.

“I’ll see that no harm comes to her,” said Gervase.

“So will I!” vowed Ragnar.

Nigel Arbarbonel stared across at her, loath to relinquish such a prize. To have her as his prisoner would feed all his fantasies. There was such a crude amalgam of lust and anger in his eyes that Inga could not meet his gaze. She was glad when Gervase put a protective arm around her.

“Well?” pressed Olaf.

“She will go free,” promised Nigel sourly.

“And if I win?”

“There is no hope of that!”

“We shall see, my lord. But if I do, I want it known that you were not murdered. You were killed in fair combat on your own terms. Order your men to bear honest witness.”

“That eventuality will not arise.”

Nigel looked across at his men and they grinned back. Confident of their master’s success, they gave their word that Olaf would not be branded a murderer.

“I, too, will bear witness!” said Gervase.

“So will I!” added Inga.

“There!” mocked Nigel. “You have the word of a royal commissioner and that of a girl. Will that content you?”

“No, my lord. Only your death will do that.”

The preliminaries were over. Both men drew sword and dagger before circling each other with menace. Gervase feared for his new friend.

Olaf moved like a skilled warrior but he wore only a rough tunic and gartered trousers. Nigel Arbarbonel was in a mailed hauberk and a glinting helm, his face and neck shielded by a mailed coif. A glancing blow would only bruise him but it would draw blood from Olaf Evil Child.

Inga tensed as the Norman struck first, wielding his heavy sword with a practised arm to deliver a flurry of strokes. Olaf parried them with his own blade but he was driven slowly backwards. Nigel’s eyes gleamed on either side of his iron nasal.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said. “I’d have shown you no mercy. You’d have been cut down where you stood.

Like this!”

He launched another barrage but Olaf took only the first few blows on his sword before dodging out of range. When his adversary moved in to slice at his neck, Olaf ducked. As the sword tried to smash his legs from beneath him, he jumped over it and retreated to the other side of the clearing. Nigel cursed and lumbered after him but his opponent would not stand and fight. Olaf preferred to parry some blows, strike back with a few of his own, then skip out of reach of the scyth-ing weapon in the other’s gauntlet.

“Turn and fight, you coward!” yelled Nigel.

“Come and catch me, my lord.”

Olaf’s mobility was taxing Nigel’s superior strength. As the Norman lunged and flailed again, he was panting stertorously. Olaf replied with a relay of blows from his own sword, one of which glanced off the other’s shoulder. Nigel was enraged. Charging forward with renewed vigour, he swung and jabbed until he forced his man back across the clearing. Olaf’s nimbleness was his own downfall. As he tried to hop back out of range, he tripped over the body of Murdac, which lay behind him on the ground.

“No!” gulped Inga, trying to move to his aid.

“Stay!” cautioned Gervase, tightening his hold.

Nigel lurched after his man, bringing his sword down with a ferocity that would have cleaved his head in two had not Olaf rolled out of the way in time. The fall was costly. As the outlaw tried to rise, Nigel stamped hard on his sword to jerk it from his grasp. One small dagger now stood between Olaf Evil Child and certain defeat.

“Stop him!” shouted Inga. “Someone stop him!”

But nobody moved. Nigel Arbarbonel let out a macabre chuckle but the fight was not over yet. As he came in for the kill, he was wheezing more than ever and he had slowed down. The flashing sword missed Olaf by a foot.

When he tried to run after his quarry, Nigel was far too ponderous.

Olaf danced around him and jumped on him from behind, a forearm across his neck to heave him backwards. They hit the ground with a thud and rolled over. Nigel’s sword was knocked from his hand but his dagger was slashing violently. Olaf grabbed the wrist that held the weapon and tried to stab on his own account. Nigel was a resourceful opponent, twisting around to grab Olaf’s wrist, then squeezing it hard with his mailed palm.

It was now a trial of strength. Each dagger drew wild circles in the air as the men tried to attack and defend at the same time. Nigel was now on top and his weight was tilting the balance his way. Olaf was gasping as he strove to hold back the other’s jabbing wrist. As Nigel thrust harder, the end of his dagger scored Olaf’s face and blood gushed down his cheek. Inga quivered with fear and the other outlaws braced themselves against the outcome. Their leader seemed to be doomed.

