Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

He paused for effect but his donkey chose that moment to empty its bladder with blithe unconcern and the moment was hopelessly shattered. Instead of holding his audience in a firm grip, the man looked at them through a blanket of rising steam.

The children giggled and one of the women clicked her tongue in disgust. A firm slap on the rump made the animal swing away and its owner stepped in front of it to block out the unseemly distraction. His voice soared above the fierce hiss behind him.

‘When I talk of medicine,’ he said, thrusting a hand inside his cloak, ‘I do not mean the useless remedies which any pedlar will sell you. I talk about magic, my friends.’ He produced a stone bottle and held it up for them to see. ‘Do you know what I hold here? A compound made up of two dozen herbs and a special ingredient known only to me. This is more than medicine. It is pure salvation!’

‘What will it cure?’ asked a voice.

‘Anything!’

‘I suffer from ulcers on my leg.’

‘This will remove them overnight.’

‘My wife has trouble breathing.’

‘Her lungs will be cleansed by my potion.’

‘My teeth ache,’ said a man, exposing his rotting fangs. ‘Will your medicine take away the terrible pain in my mouth?’

‘Take it away as if it was never there.’

‘How do I know?’

‘Because you have my word on it.’

‘What if my teeth still ache?’

‘Then you can come to me and have your money back,’ said the old man. ‘Either that or I will draw out the teeth for you. For that is another skill that I possess. I have drawn teeth from royalty.’

‘What is in your medicine?’ asked a cynic.

‘That is a secret passed down to me.’

‘Was it passed by that donkey of yours?’ said the man, producing another giggle from the children. ‘The last time I bought a potion from a travelling pedlar that is what it tasted like. Are you a true physician?’

‘As true as any in the realm.’

‘Some say that you perform miracles.’

‘I do, my friend.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Yes,’ said another voice. ‘Prove it.’

‘Show us a miracle now.’

‘It is not as simple as that, my friend,’ soothed the old man. ‘A miracle is not a sideshow. I do not perform to entertain a crowd but to cure the sick and save the dying from the grave.’

‘The grave!’ repeated the cynic with a chuckle. ‘You look as if you just climbed out of one yourself.’

‘It is true, my friend. That is because I have no need of riches nor fine apparel. I come to help others and not to seek my own gain. When the Lord Jesus performed His miracles, He did not ask payment for them. Only the satisfaction of helping those in distress.’

His audience began to listen more attentively and the monk who had been standing a little distance away, but who remained within earshot, now moved in closer as he caught the scent of witchcraft.

‘Do you ask for a miracle?’ said the old man. ‘Then come back here tomorrow at this time and you will see one. I have been told of a boy who is possessed by evil spirits. He lives some distance away but, hearing of my gifts, his father has promised to bring him to Coventry tomorrow. Have you ever seen the Devil driven out, my friends? You will. Those of you who doubt me will have to believe. It will be a true miracle.’

Torn between wonder and disbelief, his listeners muttered among themselves. The children were fascinated, the donkey nodded its head. The monk watched with growing unease. Having secured the interest of his little audience once more, the old man sought to turn it to pecuniary advantage and held up the stone bottle.

‘Here, my friends,’ he said, ‘is another miracle. Buy it and see.’

‘Can you really save this boy?’ asked a woman.

‘I can.’

‘This is no trick?’

‘Come back tomorrow and be my witness.’

‘Will you give him some of your medicine?’

‘A taste of the medicine,’ said the old man, ‘and a touch of my healing hands. God heals through my fingers.’ He held out the bottle to her. ‘Will you take this to cure all the ills of your family?’

‘No,’ said the woman with blunt practicality, ‘but I will come back tomorrow. If that boy really is possessed by evil spirits and if you can drive them out, I will buy your medicine at once.’

‘So will I!’ shouted another.

‘And me!’ said a third.

‘Perform the miracle,’ said the cynic, ‘and even I will believe in you.’

‘So be it,’ replied the old man. ‘I make no idle boast. If the child has faith in me, he will be cured by laying on of hands. I can succeed where other physicians fail because I have been touched by God. Come tomorrow and see His healing powers for yourself.

God works through me and guides me in my mission.’

The monk had heard enough. Pursing his lips in outrage, he scurried off to the monastery to report what he had just heard.

Adam Reynard was not expecting visitors. He was seated at the table, studying a charter, when he heard the drumming of hoofbeats on the road outside, and, crossing the room to open the door, saw six riders converging on his manor house. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret had travelled from Warwick with four men-at-arms to ensure safety and to reinforce their authority.

While the commissioners dismounted, the others remained in the saddle. Reynard was merely puzzled at first, then something alerted him. He sensed trouble.

‘We come in search of Adam Reynard,’ said Ralph.

‘You have found him, my lord.’

‘I am Ralph Delchard and this is Gervase Bret. We are royal commissioners, visiting this county with regard to the Great Survey which has been ordered.’ He saw the look of recognition on the other’s face. ‘You have heard of us, I think.’

‘Your reputation has come before you.’

‘Then you will know us as men who prefer a warm house to the cold weather outside it. Will you not invite us in?’

‘When I know your business, my lord.’

‘It concerns the murder of your kinsman.’

Adam Reynard looked from one to the other and ran his tongue over his lips. Gesturing for them to follow, he went back into the house. All three of them were soon standing close enough to the fire to enjoy its comforting glow. Ralph appraised the man before speaking again.

‘You were not at the funeral, I hear,’ he said.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Yet you were the kinsman of Martin Reynard.’

‘That did not, alas, make us friends.’

‘What did it make you?’

‘We preferred to keep out of each other’s way.’

‘Until your paths were forced to cross,’ observed Gervase.

‘In what way?’ asked Reynard.

‘This dispute in which you are involved. When your kinsman was in lord Henry’s household, you saw little enough of him. Out of sight, out of mind. But when Martin Reynard became reeve to Thorkell of Warwick, you were bound to see more of him.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Your land borders on that of Thorkell.’

‘I need no reminding of that, Master Bret.’

‘You must have encountered his reeve from time to time.’

‘Only to ride off so that we had no need to speak.’

‘Was he so hostile to you?’ asked Ralph.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then what was the cause of this rift between you?’

Reynard licked his lips again. ‘Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead,’ he began, ‘but Martin was too forthright in his speech.

Everyone will tell you the same. Working at the castle gave him a false sense of his importance. It made him arrogant, too quick to throw his weight about. He was not popular as a reeve. Efficient, I grant you, but not liked by the subtenants with whom he had to deal.’