Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘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!’

Adam Reynard was waiting impatiently for Grimketel’s return.

He was a big, pale-skinned, fleshy man of middle years with heavy jowls and protruding eyes which gave him an almost comical appearance. When he heard the approaching hoofbeats, he hauled himself to his feet, waddled across the room to fling open the front door and peered out into the evening gloom. Grimketel dropped down from the saddle of his borrowed horse and came trotting obediently across to him.

‘I expected you back sooner than this,’ complained Reynard.

‘I was delayed.’

‘Why?’

‘I came back the long way,’ said Grimketel with a knowing smirk. ‘Through the forest. I had someone to see.’

Reynard gave a satisfied nod and beckoned him inside. Glad to escape the chill wind, Grimketel followed his master back into the building. It was a long, low house with a thatched roof and a sunken floor. Divided into bays, it was originally the home of a Saxon thegn but was now occupied by Adam Reynard and his family. Though he was a man of property, his holdings were scattered far and wide throughout the county, a source of continual regret to a man whose corpulence needed a larger setting than the few hides on which he actually resided.

Spreading his bulk in front of the fire, he rubbed his buttocks with podgy hands and looked at his visitor with anticipatory pleasure.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘He is gone.’

‘Dead and buried?’

‘Six feet under the ground,’ said Grimketel. ‘I watched them lower the coffin into the grave and stayed until they began to cover it with earth. Martin Reynard is a rotting corpse.’

‘Good.’

‘You will have no more trouble from him.’

‘I need not have had trouble at all if the fool had remembered that he was my kinsman. Blood is thicker than water. Martin should have known where his true loyalties lay. Instead of which,’

he said, moving a step forward as the heat from the fire grew too 56

The Foxes of Warwick

strong, ‘he preferred to serve that old fool Thorkell of Warwick.

No doubt he was at the funeral.’

‘He was,’ said Grimketel ruefully, ‘and he let me know it.’

‘Harsh words?’

‘He called me vile names.’

‘Thorkell has a ripe tongue when he chooses.’

‘And he made threats against you.’

‘Not for the first time,’ said Reynard with a contemptuous laugh.

‘Well, I have lived with his displeasure for years and I will increase it when I take that property away from him. Thorkell will really have good reason to curse me then.’ He scratched his belly. ‘What did you find out about the commissioners?’

‘They are four in number.’

‘Their names?’

‘Ralph Delchard is their leader,’ said Grimketel, giving information he had taken great care to remember. ‘Seated alongside him will be Philippe Trouville, Theobald, Archdeacon of Hereford, and a Gervase Bret.’

‘I like the sound of these,’ said the other complacently. ‘Thorkell will find little favour there. Norman judges prefer a Norman landholder.’

‘Do not be so sure of that, master.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They are serious men who strive to be impartial.’