Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

During his time as a novice at Eltham Abbey, the habit of prayer had been firmly inculcated in him and, though he had chosen not to take the cowl, preferring instead a secular existence which permitted such delights as marriage and freedom of movement, he remained regular in his devotions. He was not alone as he kneeled before the altar. Brother Benedict, who seemed almost to have taken up residence in the chapel since their arrival at the castle, was also there, lying prostrate on the cold paving stones in an attitude of complete abnegation. When the noise filtered in from the bailey, Gervase heard it at once but the monk seemed beyond reach, lost in communion with his Maker and impervious to any sound but that which would signal the end of the world.

When Gervase went out of the door the full clamour hit him.

The whole bailey seemed to be alive. Voices yelled, soldiers ran to and fro, horses were brought from the stables, hounds were loosed from the kennels and the castle gates were being flung wide open to allow a mass exodus. Standing in the middle of it all, imposing order on the chaos, was the tall figure of Henry Beaumont, wearing helm and hauberk and directing operations with a brandished sword. He barked commands at Richard the Hunter, who nodded obediently and ran to his horse. Gervase was baffled. Something more than a day’s hunting was afoot.

Dodging a troop of riders, he hurried across to the constable.

‘What has happened, my lord?’ he said.

‘The prisoner has escaped!’ hissed the other.

‘Boio?’

‘He got out of the dungeons in the night and made off.’

‘But how?’ said Gervase. ‘Was he not closely guarded?’

‘He should have been!’

‘And securely locked in his cell?’

‘One of the guards on duty last night saw fit to leave his post,’

growled Henry, puce with rage. ‘He will not do that again! While one guard was away the other was tricked into opening the cell door.’

‘What did Boio do?’

‘Overpowered him then left him bound and gagged.’

‘But how can that be, my lord? The prisoner was shackled.

Brother Benedict was shocked when he saw the way you had him chained up.’

‘And rightly so! He is a dangerous felon.’

‘Hobbled by those fetters, he would hardly be able to move.’

‘He had got free of them.’

‘Free?’

‘And from his manacles.’

‘Was the man’s strength so great?’

‘He did not tear his bonds asunder. A file was used.’

‘But how could he get hold of such a thing?’

‘That is what I wish to know,’ said Henry vengefully, ‘and the first person I will question is Brother Benedict.’

Gervase blenched. ‘You cannot suspect him, surely?’

‘I can and do, Master Bret.’

‘Benedict is a holy man.’

‘With foolish notions about the prisoner’s innocence. Apart from the guards he is the only person who went into that cell with Boio. The sleeves of his cowl would easily hold a file.’

‘You malign him, my lord.’

‘Who else could have helped the prisoner?’

‘I do not know.’

But even as he spoke, Gervase realised that there was another possibility. The image of Asmoth came into his mind, so anxious to do what she could for Boio that she had scoured the area to find someone to verify the existence of the stranger with the donkey who had called at the forge. Gervase recalled his own visit to the place. It was filled with tools and implements of all kinds and would certainly contain a file. The woman had walked through snow and sleet to bring her information to him. Gervase wondered if she also brought something else. His eye travelled across to the windows of the dungeons.

A howl of outrage took his attention back to the chapel. Two guards were holding Benedict and hurrying him across the bailey.

The monk was struggling to shake them off and invoking divine assistance. When they reached Henry, the men released the quivering monk.

‘We found him in the chapel, my lord,’ said one of the guards.

‘Yes!’ cried Benedict. ‘I was plucked rudely from my prayers. It is an act of sacrilege to lay rough hands upon a holy brother.

Why did you send these ruffians in search of me, my lord?’

‘Because you are under suspicion.’

‘Of what?’

‘Aiding the escape of the blacksmith.’

Benedict gaped. ‘Boio has escaped?’

‘Do not pretend to be so surprised.’

‘I am utterly astonished. No man could get out of that dungeon.’

‘Boio did — thanks to your help.’

‘All that I offered him was spiritual solace.’

‘You gave him the file which he used to get rid of his shackles,’

said Henry. ‘You helped to set a murderer at liberty.’

‘I did not. I swear it, my lord.’

‘Take him away!’

‘Wait!’ said Gervase. ‘Brother Benedict is innocent.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

Henry’s nod set the guards in motion. Ignoring the monk’s wild protests and taking a firm grip on his flailing arms, they marched him unceremoniously off in the direction of the dungeons.

‘He can enjoy the comforts of a cell himself,’ said Henry with a callous unconcern. ‘It will make him more penitent.’

‘You are making a grievous mistake, my lord,’ said Gervase.

‘My mistake was to let him visit the prisoner on his own.’

‘Benedict is a monk, devout and honest.’

‘I do not care if he is the Abbot of Westminster,’ snarled Henry.

‘No man works against me and escapes my ire. Benedict is lucky that I do not have him put in chains.’

‘But he is our scribe, my lord. We need him at the shire hall.’

‘He will remain in custody.’

‘Without him we cannot continue our work.’

‘Then we will furnish you with another scribe,’ said Henry with irritation. ‘The escape of a dangerous prisoner is more important than who scribbles what on a piece of paper at the shire hall.

Boio is on the loose — a savage killer. Who knows how many other people he will murder before we catch him?’

‘He is not a violent man, my lord.’

‘Tell that to the guard whom he attacked.’

‘And he is not guilty of killing Martin Reynard.’

‘Then why has he fled?’ demanded Henry with unanswerable assurance. ‘Innocent men have nothing to fear. Only the guilty flee the rope. Even you must see that, Master Bret. When he got out of this castle last night, Boio the Blacksmith was signing a confession of guilt.’

Gervase was speechless. He watched in despair as the constable mounted his destrier then moved to address the waiting soldiers, who had been divided into groups. His voice boomed across the bailey.

‘We do not know which way the prisoner went,’ he said, ‘so we must search east, west, north and south until we find him.

Whoever first descries him will be richly rewarded. But mark this, all of you. I want Boio the Blacksmith back in this castle by nightfall. Dead or alive!’

By the time that Ralph Delchard had pulled on his tunic, the horses and hounds were streaming out of the castle. He watched them through the window with a mingled curiosity and foreboding.

‘What is going on?’ asked Golde, still half asleep.

‘The whole garrison seems to have been roused, my love.’

‘Why?’

‘I can think of only one reason.’

‘What is that?’

‘I will tell you when I get back.’

Ralph gave her a perfunctory kiss, then left. After pounding down the staircase he came out of the keep and headed for the bailey. Gervase was still standing there in a quandary. Certain that it must have been Asmoth who brought the file into the castle, he had withheld the information from Henry Beaumont and thereby effected the arrest of the innocent Brother Benedict.