The Wildcats of Exeter

Chapter Two

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon did not feel entirely safe until they entered the cathedral precincts and saw black Benedictine cowls moving about with Christian assurance. Travel was a source of great discomfort to Hubert, whose portly frame was always balanced precariously on his long-suffering donkey, and it was a continuous agony for Simon, who had committed himself to the monastic life partly in the hope that he would escape lay company and the affairs of the workaday world in perpetuity. Thrust into royal service, the two of them were caught between a sense of duty and a profound discomfort. While Hubert veered towards self-importance and regarded each new assignment as a recognition of his considerable abilities as a jurist, his companion viewed their work as a kind of martyrdom and prayed daily for release.

The cathedral church of St Peter soared above them like a huge protective hand and their spirits were immediately lifted. It was a Saxon foundation, distinguished more by its sheer size than by any architectural merit, but they surveyed it with a mixture of relief and awe. A certain amount of rebuilding had taken place in recent years, but there had been no major additions to the basic structure and its essential simplicity set it apart from the elaborations of Canterbury Cathedral and York Minster, both of which the newcomers had visited in the course of their duties.

They felt at home. As they made their way to the cloister, a figure emerged through the stone arch and came towards them with measured tread. Dean Jerome was a tall, spare man in his forties with a long, rather lugubrious face and a tonsure so perfectly suited to the shape of his skull that he seemed to have been born with it. He introduced himself, bade them welcome and showed them where they could stable their mounts. His voice was deep and reassuring.

‘We have been looking forward to your arrival,’ he said.

‘Brother Simon and I are grateful to be here,’ said Hubert. ‘The journey was interminable and the conversation not always fit for monastic ears. Now that we have found you, we feel cleansed.’

‘That is as it should be, Canon Hubert.’

‘I bear a letter of greeting to Bishop Osbern from our own dear Bishop Walkelin of Salisbury,’ said the other, tapping the leather satchel slung from his shoulder. ‘I hope to be able to deliver it in person.’

‘And so you shall,’ said Jerome. ‘We had notice of your coming in a letter from the King himself, and Bishop Osbern left instructions that you were to be admitted to him as soon as you reached us. Let me first show you to your lodging then I will take you both to meet him.’

Hubert was delighted at their reception. No less a person than the dean himself had taken the trouble to greet them and the bishop was treating them like visiting dignitaries. Simon was thrilled to be included in the audience. The spectral monk was accustomed to fade into anonymity whenever they encountered a prelate, leaving Hubert to speak for both of them.

To be summoned to the presence of so illustrious a bishop as Osbern of Exeter was an honour to be savoured.

When they had deposited their satchels at their lodgings, they were conducted across the cloister to the bishop’s quarters. Dean Jerome tapped on a door and waited for the invitation to enter.

As he went into the room, he beckoned the others after him.

‘Our guests are here, your Grace,’ he said deferentially, indicating each in turn. ‘This is Canon Hubert and this, Brother Simon.’

‘A hearty welcome to you both!’ said the bishop. ‘I thank God for your safe arrival in Exeter. We are pleased to have you as our guests.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Hubert with an obsequious smile.

‘Yes,’ added Simon nervously. ‘Thank you.’

‘I trust that your journey was without incident?’ said Osbern.

‘Happily, yes,’ replied Hubert.

Unhappily, no, thought Simon, recalling his ordeal amid the bushes.

‘It is a tiresome ride,’ said the bishop, ‘and must have left you both fatigued. Do sit down and rest your aching bones.’

The visitors lowered themselves on to an oak bench along one wall and beneath a crucifix. Bishop Osbern was opposite them, seated at a table where he had been studying the Scriptures in preparation for a sermon he was due to deliver. He was an elderly man of medium height but he exuded such a sense of religiosity that he appeared to fill the whole room. His round face had a beatific smile which robbed him of a decade or more. A network of blue veins showed through the luminous skin of his high forehead. But it was the kindness and compassion in his blue eyes which most impressed the travellers. They knew that they were in the presence of a truly holy man.

Hubert was pleased to have the opportunity of meeting someone who had been chaplain both to Edward the Confessor and to King William yet bore such a daunting pedigree so lightly. For his part, Simon was so overwhelmed by his proximity to a legendary churchman that he did not hear Dean Jerome leave the room and close the door behind him.