But Olaf Evil Child suddenly revived. Pain drew a fresh burst of strength from him. With a concerted heave, he pushed Nigel off and the two of them rolled over and over, pushing the onlookers even further back and remaining locked in position until they bumped into the trunk of a tree. Nigel Arbarbonel ended on top again but it was he who emitted a cry of anguish before dropping his weapon and slumping forward. When they lifted him off, they found Olaf’s dagger embedded to the hilt in his eye.

The wounded outlaw got slowly to his feet.

“You saw what happened,” he said to Nigel’s men.

“So did we all,” said Gervase.

“Thank God!” said Inga, breaking free to run across to the victor.

“You’re safe. You’re alive.”

Olaf Evil Child had not only rescued her, he had killed the man who stalked her so relentlessly. Throwing her arms around the outlaw, she kissed him impulsively on his bloodstained cheek.

Canon Hubert did not have to wait long for the opportunity to accost Brother Francis. They met in the cloisters not long before Vespers.

Francis had his hands tucked in his sleeves and his head lowered in meditation. He looked up to find Hubert in front of him and the ready smile flowered.

“It is good to have you in York, Canon Hubert.”

“I would much rather be in Winchester,” said the other. “To be candid, Brother Francis, I wish that I had stayed in Bec, where I was subprior. Brother Simon, too. The Rule was strictly observed at the abbey and that contented us.”

“I have heard Brother Simon on this very topic.”

“He is too meek for this sinful world.”

“But you seem more robust.”

“Thank you,” said Hubert graciously. “But you, too, have earned congratulations. You served my colleagues well, by all accounts. They both praised your penmanship.”

“That gratifies me more than I can say.”

“Where did you learn your art?”

“At Lastingham when I took my vows.”

“So far north?”

“I fled there from my former life, Canon Hubert.”

“Former life?”

“I was a soldier. I bore arms against the Scots.”

“Happy is the man who has renounced violence.”

“It changed me,” said Francis soulfully. “Killing an enemy gave me no satisfaction. Only revulsion. It changed me. I fled to Lastingham and the monks took me in. I have known the true wickedness of the world and so have sought the cloister.”

“Yours is a heartening tale.”

“I found redemption. Most do not.”

“What brought you to York?”

“The abbot’s invitation,” said the other. “It could not be ignored. He asked me to become involved in the building of the abbey. Inspiring work. I dedicate my life to it.”

“Do you have funds sufficient for the task?”

“Not yet, Canon Hubert, but we will. That is partly my responsibility.

To find what patrons we may in the city. I have had some modest success,” he said with a smile. “It was I who drew my lord Aubrey in and, through him, others of distinction in the county. My days in armour were not in vain, after all.”

“In armour.”

“That is how I met my lord Aubrey. As a soldier.”

“You served with him?”

“Beneath his command. He remembered me.”

“Was he not surprised to see a soldier turned monk?”

“Yes,” said Francis, “but he did not take it amiss. Between us, his wife and I persuaded him of the abbey’s needs and he has become our benefactor.”

“I am pleased to hear that. One more thing …”

“It must wait, Canon Hubert. Vespers is upon us.”

“The bell has not yet rung.”

“It will. This instant.”

Even as he spoke, the minster bell began to toll. With a farewell smile, Brother Francis tucked his hands into his sleeves once more and shuffled quickly away.

Suspending the work of the tribunal was a regrettable decision because it lengthened their stay in York indefinitely. There was an incidental bonus. Instead of being preoccupied with charters and leases all day, Ralph Delchard had more chances of a casual meeting with Golde. It was she who brought what joy there was to his stay in the North.

“What else have you been doing?” he asked.

“We talked, we ate, we visited the chapel.”

“Herleve and you are bosom friends.”

“She trust me, Ralph. And I would sooner be looked on as a friend than condemned as a harlot.” Golde sighed. “That still rankles. It is sometimes painful to be seen as others see you.”

“All that matters is how I see you, my love.”

“And how is that?”

“Not often enough.”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.

They were sharing a moment alone in their apartment at the castle.

Ralph had retired there to reflect on the day’s findings when Golde slipped in to change her apparel.

“I have not been idle here,” she said.

“It is foreign to your nature, my love.”

