Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

When she reached the forge there was barely enough moonlight for her to find the door to it but, once inside, she moved around with confidence. Her hands stretched out, groped, met with cold iron, then searched. Something fell to the floor with a clatter but her nimble fingers felt on in the numbing blackness. At last they found what they were searching for and closed gratefully around it. Wrapping the object in the piece of cloth which she had brought, the woman picked her way to the door and lunged back out into the night.

On the long walk back she now had something to comfort her.

Dawn brought a flurry of snow which quickly turned to a driving sleet. Those abroad in the streets of the town found themselves picking their way through a quagmire and dodging the urgent rivulets which poured from the eaves of the houses. Dogs had the sense to remain under cover. No beggars ventured out. The working day began without enthusiasm.

Gervase Bret was awakened by the pelting noise on the shutters. When his eyes flickered open, the first thing he did was to chide himself for being so carelessly distracted on the previous night. Instead of falling asleep as usual, lulled into a warm contentment by fond thoughts of Alys, he was speculating on the startling news which Heloise had given them regarding Philippe Trouville’s earlier marriage. When exhaustion finally got the better of him, Gervase was still wondering if the lady Marguerite was in any way the cause of the suicide.

A new day with its new form of inclement weather found him penitent. Alys filled his mind wonderfully and the creeping cold of his chamber seemed to fade slowly away.

He was on his way down to breakfast when the guard found him.

‘Master Bret?’ asked the man.

‘Yes. Good morrow, friend.’

‘You have a visitor.’

‘At this hour?’

‘She insisted that you would want to see her.’

‘She?’

‘The woman who waits at the castle gate,’ he said. ‘A ragged creature. But she has walked a long way in foul weather to see you so it must be important.’

‘Did she give her name?’

‘Asmoth.’

Gervase shook his head. ‘I know nobody of that name.’

‘She mentioned a forge.’

‘A forge?’

‘It belongs to Boio the Blacksmith.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember her now.’

‘Will you see her or shall I send her on her way?’

‘I’ll come back with you at once.’

‘You will need a cloak in this weather.’

‘I do not fear a little sleet,’ said Gervase. ‘What did you call her?’

‘Asmoth.’

‘And she comes alone?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Looking more like a drowned rat than a human being. She speaks no French and we only have a smattering of English between us but she made herself understood. She knew your name well enough and kept repeating it.’‘Let us go and find her.’

Gervase followed him down the stairs and out through the door at the base of the keep. Stone steps were set in the mound on which it was built and the sleet had taught them treason.

The guard almost slipped over twice and Gervase himself had to walk very gingerly. He regretted his folly in not wearing a cloak and cap for protection and his face was soon layered with icy moisture. They hurried across the bailey and under the cover of the gatehouse. The woman was huddled in a corner, sitting on the cold stone to recover from the journey and ignoring the sneers of the other guards on sentry duty. Gervase’s arrival astonished the men who did not believe that a royal commissioner could be summoned at the behest of such a bedraggled creature. The woman herself clearly had doubts that he would come to speak to her and she looked up with a mixture of relief and surprise.

‘Your name is Asmoth?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What do you want with me?’

Gervase read the message in her eyes then offered a hand to help her up. Asmoth wanted to speak to him in private and not under the hostile gaze of Norman soldiers. Glancing round the bailey for another source of shelter, Gervase came to a decision and braved the sleet once more to conduct her towards the little porch outside the chapel. Asmoth scuttled beside him, her sodden cloak wrapped tightly around her body and her leather sandals squelching through the mud.

The porch gave them only a degree of cover but it ensured privacy. Gervase took a closer look at the woman and saw that she was soaked to the skin. Her face was glistening with damp and pale with fatigue.

Grateful that he had answered her call, Asmoth was still not sure if she could trust him and caution reduced her voice to a hesitant whisper.

‘Where is Boio?’ she said.

‘Locked up in the dungeon.’

‘Still alive, then?’

‘Yes, Asmoth. Still alive.’

‘What have they done to him?’

‘I do not know,’ he said tactfully.

‘He is well?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

The consideration in his tone made her relax slightly as she sensed that she was talking to a friend. She took a step closer.

‘What did you do with the bottle of medicine?’

‘We showed it to the lord Henry.’

‘Did he believe that Boio was telling the truth?’

Gervase sighed. ‘I fear not.’

‘There was a stranger with a donkey,’ she insisted.

‘We could not convince the lord Henry of that.’

‘There was, there was!’

‘I believe it.’

‘I know it for sure,’ said Asmoth, clutching at him. ‘I asked my neighbours. I went for miles in the dark last night until I found someone else who saw the man.’

‘A witness?’

‘Two of them.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Wenric and his wife. They met the stranger on the road and talked with him. He was riding a donkey and said that Boio had just shoed it.’

His interest quickened. ‘It has to be the same man.’

‘They remembered him well.’ Asmoth looked pleased, recalling the relief she had felt on hearing their words.

‘When did they see him, Asmoth?’

‘On the morning that Boio said.’

‘Where?’

‘On the road north. Wenric lives not far from Kenilworth.’

‘Would he and his wife swear that they met this man?’

‘Yes. They know Boio. They want to help.’

‘Did they say where the stranger was heading?’

‘Coventry.’

‘Why?’

‘To sell his medicines.’

‘Is he a healer of sorts?’

‘He told Wenric he could perform miracles.’

‘You are the one who has performed the miracle, Asmoth,’ said Gervase warmly. ‘This may change everything. If this Wenric and his wife are reliable witnesses, the lord Henry will have to listen to them. What sort of man is Wenric?’

‘A cottager.’

‘On whose land?’

‘That of Adam Reynard.’

Gervase’s excitement was checked. The word of a mere cottager would not impress the constable of Warwick Castle and the fact that Wenric had a dwelling and, at most, only a small acreage on property held by Adam Reynard also cast a cloud. Going on the man’s repute, Gervase had the feeling that Reynard would never allow one of his cottagers to contradict the more damning evidence of Grimketel. Asmoth saw the change in his manner and grew anxious.

‘Did I do the right thing?’ she said.

‘Yes, Asmoth. You did.’

‘And it will help Boio?’

‘I hope so.’

‘But we have witnesses now. They talked to the stranger.’

‘We may need more than that,’ he warned her, ‘but at least we know where to look now. If this Wenric saw the stranger, it may be that someone in Kenilworth also remembers him. This is no weather for travelling around the country. There is a strong chance that the man may still be in Coventry, if that was where he was heading. We have all sorts of possibilities,’ he said with gathering confidence, ‘and I will exploit them to the full. We brought men-at-arms of our own. If the lord Henry will not spare a posse to track down the stranger, we may be able to find him on our own.