Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘Martin Reynard?’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘Quite well, Master Bret,’ said Ednoth, choosing his words with care. ‘I saw more of him when he was in the lord Henry’s household but he left the castle almost a year ago.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Thorkell’s estate reeve died. He needed a replacement.’

‘And the lord Henry was willing to release Martin Reynard?’

‘Apparently.’

‘On what terms did they part?’

‘Amicable ones, as far as I could tell.’

‘It seems odd that he should so readily hand over a valuable member of his household. Compensation must have been involved.’

‘That was between the lord Henry and Thorkell.’

‘Did no rumours reach your ears?’

‘None that I care to repeat,’ said the reeve levelly.

Gervase had a partial answer. Ednoth would divulge no gossip.

He was too conscious of Henry Beaumont’s domination of the town to say anything remotely personal about him and, Gervase suspected, whatever comments he himself made about Henry would soon find their way back to the castle. He changed his tack slightly.

‘What manner of a man is Boio the Blacksmith?’

Ednoth gave a shrug. ‘Big, friendly and hard-working.’

‘Given to violence?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Easily provoked?’

‘Quite the opposite, Master Bret.’

‘The opposite?’

‘Boio puts up with things which would drive other men to strike out. He is a dull-witted fellow, slow of speech, and is mocked for it. Even the children tease him at times. Boio pays no heed. The more they goad him for his lack of brains, the more he grins at them.’

‘He did not grin at Martin Reynard, it seems.’

‘Every man has his breaking point.’

‘You believe that he committed this murder, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Ednoth. ‘Why else would they have arrested him?’

‘The evidence against him is far from conclusive.’

‘That is not what I have heard.’

‘Boio has pleaded his innocence.’

But the reeve would not be drawn into a comment and Gervase saw that it would be in vain to press for one. Ednoth believed what he was told by Henry Beaumont. That constituted truth to him. Gervase paused for a few moments then fired a last question at him.

‘Is the blacksmith married?’

‘Bless you — no!’ said the other with a high-pitched laugh. ‘No woman would ever look at a man like that except to poke fun at him. Boio is a great, big, black, ugly creature who goes dumb in the presence of a woman. They frighten him and he terrifies them.

He will never take a wife. Boio was born to live alone.’

‘And to die alone, it seems,’ murmured Gervase.

‘Married?’ Ednoth laughed again. ‘You would not ask such a question if you had ever seen Boio. Wait until you meet him!’

The blacksmith was totally bewildered. A night without food or water in a dark, dank cell had left him cold and hungry. Sleep had been fitful. His head still ached from the blow he received during his arrest, though the blood had stopped oozing out and had dried in his hair and beard. Boio was in severe discomfort. Wrists manacled and ankles fettered, he sat in the corner of the dungeon on fetid straw. The one small window, high in the wall, admitted the wind freely but kept out all but the merest beams of light.

When he tried to adjust his position, the manacles bit into his flesh but the irony of the fact that he had made them himself was lost on him. All he knew was that they were far too tight for his thick wrists.

The sound of approaching feet made him stir hopefully. Had they come to release him or, at the very least, to feed him? He stared at the heavy door as he heard its bolts being drawn back.

A key was then inserted into the lock and the door swung open to allow three men to enter the cell. The guard came first, checking to see that the prisoner was still secured before motioning his companions forward.

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Henry Beaumont, inhaling the reek. ‘He stinks to high heaven.’

‘He befouled himself, my lord,’ said the guard. ‘Shall we throw some buckets of water over him?’

‘No, no, I will begin the interrogation.’

Boio understood none of the words he heard but the expressions on the men’s faces were eloquent enough. He cowered under Henry’s stern gaze, but rallied a little when the third man came close and he recognised him as Ansgot, the ancient priest, a friend, one who might actually speak up for him. But Ansgot was not there to defend Boio, simply to act as an interpreter between him and Henry Beaumont. The old man, short and stooping, with a straggly grey beard and mottled skin, wore an expression that was midway between sorrow and accusation. He clearly believed that the blacksmith had committed murder. Boio could look for no help from him.

Conducted through Ansgot, the interrogation was painfully slow.

‘Why did you murder Martin Reynard?’

‘I did not murder him,’ said Boio, each word a labour in itself.

‘You do understand what murder is? It is killing someone unlawfully with the intention of doing so.’

‘I am no murderer, Father Ansgot.’

‘You had an argument with Martin Reynard?’

‘Did I?’ The blacksmith seemed genuinely surprised.

‘People overheard you. We have witnesses.’

‘Oh.’

‘What did you argue about?’

‘I can’t remember, Father Ansgot.’

‘Did you threaten him?’

‘Who?’

‘Martin Reynard. Did you say that you would hit him?’

‘No!’

‘One of the witnesses claims that you did.’

‘When was this?’

‘Some days ago. When you had the argument.’

‘I don’t think I said I would hit him.’

‘What did you say, Boio?’

‘Who knows, Father Ansgot? It was a long time ago.’

‘The start of this week, that is all.’

‘I can’t remember that far back.’

‘Try, Boio.’

‘My mind …’ said the other helplessly, tapping his head.

Henry needed no translation. Enraged by the tardiness of the examination, he tried to speed things up with a more direct approach.

‘Tell him to confess!’ he ordered. ‘Or I’ll burn the truth out of him with hot irons! Make him confess!’

Ansgot shuddered at the content of the message but he relayed it faithfully to Boio. The blacksmith shook his head in blank dismay.

‘I am innocent, Father Ansgot. I give you my word.’

‘Confess, Boio. It is the only thing to do.’

‘Bring me a Bible. I will swear on that.’

‘Confront him with the witness!’ hissed Henry.

‘Which one, my lord?’ asked Ansgot, slipping back into French.

‘The man who saw him in the forest. Tax him with that.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said the priest, turning back to the prisoner.

‘There is no point in denying it, Boio. It will be the worse for you if you do. On the morning of the murder a witness saw you leaving the part of the forest where the dead body was found.’

‘But I was not there.’

‘He swears that you were.’

Boio looked hunted. ‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago. Shortly after dawn.’

‘Two days …?’ He was more confused than ever.

‘Try to remember, Boio,’ said the priest with the slowness of speech he would have used with a child. ‘Not yesterday but the day before. Do you understand? The day before yesterday you went into the forest and killed Martin Reynard?’ Boio shook his head violently. ‘You were seen by a witness. What were you doing in the forest?’

‘It was not me, Father Ansgot.’

‘It was, Boio. Just after dawn. Two days ago.’

The blacksmith’s face was contorted with the effort of memory.