“Herleve has shown me every aspect of the household. If I am to live with you in Hampshire, I must know how to run a large establishment.”

Fleeting doubts crowded in. “Am I to come to Hampshire?”

“If we can once get clear of this hell-hole!”

“It is a fine household with far more servants than we will ever need. They have a pantry, a larder, a buttery and a kitchen, each with its own staff. I met the baker, the slaughterer, the fruiterer, the candlemaker, the poulterer and I do not know who else.”

“No brewer?” he teased.

“They only drink wine here.”

“We will do the same in Hampshire.”

“No,” she countered. “You will learn to savour the taste of beer. When you live with a brewer, you must let her demonstrate the finer points of her occupation.”

“I am your occupation from now on, Golde.”

“That is all I ask.”

They embraced again and minutes slid happily past. When they parted once more, Golde continued her bubbling account of the household administration.

“Four hundred eggs! Can you imagine such a sight.”

“The hens must be laying without stop.”

“And fish in huge quantities. Mackerel, flounder, mullet and a dozen other varieties.”

“Do not mention fish,” he said. “I spent hours down at the harbour this afternoon wading through them.”

“The cook was the most interesting man I met.”

Ralph yawned. “Tell me about him another time, my love.”

“But he was so amusing.”

“You are the only amusement I want at this moment.”

“He explained to me how he makes his most delicious dishes. I have the recipes to take back to Hampshire with me.”

“Golde …”

“My lord Aubrey makes him work so hard.”

“I do not really need tittle-tattle about a cook.”

“You would love this man,” she said. “He gets so wild when he is angry. Banging his pots and pans with his spoon and threatening to leave if his master does it again.”

“Does what again?”

“Wakes him up in the middle of the night and demands a meal for his guests. It has happened more than once. What sort of guests arrive at that time? How do they even get into the city?”

Ralph was listening attentively now.

They had pitched camp near a stream. Olaf Evil Child rested in the shade of an oak. The wound on his face had been bathed and the blood stemmed. Gervase Bret sat beside him. Now that Inga had been rescued, he could turn to the business that had brought him in search of the outlaw.

“We need to talk about Tanchelm of Ghent,” he said.

“I do not know the man.”

“But you know of him?”

“Yes,” said Olaf guardedly.

“And you know that he was murdered?”

“I do.”

“How?”

“I have eyes in York.”

“Did they manage to see who killed him?”

“No, Master Bret. Nor did they discern why. Do not ask me to solve this murder. I never met this man.”

“But you agreed to do so,” guessed Gervase.

Olaf was evasive. “I may have.”

“Yesterday, by any chance?”

“I cannot remember.”

“How did he make contact with you?”

“I have not said that he did.”

“You are involved in this. I know it.”

“Do not pester me,” warned Olaf with irritation. “I will mend your head and loan you a horse and even help to save your companion, Master Bret, but that is all. It was done in the spirit of friendship.”

“Has that spirit suddenly died?”

“You are a royal official, I am an outlaw. You live in one world, I live in another. There’s an end to it.”

“No, Olaf.”

“You have your horse back. Take it and ride to York.”

“Not until I have heard about Tanchelm of Ghent.”

“We never even met!”

“But you were ready to!” said Gervase earnestly. “You did at least consider his proposal. Why was that?” Olaf ignored him. “My lord Tanchelm believed in you. When he looked at the evidence in our returns, he believed that you had been dispossessed by Robert Brossard.”

“I was. By force of arms.”

“You have redress through us.”

“Not now. Not when I am an outlaw.”

“My lord Tanchelm thought otherwise. Norman law can be harsh but pardon is not unknown. If you presented your claim with charters to enforce it, Robert Brossard might well have been compelled to restore your holdings. We have that power.” Gervase leaned into him. “Did my lord Tanchelm offer you a bargain? Was that it? A fair hearing in return for some information?”

Olaf Evil Child became restive. He scratched at his beard before turning to stare deep into Gervase’s eyes.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“I had to.”

“What did you hope to get?”

“The truth about you and my lord Tanchelm.”

“He is dead. All that is past.”

“His killer is still at large. I will do anything to find him. You can help me.” Olaf fell silent again. “How did he reach you? What did he say? Were you tempted?”

