Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘What were you doing in the forest yourself?’ said Gervase. ‘If the blacksmith was trespassing then so were you.’

‘Grimketel has rights of warren,’ explained Reynard.

‘Let him speak for himself,’ said Ralph. ‘He has a tongue.’

‘It is as you have heard,’ said Grimketel. ‘I have a licence to kill vermin in the forest. Hares and wildcats, mostly.’

‘Did you catch any that morning?’

‘No. My snares were all empty.’

‘Have you ever seen Boio in the forest before?’

‘Never.’

‘Does he know the penalty for trespass?’

‘Everyone does.’

‘So he knew that he would be taking a risk?’

‘Yes,’ said Grimketel. ‘Perhaps he feared that I would report him to one of the foresters. That is why he kept well clear of me.’

‘He would sooner be arrested for trespass than for murder.’

‘He is guilty of both,’ said Reynard.

‘That remains to be proved.’

‘You will not sit in judgement on him. The lord Henry will.’

‘That is why we are making our own enquiries,’ said Ralph bluntly.

‘Your own irrelevant enquiries.’

‘We shall see.’

‘Thank you, Grimketel,’ said Gervase smoothly. ‘What you have told us is very interesting. One thing more before we leave.’

‘Yes?’

‘When you came to the funeral you spoke with Thorkell.’

‘Not by choice,’ said the other ruefully. ‘He turned on me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That his blacksmith was innocent and that …’

‘Go on,’ said Reynard, as if giving him permission. ‘Be truthful.’

Grimketel curled his lip. ‘Thorkell of Warwick said that my master had had his reeve murdered then threw the blame on to Boio. He was very bitter and all but struck me.’

‘I saw the exchange.’

‘Time for us to go, Gervase,’ said Ralph. ‘Other duties call.’

‘We will not try to detain you,’ said Reynard with sarcasm. ‘Nor entreat you to come again. You have no right to involve yourselves here. You do not even know Boio.’

‘We are getting to know him extremely well,’ said Gervase.

They exchanged farewells, then Reynard showed the two visitors out of the door before closing it quickly and pointedly after them.

Ralph and Gervase began to walk slowly towards their horses but they were still close enough to the house to hear the yell of pain from Grimketel as his master started to beat him.

Hours of continual effort began to tax even Boio’s strength but he did not dare to stop. Changing its angle, he worked away rhythmically with the file and tried to ignore the ache in his arms, the occasional shooting pain in his neck and the chafing on his ankles and wrists. When the iron band which enclosed one ankle finally began to weaken, he rubbed harder until he opened a gap in the iron. It was big enough for him to insert the file into it in order to lever the fetter apart. When it popped open he was afraid that the noise would bring the guards and he swiftly hid the file and the now liberated ankle beneath the straw, but nobody came.

He was safe for the time being. Having earned a brief rest, he massaged the ankle which had shed its fetter, then stretched out his leg so that it could enjoy its freedom. There was a long way to go yet but it was an encouraging start. When both legs were unencumbered he would at least be able to run away from his dungeon even though he had no idea at that point how he would get out of it. That was a problem he would face later. For the moment he was driven along by the simple desire to get rid of his shackles. That was why she had dropped the file through his window and why she was now praying that it would help him to escape. When they had first arrested him and flung him into the cell, Boio had felt completely defenceless and utterly alone.

But he did have one friend. She believed in him and had even risked imprisonment herself in order to aid him. That thought wiped away the aching fatigue. Picking up the file once more, he began his attack on the iron band which enclosed his other ankle, working with such grim dedication that sweat started to form on his brow and trickle down his face. It was like being back in his forge again.

When the Bishop of Lichfield left the church he still had the pleasing aroma of incense in his nostrils. Having celebrated Mass in Holy Trinity Church, he was free to address his mind to more mundane matters. Reginald padded along beside him like a faithful hound as they made the short journey to the monastery, followed by a dignified procession of Benedictine monks. Robert de Limesey waved his blessing to some of the children who stopped to watch them pass then he turned to Reginald.

‘Has the man been watched?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord bishop.’

‘Is there any cause for alarm?’

‘I believe that there is.’

‘Explain why.’

‘He spoke to a small crowd this morning,’ said Reginald, relaying information passed directly to him. ‘In the marketplace. He was trying to sell them his medicine but they would not buy it. He became boastful and talked about performing a miracle.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow, my lord bishop.’

‘Where?’

‘In the same place, close to the same time.’

‘What form is this miracle to take?’

‘He promises to cure a boy who is possessed by demons.’

The bishop was aghast. ‘He dared to claim that?’

‘More than once, I am told.’

‘Who is this child? And why must this vaunted miracle be delayed until tomorrow?’

‘Because the boy lives some distance from Coventry,’ said the monk. ‘Hearing that the old man was in the town, the father came here to enquire if there was any hope for his son. He has been assured that there is. Instead of going to help this child at his home — as any honest physician assuredly would — the old man insists that the boy be brought to Coventry so that his “miracle” has an audience and so that he can sell his medicine on the strength of it.’

‘This is disturbing intelligence.’

‘There is worse yet.’

‘Save it until we are in the privacy of my apartment.’

They went into the monastery and headed for the bishop’s private chamber. As soon as he entered he was assisted in the removal of his vestments by the dutiful Reginald. Only when he had settled in the chair behind the table was Robert de Limesey ready to continue, picking up the conversation at the precise point of its termination.

‘Worse yet?’ he said.

‘The man claimed divine assistance for his miracles.’

‘He actually invoked the name of the Almighty?’

‘He claimed that God was working through his hands,’ said Reginald querulously. ‘He even had the temerity to compare himself with the Lord Jesus as a man who performed miracles with no thought of personal gain but only to relieve suffering.’

The bishop scoffed. ‘So that is who he is! A second Messiah!’

‘Witchcraft is at work, my lord bishop.’

‘It has all the signs.’

‘I begin to think that flea-bitten donkey of his may be a familiar.’

‘Unless he intends to ride into Jerusalem on it and proclaim the Second Coming!’ The bishop controlled his sarcasm. ‘That remark was uncalled for, Reginald. I withdraw it.’

‘I did not hear it, my lord bishop.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Shall we have this man taken?’

‘Not yet, not yet.’

‘But he may do untold damage if left at liberty.’

‘Remind me when this miracle of his is due.’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Let us wait until then. Have men ready. If he really does try to practise sorcery he will be arrested and thrown into custody. No mercy will be shown.’ He looked up. ‘What is this man’s name?’