Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘What is that?’

‘I have a feeling that he will enjoy it.’

The threat of imminent danger brought Asmoth abruptly awake.

She jumped up from the chair in which she had spent the night and ran to open the door. There was no sign of anyone but she could hear a distant noise borne on the wind, faint at first but growing in volume and gathering definition. The sound of so many hoofbeats carried a warning of hostility. Asmoth fled at once, making for the trees, then lunging breathlessly on into the undergrowth until she felt safe enough to pause. She crouched in the shade of a sagging yew and listened. Shouts and banging sounds told her that the forge was being searched. Men were roaming eagerly all over the buildings, causing untold damage as they hacked away with their swords in pursuit of their quarry. It seemed an age before the tumult finally subsided. An order was given and the riders moved off. Asmoth heard them leaving the forge and continuing on the road.

She waited a long time before she dared to emerge from her hiding place. It would be folly to return to the forge because they might have left someone there. Her best plan was to return home, keeping well clear of the roads as she did so. It was only as she was trotting along in the shadow of a hedge that the full significance of the incident dawned on her. Soldiers from the castle garrison had come in search of Boio.

He was free. Asmoth let out a cry of joy.

When the lady Marguerite joined them she was strangely subdued. Surprised to see her again, Golde and Adela gave her a warm welcome and tried to draw her into the conversation but, for once, she had little to contribute. They were in Adela’s private apartment and she worked quietly away at her tapestry as she spoke.

‘I hope that the commotion did not disturb you,’ she said. ‘I have never seen my husband so angry. He roused the entire castle.’

‘I know, my lady,’ said Marguerite.

‘You would have thought we were being attacked.’

‘No chance of that, my lady,’ said Golde. ‘The garrison was called to horse in order to chase a fugitive. I am not sure that they need a whole army to catch one man.’

‘Henry is taking no chances,’ said Adela. ‘The prisoner must have been very resourceful to escape from the dungeon. I still do not know how he did it. No matter. They will catch him and bring him back to be called to account for the murder of Martin Reynard.’

‘What sort of a man was he, my lady?’ asked Golde artlessly.

‘Martin? He gave good service here.’

‘Were you sorry to see him leave?’

‘Very sorry, Golde.’

‘Why?’

‘I liked him,’ said Adela with a soft smile. ‘We all did. Martin was very popular in the castle. He was not as well liked by the subtenants, I suspect, because he took his duties seriously and would stand no evasion when it was time to collect the rents. My husband always said that Martin Reynard had a ruthless streak and he meant it as a compliment.’

‘Yet he let him quit your service.’

Adela sighed. ‘That was a cause for much regret.’

‘Did he ever come back to the castle?’

‘From time to time. I could not quite understand why. He was reeve to Thorkell of Warwick and had no reason to be here.’

Another smile. ‘One or two of the ladies boasted that he returned to see them and that may have been the case. He was a handsome man who knew how to court a woman. Many tears were shed when Martin left.’

‘Why did he go?’ asked Marguerite, taking an interest.

‘My husband dismissed him.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘He said that Martin exceeded his authority.’

‘In what way?’

‘I am not sure. Henry never talked about it.’

‘He dismissed a man yet allowed him back in the castle?’

‘I think that my husband had second thoughts,’ said Adela as her needle dipped and pierced. ‘Men’s anger is sometimes roused too easily. They act on impulse and live to regret it. What I do know is this: the man who followed Martin here in the office of the reeve is nowhere near as efficient.’

‘Is he as popular with the ladies?’ asked Golde.

‘Oh, no. That could never be.’

‘A sudden impulse should never be trusted,’ said Marguerite.

‘The worst time to make a decision of any importance is when you are incensed about something. I know this to my cost.’

‘Do you, my lady?’ said Golde.

‘Yes. In a moment of exasperation I dismissed Heloise. I sent her on her way with her ears ringing. She served me faithfully for years and my mother before me. Heloise has been a godsend.

Yet I foolishly let her go.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I miss her.

She was more than just a companion. She was part of my family.

Heloise was my one true friend.’

‘Apart from your husband, that is,’ commented Adela.

‘My lady?’

‘A wife’s best friend is always her husband. Golde?’

‘Oh, I agree. It is so with Ralph.’

‘But not so with Philippe,’ said Marguerite wistfully. ‘That is why Heloise was so invaluable. She understood. When she was with us, my husband and I were happy together. We needed Heloise.’ Her hands came up in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Yet I dismissed her.’

‘She can as easily be recalled, my lady,’ said Golde.

‘In time, perhaps, but not immediately. Heloise has her pride.

She will need to be wooed. But enough of my troubles,’ she said, brightening. ‘All I wished to say was that I can sympathise with the lord Henry. Dispensing rashly with someone’s services then wanting them back.’

‘I wish that we did have Martin back,’ murmured Adela. ‘Had he returned to our household, he would not have been murdered.

I am sure that is one reason why my husband is so keen to bring his killer to justice. Henry was very fond of Martin. Catching the fugitive is a personal mission for him.’

‘They will soon run him down,’ said Marguerite. ‘Philippe has gone to join in the hunt for the villain.’

‘Yet I do feel slightly sorry for the man,’ admitted Golde.

‘Sorry!’ snorted the other.

‘Being pursued by such a huge posse.’

‘He is a murderer.’

‘He is also a frightened man with a troop of armed soldiers on his tail. The odds against him are overwhelming. What chance does he have?’

‘What chance should he have?’ asked Adela.

‘None whatsoever,’ said Marguerite harshly. ‘The man is evil and deserves all he gets. I hope that they slaughter him on the spot when they find him.’

While his captains led search parties in other directions, Henry Beaumont chose to take his troop to the Forest of Arden, a vast expanse of woodland which, even in winter, could offer an abundance of hiding places to a man who knew his way around it as Boio did. On a command from their lord, the men spread out in a long line and made their way through the forest with their swords and lances drawn, using them to strike at anything which impeded them or which could offer cover to a fugitive. Other game was disturbed by their approach and fled noisily. Dogs were being used, sniffing their way through the undergrowth and trying to pick up the scent of the quarry. When one of them let out a yelp, Richard the Hunter held up a hand for everyone to stop.

He dismounted and walked slowly forward with a lance at the ready. Henry followed in his wake on horseback. When they reached the bush where the dog was standing, the huntsman used his weapon to part the leaves but no quaking blacksmith was lying there. All that they saw was a mound of dung.

‘It is Boio’s,’ said Henry in jest. ‘He knows we are after him.’

His men laughed. Richard, meanwhile, bent to examine the dung.

‘This is not from any human, my lord,’ he said. ‘And it was not left here today. My guess is that it is a few days old at least.’