Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

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.’