Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘What left it? A deer? A fox?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘A wolf, then?’

‘No, my lord. A much larger animal than that.’

‘What was it?’

‘A bear.’

Ursa was on his best behaviour. Having drawn a sizeable crowd in the marketplace in Coventry, he went through the whole range of his tricks with gusto and earned generous applause. Donations to the dwarf’s cap were less generous but enough was collected to feed the pair of them well for a few meals. The dwarf decided to curtail performances for the day. Nobody would pay twice to see the same tricks. A fresh audience would be in the marketplace the next day as other citizens came to buy provender and as new people poured in from the surrounding area. Ursa and his master began to lope away in search of a quiet place in which to rest and take refreshment.

When they came round a corner, however, they were confronted by another audience, smaller than their own but no less entranced by what they were seeing. The old man with the donkey was about to fulfil his promise. The dwarf and his bear joined the spectators, as did the monk who had watched the old man so closely the previous day. The boy possessed by the Devil had been brought by his father. Ten years old, he had none of the joy and exuberance of other children of that age. Instead, his body was shaking wildly, his eyes stared and he had no control at all over his limbs. Every so often he would go into such a series of convulsions that people would cry out in horror and step back.

‘Help him, sir!’ begged the father. ‘Save my son.’

‘I will,’ said the old man.

‘He is all we have. Do not let the Devil take him from us.’

‘Leave him to me.’

When the old man touched him the boy was seized with the worst spasm yet and twitched violently, crying out in pain then emitting a hideous laugh, deafening in volume and eerie in tone.

The miracle worker did not release his grip. Pulling the boy towards him, he held him in an embrace and began to chant something in his ear. The result was startling. The threshing slowly subsided, the cry faded to a gentle whimper. The old man continued to hold him and talk to him.

‘Can you hear me now?’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ said the boy.

‘God has cured you through the magic of my touch.’

‘I worship Him and give thanks!’

‘The demons have been driven out, my son. Go to your father.’

The boy turned to his father as if seeing him for the first time.

There was no sign of any affliction now. The boy was calm, upright and in full control of his limbs. He ran to his father, who gave him a tearful hug before looking across to the old man.

‘You have saved him,’ he said. ‘It was a miracle.’

‘He believed in me and I cured him.’

The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Even the dwarf and his bear joined in. They were still clapping as the monk hurried off as fast as his outrage would carry him.

‘Why come to me?’ said Thorkell of Warwick. ‘I have not seen the man.’

‘We felt that he might head this way,’ said Gervase.

‘And you hoped to trap him to gain some reward, is that it?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘We hoped to be able to help him,’ explained Ralph. ‘We believe that Boio is unjustly accused. Our scribe, Brother Benedict, who talked with him in his cell, is convinced that he is innocent.’

‘He is,’ said Thorkell bluntly. ‘I know him.’

‘That is why we thought he would make for you,’ said Gervase.

‘You are his overlord. He could be sure that you would not hand him straight over to the army which is at his heels.’

‘I would never hand him over to the lord Henry.’

‘At least we have been able to alert you.’

‘Yes,’ said Thorkell, studying them carefully. ‘Boio’s escape is good news. I thank you for warning me of it. But do not think to take me in by this pretence of friendship. You are guests of the lord Henry and like to side with him. I believe you came to see if I had the blacksmith hidden away in my house.’

‘That is not true,’ said Gervase earnestly.

‘No,’ reinforced Ralph. ‘Our sole aim is to solve this crime in order to secure Boio’s release. As long as he is on the run, he will never be free. The real killer of Martin Reynard must be found.’

Thorkell was still not persuaded of their good intentions. When Ralph and Gervase rode up to his house with six men-at-arms at their backs the old man was deeply suspicious of them, especially as they spoke down to him from their saddles. He had met Gervase at the funeral and found him an upright young man but his soldierly companion was less easy to trust. Ralph Delchard had the look of a man who would not scruple to turn the whole manor house upside down in search of the fugitive. Thorkell stroked his white beard as he appraised the two of them. His tone was neutral and his manner noncommittal.

‘Where will you start looking?’ he said.

‘For what?’ said Ralph.

‘The real killer.’

‘In Coventry.’

‘You will find him much nearer than that.’

‘If you mean on Adam Reynard’s land,’ said Gervase, ‘we have already been there. We spoke to him and Grimketel. The evidence against Boio is not as powerful as the lord Henry claims.

Grimketel’s story has odd gaps in it. I would dearly love to be able to test him in court.’

‘Too late for that, Gervase,’ said Ralph. ‘There will be no trial now. If Boio is taken, the lord Henry will dispense summary justice.’

‘It was ever thus,’ grumbled Thorkell.

‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

‘I do.’

‘Tell us more.’

‘It is not my place to do so,’ said the thegn, pulling himself to his full height. ‘I will not complain to one Norman soldier about another. Though you claim to disagree with the lord Henry, you and he come from the same country and have the same attitudes.

What is the death of a mere Saxon blacksmith to men such as you? It is meaningless.’

‘That is not so!’

‘Prove it!’

‘Is my presence here not proof enough?’

‘That depends on your real motive for coming here.’

‘To help Boio.’

‘And to antagonise your host? You would not dare to do that.’

‘We would and have, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘The lord Henry must think us poor guests, I fear. We have felt his displeasure keenly already. If we are able to save the life of an innocent man, we will happily invite it again. Send to the castle for further proof.

Ask for our scribe, Brother Benedict. You will find him locked up in the dungeon on suspicion of having aided Boio’s escape.’

Thorkell was shocked. ‘A monk thrown into custody?’

‘Until we can get him out again. And the only way that we can do that is to deliver up a murderer to the lord Henry. Someone with a motive to kill Martin Reynard and the means to do so.’

‘His kinsman has a motive.’

‘But where are the means?’

‘I do not know, Master Bret.’

‘Someone crushed the victim to death.’

‘Or broke his bones with clubs to make his injuries mislead you.’

‘We were not misled,’ Ralph assured him. ‘We both viewed the body in the morgue. Someone wrestled with Martin Reynard and squeezed him until the last drop of life ebbed away. I could well imagine that slinking Grimketel wanting to do the deed himself but he lacks both the strength and the courage.’

‘You have weighed him up well,’ said Thorkell.

‘He is no fighter, my lord. Break wind and you blow him over.’

The old Saxon chuckled but he remained vigilant. Had Gervase Bret come alone, Thorkell might have been persuaded of the honesty of his intentions but the presence of Ralph Delchard and his men-at-arms brought a faint element of menace. It was far safer to keep all of them at arm’s length until he had plumbed their true character.