‘This is your first visit to Exeter?’ enquired Osbern.

‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Hubert, answering for both of them.

‘It is a pleasant town though not without its faults. My predecessor, Bishop Leofric, came here almost forty years ago to find the minster in a sorry condition. All that remained of a monastic community was a set of mass vestments and a few sacred books. Leofric had to start afresh, renovating a dilapidated building and creating an establishment of canons and vicars.

There was little enough money to spare on such worthy projects,’

said Osbern with a sigh, ‘but Leofric put what there was to the best possible use. He is buried in the crypt and I offer up a prayer of thanks for his episcopate whenever I visit his tomb.’ A smile played on his lips. ‘But there was one idiosyncrasy.’

‘What was that, your Grace?’ said Hubert.

‘When Bishop Leofric installed canons, he made them subject to the Rule of St Chrodegang.’

Hubert frowned. ‘A curious decision, indeed.’

‘You are familiar with the Rule?’

‘No, your Grace,’ muttered Simon.

‘Yes,’ said Hubert, grateful for the chance to display his intellectual credentials. ‘Chrodegang was bishop of Metz over three centuries ago. He had a distinguished political career, but his ecclesiastical achievements were even more impressive. He founded the abbey of Gorze and devised the Rule by which his name is remembered.’

‘That is true,’ said Osbern. ‘The canons of his cathedral lived a community life devoted to the public prayer of the Church but in close association with diocesan officers. They were also — and this is what makes the Rule so odd in my view — authorised to own property individually. I incline strongly to the more stringent dictates of Benedict.’

‘So do we, your Grace,’ said Hubert.

‘A vow of poverty leaves no place for ownership of property.’

‘We are glad that you have righted your predecessor’s error.’

‘It was not an error, Canon Hubert,’ said the other tolerantly,

‘but merely a difference of emphasis. God may be worshipped in many ways, all of them equally valid. I have knelt in prayer beside a Saxon and a Norman King of England. Their language, upbringing and attitudes separated them but their devotions united them as one.’

‘Yes, your Grace. But I forget myself,’ said Hubert, realising that he was still holding something in his hand. ‘Bishop Walkelin sends his warmest greetings and bids me deliver this to you.’ He crossed to the table to place the letter upon it. ‘He has fond memories of your last meeting.’

‘I share those memories,’ said Osbern. ‘When you leave Exeter, you will bear my reply to the good bishop of Salisbury. But tell me,’ he added as Hubert resumed his seat, ‘are you aware of the outrage which occurred on the eve of your arrival?’

‘Outrage?’ repeated Simon. ‘No, your Grace.’

‘A foul murder was committed not far from the city.’

‘This is grim news,’ said Hubert.

‘I fear that it may complicate your own work here, Canon Hubert,’ said the bishop with a shrug of resignation. ‘The unfortunate victim was Nicholas Picard. I believe that he was involved in a property dispute when the first commissioners came to Devon so I suspect that his name is not unknown to you.’

‘Indeed, it is not,’ confirmed Hubert. ‘His death makes a difficult case even more intractable. What was the motive for the murder?’

‘That has not yet been established.’

‘It may have some bearing on our investigation.’

‘In what way?’

‘The lord Nicholas had substantial holdings, your Grace, many of which are contested. Now that he is no longer here to defend his title to the property, it may go elsewhere. Someone will gain handsomely by his death.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘The timing of his murder can surely be no coincidence. Hearing of our visit, someone may have been prompted to kill him. It is almost as if we instigated this crime.’

‘Dear God!’ cried Simon, studying his palms in horror. ‘What a disturbing thought that is! We have blood on our hands.’

Ralph Delchard liked the town reeve from the moment he made his acquaintance. Saewin was polite without being servile and confident without being brash. The reeve would be in a crucial position during their stay, making the shire hall ready for their use and summoning all the witnesses whom they needed to examine. Ralph was pleased that he called at the castle to pay his respects and to collect his instructions. It showed diligence.

