Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

Ralph Delchard had never been so glad to spy a destination.

Light was fading badly when the town finally came into view and he could only see it in hazy outline but it had a stark loveliness to him. Set in the Avon valley, Warwick had grown up beside the river itself to become the largest community in the shire. It was almost twenty years since he had last visited the place, travelling on that occasion as a member of the Conqueror’s punitive army and pausing there long enough to see its castle being raised, its town walls strengthened and the additional fortification of an encircling ditch being dug. The closer they got, the more anxious Ralph became to renew his acquaintance with the town and rediscover the lost pleasures of eating, drinking and relaxing in warm surroundings.

Golde was now riding beside him at the head of the shivering procession. As Warwick emerged from the gloom ahead of them, she found her tongue again.

‘At last!’ she said with a weary smile. ‘I was beginning to think that we would never get there.’

‘I am sorry that you have had to endure such a ride, my love.’

‘Being with you makes the discomfort bearable.’

‘I still feel guilty that I brought you here,’ he said solicitously.

‘It might have been better for you to stay in Hampshire. On a day like this, the only sensible place to be is behind closed doors.’

‘I have no complaints,’ she said bravely.

‘I do, Golde. It would take an hour to list them all.’ He looked back over the long column which snaked behind them. ‘I just wish that I could have provided some amenable companions to divert you from the misery of the ride.’

‘Nobody could have been more amenable than the archdeacon.

We have talked for hours on end about Hereford. And Brother Benedict has always made some cheerful comment whenever we broke our journey.’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph with a roll of his eyes. ‘Brother Benedict thrives on adversity. He would make cheerful comments during a tempest. But I was not referring to him nor to the good archdeacon.

I was thinking of that eccentric trio who joined us at Banbury. It is difficult to decide which of them is the most objectionable -

the bellowing husband, the supercilious wife or that she-dragon who rides with them.’

‘The lady Marguerite is very beautiful.’

‘Her beauty is not matched by good breeding, my love. I will never forgive her the contempt she dared to display in front of you. Had she been a man, I would have buffeted her to the ground and demanded an apology. The lady Marguerite is a terrible imposition.’

‘She clearly views us as an imposition upon her.’

‘How does her husband put up with the woman?’

Golde’s eyes twinkled. ‘I would rather ask how she tolerates him.’

Ralph grinned before twisting in his saddle to stare back at the couple in question. Flanked by their men-at-arms, Philippe Trouville and his wife were riding in the middle of the cavalcade with Heloise directly behind them, all three sunk deep into a bruised silence as they nursed individual grievances about the journey. A warm fire might soon thaw them out but Ralph suspected that it would not make them in any way more agreeable.

Warwick was gated to the north, east and west but they approached from the south, which had the extra defences of river and castle. As soon as they clattered across the wooden bridge and entered the fortress, their situation improved markedly. Lookouts had warned the constable of their imminent arrival and Henry Beaumont was in the courtyard to give them a cordial welcome. The horses were stabled, the men-at-arms taken off to their quarters and the commissioners conducted to the hall with their wives and their scribe. Though a crackling fire lit up the room and filled it with a smoky heat, the lady Marguerite insisted on being shown to her apartment and Trouville, hovering between curiosity about his host and marital duty, eventually succumbed to the latter and excused himself before following his wife and Heloise out. The atmosphere seemed to brighten instantly.

‘You must be hungry after such a long ride,’ suggested Henry.

‘We are, my lord,’ said Ralph, noting that the long table had been set for a meal. ‘Hungry and thirsty.’

‘The cooks are busy in the kitchen and we have wine enough to satisfy any appetite.’

‘Water will suffice for me, my lord,’ said Benedict with studied piety. ‘Dry bread and cold water is all that I crave.’

‘That will hardly keep body and soul together,’ said Henry.

‘I will be happy to discuss the relationship of body to soul. The renowned St Augustine has much to say on the subject and the words of Cardinal Peter Damiani should also be quoted.’

‘Not by me, Brother Benedict,’ warned his host. ‘I am no theologian and I look to offer livelier conversation to my guests.’

‘What is more lively than a discussion of life itself?’

‘Take the matter up at another time,’ suggested Ralph quickly, keen to relegate the monk to a more junior position. He turned to Henry. ‘We are deeply grateful to you, my lord. Nothing would be more welcome than a restorative meal. When they have shaken the dust of the highway from their feet, I am sure that the lord Philippe and his lady will consent to join us. There has been little opportunity for refreshment on the way.’

‘How long do you plan to stay in Warwick?’ enquired Henry.

‘Gervase here would be the best judge of that.’

‘It is difficult to set a precise time, my lord,’ said Gervase, taking his cue. ‘When I first examined the disputes which have brought us here, I thought that we might be able to resolve them in little more than a week. But experience has taught us that these things can drag on to inordinate lengths. Unforeseen events sometimes cause irritating delays. I fear that we may well be forced to trespass on your hospitality for a fortnight or three weeks at least.’

‘Stay as long as you wish,’ said Henry with feigned affability.

‘My castle is at your disposal and the town reeve will do all he can to speed up the progress of your deliberations. It is just unfortunate that you arrive at this particular moment.’

‘Why so, my lord?’ asked Archdeacon Theobald.

‘A callous murder has disturbed the calm of Warwick.’

‘This is grim news. Who was the victim?’

‘A poor wretch called Martin Reynard.’

‘Reynard?’ echoed Gervase with interest. ‘Is that the same Martin Reynard who is reeve to Thorkell of Warwick?’

‘He is, Master Bret.’

‘We were to have called him before us as a witness.’

‘You arrive too late to do that, I fear. I could wish that you had come even later, when this whole business had been tied up and the town had been cleansed of the stain of homicide. But, alas,’

he said with a shrug, ‘it was not to be. I can only apologise that you have walked unwittingly into the middle of a murder investigation.’

‘It will not be the first time, my lord,’ noted Ralph, with a knowing glance at Gervase. ‘Do you know who committed this crime?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Has the villain been apprehended?’

‘My men are on their way to arrest him at this very moment.’

Working by the light of his forge, Boio the Blacksmith held the red-hot horseshoe on his anvil and shaped it expertly with well-placed strikes of his hammer. He was a big bear of a man with rounded shoulders and bulging forearms yet there was a gentleness in his bearded countenance that amounted almost to a kind of innocence. Though he was proficient at his trade, he practised it with a sense of reluctance as if unwilling to inflict violence upon anything, even if it was merely base metal. Boio held the horseshoe up to inspect it then gave it one more tap with the hammer before plunging the object into a wooden pail of water. Steam hissed angrily. The blacksmith ignored its spite.