Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘So?’

‘His testimony may save Boio.’

‘It will not even be admitted.’

‘But it must. The man is a crucial witness.’

‘Let him be sent for,’ suggested Benedict.

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I place no value on the word of an indigent traveller.

I know such men too well. They sneak from town to town to prey on the credulous and soft-hearted. The blacksmith shoed his donkey without payment. Out of gratitude the man will say almost anything which Boio asks him.’

‘Would you send an innocent man to his death?’ said Ralph.

‘Due process of law will be followed. All relevant witnesses will be summoned. Those who overheard the blacksmith arguing with Martin Reynard. Those who can testify to Boio’s hatred of the man. And, most important of all, the witness who saw him near the murder scene.’

‘The slimy Grimketel.’

‘His evidence is vital.’

‘I would not trust a word that man says.’

‘You do not have to, my lord,’ said Henry, glowering at him.

‘Why do you take it upon yourself to get involved here at all? You are my guests and you are flouting my hospitality. It is intolerable.

Have I tried to hinder your own work in the town?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Have I questioned your judgements at the shire hall and gone behind your back in the hope of subverting them?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then have the grace to treat me with the same respect that I show you. Devote your energies to the matters which brought you to Warwick. Stop worrying about the fate of a man you have never even met.’

‘ I have met him, my lord,’ said Benedict.

‘That, I now see, was a mistake.’

‘I offered him succour.’

‘You listened to his arrant lies.’

‘I believe him to be innocent.’

‘That is your privilege, Brother Benedict.’

‘Let me speak with him again.’

‘No!’ snapped the other.

‘But the poor man has information locked away in that slow-moving brain of his which needs to be teased out. I am the person to do it. Boio trusts me, my lord.’

‘He may do so; I do not.’

Benedict was hurt. ‘Do you doubt my integrity?’

‘I doubt your motives. From this moment on,’ he announced,

‘your involvement in the case must cease. That goes for all three of you. I have been insulted enough by your meddling. I will stand it no more. Tell me, my lord,’ he said, turning to Ralph. ‘Do you have a busy day ahead of you in the shire hall tomorrow?’

‘Very busy!’ sighed Ralph.

‘Will it leave time for rides into the countryside?’

‘I think not.’

‘Or for pointless speculation about a man on a donkey?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Good,’ said Henry with a nod of satisfaction. ‘That means all three of you will be safely out of my way while I get on with the important business of putting a murderer on trial.’

‘So soon?’ protested Gervase.

‘It is unjust, my lord,’ said Benedict.

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Boio needs more time to marshal his defence.’

Henry was contemptuous. ‘He has no defence. I have never seen a more guilty man. He will stand trial for the killing of Martin Reynard, then be convicted and sentenced. By the time you finish your day’s work in the shire hall, I will have his miserable carcass dangling from a rope.’

Both legs were free. Boio enjoyed such a sense of euphoria that he wanted to skip around in the straw to celebrate but he wisely restrained himself. Split asunder by the steady assault of his file, the fetters now lay on the floor. They had left peeled skin and ugly red weals around his ankles but he did not mind. Given the use of his legs once more, he sensed that he had a fighting chance of escape. How it could be effected, he did not yet know but he hoped that it would become clear in time. If he remained in custody, he was certain, his life was forfeit. Too many people believed him guilty. Too many actively wanted him to die, Grimketel among them, a man whom he could never bring himself to befriend and who would take pleasure in giving evidence which would help to convict him.

Boio was out of his depth. His true element was his forge. He was his own master there. He knew how to speak to the horses who came to be shoed, whispering softly to subdue them so that they did not shy when he hammered in his nails. Hauled into a court and interrogated under oath, he would be completely lost.

He did not have words enough to keep his accusers at bay. His simple plea of innocence would be swept aside.

At least they were leaving him alone. No more food had been given to him but neither had he been subjected to any more torture. The guards were biding their time. They were keeping him under lock and key until his trial and that, he feared, would be very soon. Henry Beaumont believed in swift justice. Boio had seen examples of it swinging in the wind as they hung from the gallows, condemned men displayed by way of warning. It would be his turn next. Thorkell of Warwick could not save him and neither could Ansgot the Priest. Brother Benedict showed compassion but offered no practical assistance. Only one person actually wanted to aid his escape and it was her belief in him which impelled him along and instilled boldness.

Though his arms were aching and his hands sore, he picked up the file once more. It was his only weapon. Asmoth had taught him the way to save himself. His fetters had been discarded but the manacles on his wrists remained. His file rasped away at one of the iron bands as another long and painstaking task began.

His eyes were on his work and his ears were pricked for the sound of the guards.

But his mind remained solely and devotedly on Asmoth.

When she came round the bend in the road she saw the forge ahead of her, silhouetted against the sky. Evening shadows had matured into the darkness of night but Asmoth’s eyes were accustomed to the gloom and she picked out the familiar profile of the dilapidated buildings without difficulty. Her stride lengthened. She was thirty yards or more away when she heard the sound. It stopped her in her tracks. Asmoth strained her ears to listen. It was no illusion. It was there, a steady, unvarying, repetitive banging noise. The distinctive note of the forge. For a brief second she dared to believe that Boio had somehow been released and sent back to his work. He was free. She broke into a run.

It was then that she realised there was no light in the forge, no telltale glow of fire and no clang of the anvil. The place looked deserted. What was causing the noise was the door of the forge as it was opened and shut for amusement by the wind. Asmoth slowed to a walk, reached the building, held the door wide open and peered in. Her body tensed at once and her mouth went dry.

Somebody was there. She could hear movement and sense danger.

Boio’s home had been invaded by a stranger. Her fear disappeared beneath a sudden urge to protect her friend’s property.

‘Who is there?’ she cried out.

The reply was immediate and came in the form of a snarling bundle of fur, which raced across the floor and brushed her leg as it flashed through the door. Asmoth was both startled and relieved, frightened by the creature’s departure but glad that the intruder was no more than a wildcat in search of food. Going into the forge, she bolted the door behind her then went through into the house itself. She groped around until she found a candle.

When it was lighted she set it on the little table and lowered herself into the crude chair which Boio had fashioned out of spare timber. Built to accommodate his huge frame, it was far too big for her but Asmoth was not in search of comfort. She needed reassurance. When she sat in his chair she felt safe, wanted, close to him.