Saewin was a big, broad-shouldered man with rugged features half hidden behind a beard. He wore the cap, tunic and cross-gartered trousers favoured by the Saxons but spoke French fluently and even with a certain pride.

Their conversation took place outside the hall and they had to raise their voices above the clatter from within. Preparations for the banquet were becoming increasingly noisy.

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ said the reeve.

‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘Obey the orders I have given you.’

Saewin nodded. ‘I will detain you from the festivities no longer.’

‘It sounds more like a siege than a banquet. What are they doing in there?’ Ralph asked as a grating sound jarred on his ears. ‘Using a battering ram on the venison? Or are they knocking down a wall in order to bring in a fatted calf or two?’ Saewin smiled and made to withdraw, but the other plucked at his sleeve.

‘One moment, my friend. I wanted to ask you about this foul murder that has been committed.’

‘A sad business, my lord.’

‘And a highly inconvenient one. The lord Nicholas was to have been called before us to contest the ownership of several manors.’

‘I know,’ said Saewin. ‘It was at the forefront of his mind.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He mentioned it to me as he left my house.’

‘When was this?’

‘Yesterday evening, my lord.’

Ralph’s interest quickened. ‘You saw Nicholas Picard yesterday?’

‘Yes, he came to discuss some business with me.’

‘Not connected with the property under dispute, I hope.’

‘No, no,’ said the reeve. ‘It was a separate matter, a small favour which I was able to grant. But he was looking forward to your visit so that he could attest his right to the land in question and put an end to the hostility which it has provoked.’

‘Hostility?’

‘There are other claimants, I understand.’

‘Two at least.’

‘I think you may find that there is another, my lord.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed.’

‘I only repeat what the lord Nicholas told me,’ said Saewin. ‘He was very bitter about it. This new claimant made no appearance before the first commissioners who visited the county. He only announced his intention to enter the fray a few days ago.’

‘Then you know more than we ourselves. Who is the fellow?’

‘The abbot of Tavistock.’

‘Saints preserve us!’ moaned Ralph. ‘Do I have to endure another pompous prelate? I will have to set Hubert on to him.’

‘Hubert, my lord?’

‘Ignore what I said. I was talking to myself.’

‘I see.’

‘Let us come back to the lord Nicholas. At what time did he leave you?’

‘Not long before Compline, my lord,’ said the other. ‘He told me that he would ride straight home to his manor house.

Unfortunately, he had to go through a wood on the way. That is where they attacked him.’

‘They?’

‘His killers.’

‘There was more than one of them?’

‘That would be my guess,’ ventured Saewin. ‘The lord Nicholas was a strong man, an experienced soldier with many campaigns behind him. I do not think that a solitary attacker could easily overpower him.’

‘Have you put that argument to Baldwin the Sheriff?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘What was his reply?’

‘That he would reserve his judgement until he had more evidence.’

‘A sensible course of action,’ said Ralph, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘So you were the last person to see the lord Nicholas in Exeter?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then who was?’

‘The guards at the North Gate.’

‘The exit by which he left the city? Who was the captain of the guard?’

‘A certain Walter Baderon.’

‘What does he remember?’

‘You will have to ask him that yourself, my lord. I know only his name and that of his master.’

‘His master?’

‘Yes,’ said the reeve. ‘The guard is provided by a succession of barons and other notables. The knights who were on duty last evening came from some distance away to stand vigil at the city gates.’

‘Whom do they serve?’ asked Ralph.

‘The abbot of Tavistock.’

Overshadowed by an unsolved murder, the banquet that night was a strangely muted affair. The food was rich, the wine plentiful and the entertainment lively but a pall still hung over the event.

It was not a large gathering. Some twenty or more guests had come to the castle to join the sheriff in welcoming the visitors.

At the head of the table, Ralph and Golde sat either side of their host and his wife, Albreda, a gaunt beauty who did little beyond smiling her approval at everything her husband said. Even the smooth tongue of Hervey de Marigny was unable to entice more than a few words from the mouth of their hostess. Gervase Bret was also present and Canon Hubert had been lured from the cathedral by the promise of a feast, but Brother Simon felt unequal to the challenge of such a gathering and spent the time instead in restorative meditation.