A long pause. “Yes,” admitted Olaf, “I was tempted. He wrote to me in Danish, a language I still cling to at times. My lord Tanchelm let it be known that he had a message for Olaf Evil Child. His request reached my man in York.”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“I destroyed it. A dead man’s promise is useless.”

“Promise?”

“To consider my claim without prejudice,” said Olaf. “In return, he wanted information. My scouts see every movement of troops and ships.

We know who comes, who leaves and where they went while they were here. This was what he wanted, for reasons he did not say.”

“Did you trust him?”

“No, Master Bret.”

“But you came to York yesterday?”

“With some misgiving.”

“You were to meet at the shire hall?”

“When his tribunal dispersed for the day,” said Olaf. “He knew I would fear a trap and tried to reassure me. I watched him come out to dismiss his men. It let me take a close look at Tanchelm of Ghent.”

“What did you think of him?”

“He looked honest enough. And devious enough.”

“Devious?”

“To speak with me, he had to get rid of his colleagues and his escort.

There were other soldiers outside the shire hall, belonging to someone else. He knew I would not dare to walk past them to go into the hall.”

“So he left the shutters open for you!” Gervase began to piece it together. “That is why he was not disturbed when someone came through the window. He was expecting you.”

“But another came in my place.”

“Who?”

“I cannot say. All I saw was the commotion. When they brought out a body, I knew it must be him. I left York at once.”

“Would you come back again?”

“No.”

“I would guarantee your safe conduct.”

“Norman justice would never help me.”

“Not if you stay out here in the wilderness.”

Olaf Evil Child looked around at his men. Some were sleeping on the ground, some were chatting, some were eating the last of the day’s catch. Eric was sharpening an axe. Beyond them, in a secluded corner, Inga was talking agitatedly to Ragnar Longfoot.

“Go now while you still have some light,” said Olaf.

“Will you ride with me?”

“No, but I’ll send someone to guide you.”

“How can I reach you again?”

“There will be a way.”

Inga came across with Ragnar limping beside her. Gervase could see the deep sadness hanging upon her.

“Have you learned what you came to find out?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied sadly. “It will not bring Toki back to me. But at least I understand.”

“Light is failing,” noted Olaf. “Go now or you will not reach York before dark.”

“I will show them the way,” volunteered Ragnar.

Gervase thanked Olaf for his help but Inga had far more cause for gratitude. To be delivered up into the hands of Nigel Arbarbonel was a fate she could not bear even to reflect upon, and Olaf had saved her from it. She kissed him once more on the cheek. He grinned apprecia-tively.

“You may visit us again, Inga,” he said warmly.

When they mounted, Gervase looked down at him.

“Why did you return our apparel?” he asked.

“It did not fit me,” said Olaf.

“Why did you steal it in the first place?”

“I hoped the packs might contain the missing charters to my land.

Stealing one’s own property back is not really theft.”

“We must go,” urged Ragnar Longfoot.

“We will, I promise you,” said Gervase. “I must just ask Olaf one last favour….”

Ralph Delchard was racked by guilt and apprehension. He blamed himself for letting Gervase Bret ride off without an escort and he feared that some terrible accident had befallen his friend. Darkness was enveloping the castle and there was still no sign of Gervase. Climbing up the wooden steps, Ralph walked anxiously along the boards, peering over the palisade with more hope than expectation. It was too late.

The city gates were being locked. Gervase would not come back that night. Ralph had a sudden premonition that he would never come back.

After pacing up and down, he screwed his eyes to pierce the darkness. Nothing was visible save the stark profile of the city. The sounds of night were descending on York. Revellers were noisy. Music played somewhere. Dogs roamed and yelped. A single bell tolled. Ralph turned away. He wanted to mount up and lead his men in a search but he knew that it would be a hopeless exercise. They must wait until dawn.

He descended the stairs in a state of dejection. There was nothing that he could do. He was about to abandon all hope when a familiar voice rang out from beyond the wall. Ralph ran back up the steps and gazed over the top of the palisade once more. He could just make some shapes in the darkness. They seemed to be moving about.

“Is that you, Gervase?” he shouted.

“Yes. Tell them to open up.”

“What have you got with you?”

“Another gift from Olaf Evil Child.”

“Gift?”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “Our horses.”