Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘Read this for me,’ he instructed. ‘Aloud.’

‘Yes, my lord bishop.’

‘Let me see if my translation accords with yours.’

‘You are ever the finer Latin scholar.’

‘Nevertheless, I would value a second opinion,’ said the other, sitting back in his chair and putting his hands in his lap. ‘Hold it with care, Reginald. What you have in your possession is nothing less than the charter of confirmation for this monastery, issued in the first year of his reign by King Edward the Confessor with the concurrence and approval of thirty-eight prelates and great men of the realm. The monastery, as you know, was endowed by Leofric, Earl of Mercia, with the consent of the Pope and with the active support of the earl’s wife, Godiva.’

‘Hers is a name which still echoes through Coventry.’

‘Alas, yes,’ said the bishop with mild distaste. ‘Read to me.’

Holding the charter in both hands, Reginald angled it to catch the candlelight, blinked repeatedly as he studied the words, then translated them without a single pause.

‘Duke Leofric, by divine grace inspiring, and by the admonitions of the glorious and beloved of God, Alexander, Chief Pontiff, hath founded the monastery of Saint Mary the Mother of God and Saint Peter and All Saints in the villa which is called Coventry, and hath adorned and decorated it with liberal gifts and these underwritten manors with my full donation and grant hath there conferred, in aid of the sustenance of the abbot and monks perpetually serving God in the same place (that is to say) the moiety of the villa in which the said church is founded …’

Reginald’s voice rolled on, deep and confident, listing the twenty-four lordships with which the monastery was endowed, fifteen of them in the county of Warwickshire itself. The bishop’s lips moved as if speaking in unison with him. When the litany was complete he nodded his thanks then took the charter back into his own hands.

‘Leofric was a generous man,’ he commented.

‘They are princely endowments, my lord bishop.’

‘The noble earl will have received his gratitude in heaven.’

‘And the lady Godiva too,’ said Reginald solemnly. ‘All the records show that her piety was the equal of his.’

‘It is not her piety for which she is principally remembered,’

said the bishop primly. ‘Let us put her aside and reflect instead on the bounty which she and her husband bequeathed us. That phrase about the sustenance of the abbot. It appealed to me, Reginald. Yes, it had a definite appeal.’ He gave a quizzical smile.

‘What do you think of Coventry?’

‘A goodly town, my lord bishop.’

‘Bigger than Lichfield, to be sure. But more suitable?’

‘Only you could make that judgement.’

‘Your counsel is always respected.’

‘Then, yes,’ said Reginald, committing himself unequivocally.

‘In some ways, more suitable as the centre of the episcopal see.

Much more suitable, my lord bishop. It is just a pity that-’ He broke off abruptly.

‘Go on,’ coaxed the other.

‘It is not my place to make such an observation.’

‘You may speak freely in front of me.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Nobody else will hear — except God, of course, and I can rest assured that you will utter no words to offend Him.’

‘It is perhaps safer if I say nothing at all on this subject.’

‘Will you force me to insist?’ chided the bishop.

‘No, no!’

‘Then what is this pity of which you spoke?’

Reginald straightened his back. ‘I believe it is a pity that the title of abbot of this monastery is not vested in the bishop ex officio .’

Robert de Limesey savoured the idea for several minutes.

‘You are right,’ he said at length. ‘Coventry is more suitable.’

He ran a covetous hand over the charter then looked up from it to give Reginald a polite nod of farewell. The monk held his ground.

‘There is something else?’

‘A small matter but I felt that you should be informed.’

‘What is it?’

‘There is a man lately come to the town,’ said Reginald. ‘A pedlar of sorts, selling fake remedies to the foolish.’

‘Have these remedies caused any harm?’

‘Not as far as I know, my lord bishop.’

‘Has anyone been cured by them?’

‘Apparently. That is why I took an interest.’

‘An interest?’

‘The fellow does not merely sell potions,’ explained the other.

‘He rides around on his donkey and makes much larger claims.’

‘What sort of claims?’

‘He says that he can perform miracles.’

‘Miracles?’

‘Curing a leper by the laying on of hands.’

The bishop tensed. ‘I spy danger here.’

‘He boasts that he can drive out evil spirits from a house.’

‘Only a man of God could do that.’

‘This man scorns us, it seems. He practises on the sick and credulous. I only report what I have heard, my lord bishop, but I have to admit that I am alarmed. What should we do?’

‘Have him watched, Reginald.’

‘And arrested?’

‘In time. If it proves necessary.’

Boio was in considerable distress, too weary to stay awake and yet too restless to fall asleep. It was not only the pain which hindered his slumber. Years in the forge had accustomed him to flying sparks and the occasional burn. The poker which they used on him cauterised his flesh but inflicted nothing like the agony it would have done on any other man and he had too much pride to beg for mercy. The more they burned him, the more he pleaded his innocence. In the sense that they had soon given up their torture, he felt he had won a small victory. Yet he was still chained in a dungeon with no prospect of freedom.

What really kept him awake was the mental anguish. He brooded endlessly in the darkness, wondering what everyone would think of him. How would his friends react to the news of his imprisonment? What would his customers do now that he was not in his forge to serve them? Why had Thorkell of Warwick, his revered overlord, not come to his aid? One person in particular occupied his fevered mind and made sleep quite impossible.

Fearing for his own life, he yet thought more about her safety and her future.

Where was she?

The drawing of the bolts interrupted his reverie and made him sit up in the straw, wondering what was coming this time, the kindly Brother Benedict or the cruel instrument of torture. In the event it was neither. When the door swung open, the gaoler spoke roughly to him.

‘Here, you rogue!’ he snarled. ‘See if this will help you!’

Boio did not understand the words nor did he see the object which was hurled at him. But he felt the blow to his head.

Whatever was aimed at him drew a trickle of blood from his forehead. He groped around in the straw for the missile, wishing that more of the moonlight could find its way through his window to aid his search and wondering why the gaoler had thrown what felt like a stone at him. His hand eventually closed on the bottle and he felt a thrill of recognition. Barely able to see it, he knew it at once as the gift from the stranger whose donkey he had shoed.

Hope surged. Someone believed him. Someone had gone to his forge to find the bottle about which he’d talked. They would have to accept his story now. The truth slowly seeped into his befuddled brain. The bottle was not a means of rescue at all. It had been slung into the cell with a yell of derision. Hope withered instantly.

Lost in his despair, he sat there for an hour before it occurred to him that he was holding medicine. He remembered what the man had said to him. It was a panacea, a cure for any aches and pains. His swollen fingers had difficulty removing the stopper but he eventually managed it and lifted the bottle to his nostrils.