Gervase found himself sitting next to de Marigny. The latter was an agreeable companion and diverted his young colleague with endless stories of his military career.

‘Have you seen much of the city?’ said Gervase.

‘I have not yet had time to do so. A walk along the battlements is all I have been able to manage, though that taught me much and revived many memories. But,’ said de Marigny, ‘I have already seen what I hoped to find in Exeter.’

‘What is that?’

‘One of our tunnels, Gervase.’

‘Tunnels?’

‘Yes,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I noticed it when we entered through East Gate. When our siege failed to bring the city to its knees, the King ordered tunnels to be built under the walls. The intention was to weaken the foundations and — with the aid of a fire in the tunnel — to bring about a collapse of the stonework. In the event, they were not needed. Exeter surrendered and work on the tunnels was abandoned. A sad moment for those who had laboured so hard to dig it,’ he observed. ‘They spilled blood and poured sweat while clawing their way through the earth.’

‘Was the tunnel you saw not filled in?’

‘Apparently not, Gervase. It did not undermine the walls so it is not a potential danger. Besides, there has been enough damage and decay within the city to repair. That is where all the efforts have been directed. That hole in the ground is exactly where it was almost twenty years ago.’

‘A bleak memento for Exonians.’

‘Perhaps that is why they have retained it,’ suggested de Marigny, sipping his wine. ‘To remind themselves of the fateful day when they finally accepted Norman overlordship. My lord sheriff would be able to tell us,’ he said, nodding towards the head of the table, ‘but I fear that he is not in the mood for conversation tonight.’

Gervase looked across at their host. Baldwin de Moeles, sheriff of Devon and castellan of the fortress in Exeter, was clearly not enjoying the occasion. Chewing his meat disconsolately, he was gazing into space with an expression of severe disappointment.

Ralph Delchard was trying to talk to him, but his words were going unheard. Angered by his inability to bring the murder investigation to a swift conclusion, Baldwin was caught up in bitter self-recrimination. It took a nudge from his wife to bring him out of his fierce reverie.

‘What is it?’ he said, rounding on her.

‘Our guests are being ignored,’ she whispered.

‘Guests?’ He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Why, so they are,’ he said with forced joviality. ‘What kind of host forgets such important visitors? More wine, ho! Let it flow more freely.’

‘It has flowed freely enough, my lord sheriff,’ said Ralph with a grin. ‘We have had both wine and ale in abundance.’

Baldwin was startled. ‘Ale? Someone is drinking ale at my table?’

‘I am, my lord sheriff,’ admitted Golde. ‘From choice.’

‘You choose English ale over French wine? That is perverse.’

‘Not if you appreciate the quality of the ale.’

‘Golde is an expert on the subject,’ boasted Ralph. ‘I have tried to coax her into drinking wine but her fidelity to ale is impossible to breach. When we first met, she was in the trade.

You will find it hard to believe, but this beautiful creature beside me was once the finest brewer in the city of Hereford.’

Baldwin was amused enough to smile but his wife curled her lip in distaste. Albreda’s only trade consisted of being wife to the sheriff. The smells and toil involved in brewing would be anathema to her. Golde was upset by her reaction and by the supercilious lift of her chin which followed. She sensed that Albreda would not be the most affable hostess during their stay at the castle.

‘It is a fine banquet!’ continued Ralph. ‘Thank you, my lord sheriff.’

Baldwin scowled. ‘It would be a more lively occasion if the spectre of Nicholas Picard was not sitting at the table with us. I have spent a whole day on the trail of his killer without picking up a whiff of his scent.’

‘In what state was the body found?’

‘Too gruesome to discuss here, my lord.’

‘Where does the corpse lie?’

‘In the mortuary.’

‘Here at the castle?’

‘Yes.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Not if you wish to keep any food in your stomach,’ said Baldwin with a grimace. ‘I have looked on death a hundred times but never seen anything quite as hideous as this. Whoever murdered Nicholas Picard did so out of a hatred too deep to comprehend.’

‘I would still like to view the body, my lord sheriff.’

‘This murder need not concern you.’

‘But it does,’ argued Ralph. ‘We have already made the acquaintance of the lord Nicholas in the returns for this county.

It is a name which recurs, often. He was due to appear before us.

