Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

‘Your status carries weight in itself.’

‘Even with right on our side,’ said the bishop, ‘we may have lost. Royal commissioners are a strange breed, as we found when the first team visited the county. They do not always appreciate the moral claims of the Church. That is why I took the trouble to have word sent to me from Winchester about the men who would judge our case this time. In matters of litigation one cannot be too well prepared.’

‘Your attention to detail is remarkable.’

‘Archdeacon Theobald is a sound man. I know him by repute.

He could be expected to favour us but I did not like the sound of Ralph Delchard, still less of Philippe Trouville, both soldiers and like to prove stern judges. But,’ he said, flinging his hands in the air as if throwing a ball up to heaven, ‘when we most needed help, God provided it. He brought two of the commissioners to our very door and allowed me the opportunity to …’

‘Outwit them?’

‘Too vulgar a description.’

‘Persuade them.’

‘That has a far better ring to it, Reginald.’

‘On behalf of the Church, you persuaded them.’

‘And the property is as good as ours!’

On impulse he lifted the charter to his face, thought about kissing it but checked himself in the belief that a display of such excitement would not be seemly in front of Reginald. Instead he glowed with an inner ecstasy which would be given free rein when he was alone.

A polite tap on the door interrupted his self-congratulation.

‘Yes?’ he called.

A monk entered and gave him a deferential nod.

‘A man is at the gate, my lord,’ said the newcomer. ‘He is in the utmost distress. He comes with a request. The abbot wishes to confer with you about the case as a matter of urgency.’

‘Why?’ said Robert. ‘Who is this man?’

‘A fugitive from the law.’

‘What does he want?’

‘He claims right of sanctuary.’

As the afternoon shaded into evening, Henry Beaumont became more wrathful than ever. He looked up at the sky. Light was starting to fade and it would not be long before the search would have to be abandoned. He was tormented by the thought that they had been in the saddle since dawn but had nothing whatsoever to show for their efforts. When they came to a wide track which ran away through woodland he called his men to a halt and turned to Philippe Trouville, who rode next to him.

‘Why have we found no trace of him?’ said Henry.

‘I am as baffled as you, my lord.’

‘He must have left Grimketel’s house shortly before you got there. Boio could not have travelled far by the time we set out after him. We should have run him down long before now.’

‘If he was on foot,’ said Trouville.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He may have had a horse.’

‘Then it must have been stolen.’

‘Not necessarily. Someone may have loaned it to him.’

‘They would not dare!’

‘The blacksmith escaped from the castle,’ Trouville reminded him. ‘You said yourself that he must have had help to do that.’

‘Yes, from that scheming monk Brother Benedict.’

‘He may not be implicated at all.’

‘But he took that file into Boio’s cell.’

‘Did he, my lord? I think it unlikely. I have got to know the man well in the past couple of days and his eternal benevolence sickens me but he would not help a prisoner to escape. And since he is now held in your dungeon, he could hardly have provided the blacksmith with a horse. No,’ concluded Trouville, ‘someone else is working on Boio’s behalf. This is the work of a particular friend.’

‘Who could that be?’

‘Does he have no family?’

‘He lives alone.’

‘Kinsmen? Neighbours?’

‘None that I know of, my lord. Boio is a lonely creature.’

‘Is he?’

Henry pondered. It irked him that he might have been too reckless in attaching blame to Brother Benedict and he did not relish the notion of having to release him and, what would be worse, apologise to the man. The monk had proclaimed Boio’s innocence but that did not mean he procured a file for him. If someone else was helping the blacksmith, then the quickest way to find the fugitive might be to confront the friend who was aiding him. One name suggested itself.

‘You must have some notion who it might be,’ said Trouville.

‘I do. Let us ride on.’

They did not have to go far. After following the track for half a mile through the trees, they came out into open country and found themselves face to face with the very man they sought. Thorkell of Warwick was seated proudly on his horse, flanked by two dozen of his men, all armed to give a show of resistance. The old man held up an imperious palm and the search party came to a sudden halt.

‘You are trespassing, my lord,’ warned Thorkell.

‘I will ride anywhere I wish in pursuit of a fugitive.’

‘There is no fugitive here.’

‘How do I know that?’

‘Because I give you my word.’

‘Boio is your man,’ accused Henry. ‘You would protect him.’

‘Not if he is the murderer you claim. I would have questioned him closely first and — if his guilt were established — I would have brought him back to the castle in person.’

‘I do not believe you.’

‘Believe what you like, my lord. I speak the truth.’

‘Where is Boio?’

‘How would I know?’

‘Because you helped him to escape.’

‘I did nothing of the kind,’ said Thorkell vehemently, ‘and I can prove it. Just because I protested at his arrest, it does not mean that I sought to get him out of your dungeon. That is a monstrous charge. What would I hope to gain? And where would Boio go? I could hardly conceal a fugitive on my land in perpetuity. Look elsewhere, my lord.’

‘I will look here first.’

‘No, you will not.’

‘Would you obstruct me?’

‘I would simply remind you where you are,’ said Thorkell with dignity. ‘I do not trespass on your estates and I will not permit trespass on mine. I have been a thegn here for many years, long before you came from Normandy to build your castle and to bully my people. But you will not bully me. I have right and title to this land, confirmed by King William himself, as you well know. I want no intruders here.’

‘Damnation!’ howled Trouville. ‘We are not intruders, old man!

We are chasing a dangerous felon. He has already killed twice and may do so again if he is not caught.’

Thorkell started. ‘He has killed twice ?’

‘Grimketel was his second victim.’

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. I found the fellow dead myself.’

‘How can you be sure that Boio is the culprit?’

‘There is no doubt about it,’ said Henry.

‘What proof do you have?’

‘What I saw with my own eyes, Thorkell. The man was felled by a savage blow. His head was smashed open. Grimketel feared for his life when he heard of the escape. Rightly so.’

‘Why?’

‘His evidence put Boio in jeopardy. Grimketel was the vital witness. The blacksmith was clearly moved by vengeance.’

‘But he is not a vengeful man, my lord.’

‘You tell me that he is not a violent man,’ said Henry, ‘yet he has killed two victims with his bare hands. Does that not convince you of the need to catch this fiend?’

Thorkell was nonplussed. The news had rocked him. He tried to match it against the character of the blacksmith whom he believed he knew so well and to separate clear proof from hasty assumption.

‘Now will you stand aside to let us search?’ demanded Trouville.

‘No,’ said Thorkell.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I say so.’