Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘What are you doing here, my lord?’ he demanded.

‘Hunting for the truth,’ said Ralph.

‘You should be back at the shire hall.’

‘We could not proceed without the services of our scribe and someone foolishly locked him up in a dungeon.’

‘Take care you do not end up in the same place!’

‘That would be to add suicide to folly,’ warned Ralph. ‘I am a royal commissioner. Lay hands on me and the King himself will ride to Warwick to talk with you on the subject. Do you want that to happen?’

Henry glared at him, then jumped from his saddle and went into the cottage to view the corpse. Ralph followed at his shoulder.

The newcomer’s diagnosis was swift and terse.

‘Boio!’

‘I thought he crushed his victims to death,’ said Ralph cynically.

‘He has been here. Stand aside.’

Henry pushed him back and went out to his horse. Without another word he rode off to join in the search and to exhort his men. Ralph waited until he was out of sight, then he went into the cottage for the third time and examined the scene of the crime more carefully. When he inspected the wounds he came to the same conclusion as Trouville. Grimketel had been felled by a vicious blow to the temple and his head was dashed hard against the floor. As he studied the gash he recalled that Martin Reynard had also been struck on the temple with great force but there had been no blood in his case.

He made a quick search of the cottage but found nothing of interest until he was about to leave. Standing behind the door was the stout length of oak which was used to bar it. He picked it up to feel its weight, then he closed the door and dropped it into position. It was an elementary means of fortification, but effective. Removing the oak, he stood it against the wall again and let himself out, strolling around the outbuildings and peering into them. Chickens were kept in one, another was used to store logs, a third housed a fractious goat. But it was the fourth hut which interested Ralph. It had no window and its door was securely locked. After walking around it a couple of times he used his heel to pound at the door until it gave way.

Looking inside, he gave a gasp of astonishment.

‘What have we found here?’ he murmured.

Shortly after parting with his friend, Gervase Bret left the road and struck off across open country with only a vague idea of where he was going. He and his two companions were soon hopelessly lost and there was nobody in sight from whom they could seek help. They pressed on over fields and through woodland until they finally came to a lone hovel in a clearing. A man was chopping wood outside it. When they told him they were looking for Roundshill, he had a laugh at their expense and told them they had gone completely astray but he gave them clear directions and they set off once more.

They were a mile away from their destination when they saw a man forking hay into a stable. Gervase rode over to him to confirm that they were heading for their destination.

‘Roundshill?’ said the man. ‘Why do you want to go there?’

‘I am looking for a young woman called Asmoth.’

‘Then you should have come earlier, for she was here at my house.’

‘When?’ asked Gervase.

‘Oh, some time ago. They are well on their way by now.’

‘They?’

‘Asmoth and her father,’ explained the man. ‘The poor fellow is fading badly. His only hope is the physician who lives in Warwick but he would not ride all the way to Roundshill. Asmoth has to take her father there. That is why she borrowed my horse and cart.’

‘To go to Warwick?’

‘That is where you will find her.’

Gervase was minded to head straight for Warwick but something told him to stop in Roundshill first. They rode on until they came to a small cluster of dwellings near a frozen stream. The old lady in the first cottage told them where Asmoth and her father lived.

Gervase was soon tapping on their door. There was no sound from within. When a louder rap brought no response he tried the door and it opened to reveal a small room with a few sticks of furniture in it. Lying on the bed in the corner was an old man, eyes watering with fear at the sight of an intruder.

‘I will not harm you, friend,’ said Gervase softly. ‘I was told that Asmoth lived here. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ croaked the invalid.

‘Then you must be her father. Is she not taking you to Warwick?’

‘No. I would never make the journey alive.’

‘But your daughter borrowed a horse and cart.’

‘I would rather die in my own home.’ He held out a hand. ‘What is this about a horse and cart? Why should I go to Warwick?’

Gervase crossed to the bed, gave him a calming pat on the arm then pulled the blanket gently over his shoulders. Seeing that the fire was dying, he fed it with logs before leaving the old man in peace. When he stepped outside again, he shook his head in bewilderment.

‘Wherever can she be?’ he said to himself.

Staying clear of the main road, the cart trundled over wandering paths and rutted tracks. Asmoth was perched on its seat, her face tense and her teeth clenched, keeping the horse at a steady pace and tugging hard on the reins when it tried to veer off rebelliously. A tall pile of straw, brush and bramble lay in the back of the cart, heaped up and swaying violently every time the vehicle bucked or lurched. The journey was slow and uncomfortable, and the horse had to be stung on the rump with a stick whenever they went up a hill, in order to make it pull its load harder. Asmoth saw nobody and, she prayed, nobody saw her. She was not worried for her own safety and feared no consequences. Her thoughts were fixed on someone else.

When a beaten path finally opened out into something resembling a road, she snapped the reins and gave a yell. The horse and cart picked up speed and moved on. They did not have far to go now.

Adam Reynard paced restlessly up and down, cursing his luck and racking his brains. When someone banged on his door he jumped in alarm. He needed a moment to compose himself before he let Ralph Delchard in. The visitor wasted no time on a hollow greeting.

‘Why did you not come running?’ he said accusingly.

‘Running?’

‘To Grimketel’s house. The man has been murdered. Do you care so little about him that you do not even go to view the body?’

He rode over Reynard’s stuttered excuse. ‘You were here when the lord Philippe’s man brought the news so you must have heard it. Why did you not ride off when the lord Henry did?’

‘I was just about to come, my lord.’

‘Without your cloak and cap on?’

‘Grimketel was my man. I was very fond of him. I was so grief-stricken at his death that I could not move an inch.’

‘Stop lying,’ said Ralph. ‘We both know why you stayed here.’

‘Do we?’

‘It is the same reason you stopped us calling on Grimketel before. You were afraid that someone might look into the outbuildings. If the lord Henry had peeped inside one of those in search of Boio, he would have had an unpleasant shock. Three of his finest deer are hanging in there by their back legs.’

‘Deer!’ exclaimed Reynard, looking shocked. ‘Can this be?’

‘You know very well it can be,’ said Ralph, standing over him. ‘So do not insult my intelligence with evasion and falsehood. Grimketel had rights of warren to kill vermin. He had no hunting privileges in the Forest of Arden. How did that venison get where it is?’

‘I have no idea.’ Ralph’s blow sent him reeling. ‘My lord!’

‘I will use a sword next time. Now — answer my question.’

‘Grimketel must have-’ He broke off and licked his lips.

‘Grimketel must have what ?’