We are anxious to know why he was prevented from doing so -

and by whom.’

‘So am I,’ grunted the other.

‘Where was the body found?’

‘In a wood not far from the city.’

‘Could someone take me to the place?’

‘I am the sheriff, my lord,’ said Baldwin with a proprietorial glint in his eye. ‘Let me deal with this crime. I will soon track down the villain and I will brook no interference. Look to your own affairs.’

‘I will,’ said Ralph, backing off at once. ‘I sought to help rather than to interfere. But you are right, my lord sheriff. My nose has no place in this inquiry. I will sniff elsewhere.’

‘Please do.’ He turned to Golde and forced another smile. ‘You hail from Hereford, I hear?’

‘That is so, my lord sheriff,’ she said.

‘Then you must meet Bishop Osbern.’

‘It would be an honour to do so.’

‘It is, it is, I assure you,’ said Canon Hubert, seizing a chance to get into the conversation. ‘We spent an hour with the bishop ourselves. It is a privilege to be in the company of such an exalted being.’

‘His brother, William FitzOsbern, was earl of Hereford,’ said Baldwin.

Golde smiled. ‘I remember him well as a just and upright man.’

‘Osbern has spoken of happy visits to the city. He will be interested to hear that we have a guest from Hereford.’

‘From Hereford by way of Hampshire,’ Ralph corrected him. ‘I tempted her away from her native city to live with me. Not that we have spent much time on my estate. But Golde and I are together and that is the main thing.’

She squeezed his hand under the table and caught another unfriendly glance from Albreda. It was proving to be an uncomfortable feast. Their host was distracted and his wife either meek or disdainful. Golde began to question her wisdom in travelling with the commissioners. Exeter Castle looked to be a cold and friendless establishment.

Joscelin the Steward tried to introduce some vitality into the scene. Watching from the edge of the hall, he saw with dismay the dull faces and lacklustre gestures of the guests. The long silences which fell on them were all too eloquent. Since the tumblers, the musicians and the conjurer had failed to hold the interest of the assembly, Joscelin turned to a novel form of entertainment. Clapping his hands to attract the attention of the whole room, he gave a signal to the musicians who began to play their instruments with more gusto than they had hitherto shown. A door opened and four dancers came whirling into view, spinning nimbly on their toes and drawing a momentary applause for their colourful attire and spirited performance.

Three of the dancers were men, but it was the sole woman who caught the eye. Short and plump, she was yet remarkably lithe and led her partners in a merry jig up and down the hall. She had long fair hair that hung down her back and a thick veil which hid the lower half of her face. While the three male dancers had great vigour, she had both grace and effervescence, eluding them as they tried in turn to grab at her and jumping up on to the table at one point before stealing a cup of wine and leaping high into the air.

The listless atmosphere was completely dispelled. Within a short space of time, the four dancers had reminded the guests that they were there to enjoy themselves and even enticed the sheriff into pounding on the table in appreciation. When the music reached its height, the three men converged on the woman and formed such a close ring around her that she disappeared from sight. As the applause rang out, the men sprang suddenly apart, but there was no sign of the woman. Her wig, dress and veil had been shed in an instant to reveal a weird creature with a bulbous head, a bushy beard and a mischievous grin.

Cries of astonishment went up as the guests realised how cunningly they had been fooled. The woman who led the dancing with such verve and femininity was none other than Berold the Jester. He dropped a curtsey to his audience then held his arms wide in acknowledgement of the gale of laughter which ensued.

Even his master was sharing in the general hilarity. Berold had banished all thought of Nicholas Picard.

Golde stood open-mouthed in amazement and clapped her hands.

‘Is he really a man?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘He is a magician.’

Catherine sat in her accustomed position with the tapestry across her knees. What had once been an art in which she excelled had now become a chore which did not bring any pleasure. Her needle was plied without any sense of purpose and her mind was drifting.

It was almost twenty-four hours since they brought news of her husband’s death on the road home from Exeter and she was only just beginning to feel the full impact. Unable to grieve for a man she never truly loved, she instead mourned the wasted years she had spent as the wife of Nicholas Picard.

As she worked on, she grew careless and the needle jabbed her thumb. She sat up with a sharp intake of breath and sucked the blood which oozed from the tiny wound. Her companion, an old servant who had been with her since she first married, looked up from her seat in alarm.

‘Are you hurt, my lady?’

‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘It was only a prick.’

‘You are too tired to work at that tapestry.’

‘I must have something to do.’

‘Would you like me to sew it for you, my lady?’

‘No,’ said her mistress firmly. ‘It is mine and only mine. Nobody else must ever touch it. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You asked me to sit with you.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, my lady,’ said the other softly. ‘You felt the need for company.’

‘Well, I no longer do so,’ announced Catherine in a tone which brought the servant instantly to her feet. ‘You may go and attend to your duties.’

‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then I will leave you here alone.’

After a moment’s hesitation, the servant headed for the door, her face etched with concern. A household which was known for its calm was suddenly in turmoil. Anxious for her mistress, the woman was also fearful about her own future. When she opened the door to quit the room, she was stopped by a sudden call.

‘Wait!’ said Catherine. ‘Has Tetbald returned yet?’

‘I believe that he has, my lady.’

‘Find out for me at once.’

‘I will.’

‘If he is here, ask him to come to me.’

The servant nodded obediently and withdrew. Catherine began to sew again but she swiftly lost interest and tossed the tapestry aside. Rising to her feet, she paced the room as she considered the options which now confronted her. She did not hear the tap on the door. When she turned back towards it, she saw the steward standing just inside the room.

‘You sent for me, my lady?’ he said.

‘Close the door.’

He did so then faced her again. ‘What is your wish?’

‘I need your advice, Tetbald.’

‘That is always at your command,’ he said with an oleaginous smile, moving in closer to her. ‘How may I help?’

‘First, tell me what has been going on. Have they searched?’

‘Throughout the day.’

‘What have they found?’

‘Very little, my lady. Darkness forced them to break off.’

‘Did you speak with the lord sheriff?’

‘I did,’ said the steward evenly. ‘He vowed that he would track down the murderer but admitted that the trail was cold. He returned to the castle to feast with the royal commissioners.’

‘How can he revel at a time like this,’ she said with asperity.

Tetbald said nothing but he smiled inwardly. He was a fleshy man in his late twenties with dark wavy hair framing a countenance that was slowly yielding its good looks to the encroaching fat of his cheeks. He stood in an attitude of deference, but there was a familiarity in his manner which Catherine seemed to accept rather than condemn.

‘What am I to do, Tetbald?’ she asked.

‘Wait until the funeral is over, my lady.’

‘But the commissioners begin their deliberations tomorrow.

My husband was to be among the first to be called before them.’

She bit her lip with indecision, ‘Should I go in his stead?’

‘That would not be seemly, my lady.’

‘I will not sit idly by while others fight over my land.’

‘Then let me go in your place,’ he volunteered. ‘The lord Nicholas would have had me at his side in the shire hall because I know all the particulars of his manors and the lands appertaining to them. Employ me as your ambassador, my lady. I will not let you down.’

‘That is true,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘I can rely on you, Tetbald. You have been very faithful to me. Faithful, conscientious and discreet.’

‘I only wish to please you.’

Their eyes locked for a moment then Catherine broke away to resume her seat. His presence had a soothing effect on her and her composure soon returned. She began to feel in control of the situation.

‘Represent me at the shire hall, Tetbald.’

‘I will do so gladly.’

‘Do not surrender one acre of land,’ she insisted. ‘It is all mine. I inherit directly from my husband. Nobody else must be allowed to steal the property from me. You must be a persuasive advocate.’

‘Right and title are on your side, my lady.’

‘My husband feared that they might not be enough.’

‘The lord Nicholas is no longer here,’ he whispered. ‘You do not have to accept his counsel any more. All of his manors now come into your hands, to be disposed of as you choose.’

‘I choose to keep them,’ she said with emphasis.

‘Then that is what will happen.’

‘Will you give me your word on that, Tetbald?’

The steward took a step towards her. His smile was at once inquisitive and complacent. ‘Do you really need to ask that, my lady?’

Their eyes met again and this time she did not look away.

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I trust you. I have to now.’