Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

What touched Ralph was that the lady Marguerite made a clear effort to be more pleasant to Golde, exchanging an occasional remark with her and refraining from any tart comment when Golde’s preference for ale over wine was stated and her earlier career as a successful brewer in Hereford was disclosed to the company. Ralph could never bring himself to like Trouville’s wife but she did hold marginally more interest for him now. Gervase was plainly captivated and even the reserved Archdeacon Theobald, secure in his celibacy, kept flicking glances of admiration at her and reflecting on the eternal mystery of womanhood.

When the lady Marguerite rose to leave with her husband and Heloise, there was an audible sigh of disappointment from all of the other men, with the exception of Ralph, who found Marguerite’s new affability a trifle forced, and Benedict, who had lapsed into a private world of religious fervour and was chanting joyously to himself. Although Philippe Trouville was a man of substance and high status, it was his wife who stole the attention and who left the most vivid impression behind her.

The gap made by the departure of three guests meant that Gervase was now seated closest to Henry Beaumont. He moved along the bench to get nearer to his host and broached a topic which had not been mentioned at all during the meal. Since everyone else at the table was locked in conversation, Gervase felt the situation sufficiently discreet to venture his request.

‘Could you tell me more about this homicide, my lord?’

‘A distressing business,’ said Henry. ‘I feel a deep sense of loss.’

‘Loss?’

‘Yes, Master Bret. He was a good man, Martin Reynard. Honest and conscientious. He served in my own household for years until he was offered the post of reeve to Thorkell. I was sad to lose him.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘And even sadder to see the poor fellow lying dead in a ditch.’

‘Who actually found him?’

‘My hounds. We were chasing a fox when we chanced upon the corpse. Martin’s face was bruised and his back broken. Someone had literally crushed him to death.’

‘An excruciating way to meet one’s end.’

‘The agony still lingered in his eyes.’

‘What led you to this blacksmith?’

‘A number of things,’ explained Henry, toying with his wine cup. ‘When my men made enquiries, they were told that Boio and Martin Reynard had been heard arguing only days earlier. There was no love lost between them and it was not the first time they had fallen out.’

‘That is not proof positive of murder,’ noted Gervase.

‘Not on its own, but it must be taken in conjunction with two other facts. Around the time that our hunting party set out from the castle yesterday, Boio was seen in the Forest of Arden, close to the place where Martin Reynard was later discovered. That is a damning piece of evidence. The second fact is even more telling.

Martin was a sturdy man and would have fought off most assailants. Only someone of immense power could have crushed the life out of him like that. Boio is a giant. He is the one man in the whole of Warwickshire with the requisite strength for this vile murder.’

‘Has he confessed to the crime?’

‘Not yet,’ said Henry, ‘but then I have not had time to question him myself. When my men arrested him, all they got was arrant denial. The killer had the audacity to plead his innocence.’

‘His guilt is so far implied rather than established.’

‘Boio is our man. I feel it in my bones.’

‘Should not the sheriff be the judge of that?’

‘The sheriff and his deputy are not in the county at this time.

That is why I took the investigation into my own hands. I have a personal interest in catching the villain who murdered Martin Reynard.’

‘I understand that, my lord.’

‘Yet I sense that you have reservations,’ said the other, shooting him a shrewd look. ‘Do you?’

‘I am a lawyer and thus overcautious by nature.’

‘That is not always a fault.’

‘No, my lord. But I fear that I do sometimes irritate those who prefer to rush to judgement on insufficient evidence.’

Henry was offended. ‘That is not what I am doing.’

‘I am not suggesting that it is.’

‘This murder has been solved. Justly and without contradiction.’

‘There has been one contradiction, my lord.’

‘From whom?’

‘The blacksmith himself. He claims that he is innocent.’

‘Murderers rarely confess their crimes.’

‘You know this Boio far better than I, my lord,’ said Gervase in a tone of appeasement. ‘You can tell if he is capable of such an act. All that I can go on are the bare facts of the case and they leave certain questions unanswered. Crucial questions.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Would it be possible for me to speak with the prisoner?’

‘Why?’

‘The case interests me.’

‘Boio is not here to satisfy your idle curiosity, Master Bret.’

‘It goes beyond curiosity,’ said Gervase seriously. ‘One of the main disputes we have come to look into involves Thorkell of Warwick. The sudden death of his reeve complicates the issue.

Since he was killed on the very eve of our arrival, I am bound to wonder if his murder is in some way linked to our business in the town.’

‘I think not.’

‘Martin Reynard was a key witness. Someone may have wanted to prevent him appearing before us. Someone, perhaps, and I am speculating here, may have engaged this blacksmith to do the deed on his behalf — if in fact Boio is found to be guilty.’

‘He is guilty,’ attested Henry. ‘Without a shadow of doubt.’

‘May I speak with the man?’

‘No, Master Bret.’

‘I would do so in your presence.’

‘You will not do so at all,’ said Henry with unequivocal firmness.

‘As a royal commissioner, you are a welcome guest under my roof but that does not entitle you to poke your nose into what is essentially a local matter. A murder has been committed, the man responsible has been apprehended and he will stand trial in due course. Justice will be done, Master Bret.’ His eyes kindled.

‘Without your interference.’

‘I was offering help rather than interference, my lord.’

‘Neither is required.’

The conversation with Gervase was definitively over. Henry Beaumont rose abruptly from the table. An awkward silence spread among the diners. Then their host bid farewell to his guests, helped his wife up from her seat and conducted her out with more speed than was altogether seemly.

Theobald turned a bewildered face towards Gervase.

‘What on earth did you say to upset him?’

A combination of a day in the saddle, a drink of strong ale and marital passion left Golde pleasantly fatigued and she drifted contentedly off to sleep in their chamber. Ralph lay awake beside her and mused on the unexpected events in the hall, still puzzled that such an offensive woman as the lady Marguerite could miraculously transform herself into an agreeable human being while such an inoffensive person as Gervase Bret could provoke the ire of Henry Beaumont. These inconsistencies kept him awake for a long time and eventually made him get out of bed and reach for a cloak. Philippe Trouville’s wife faded from his mind and it was Gervase’s reported disagreement with their host which now dictated his footsteps.

The candle was still alight and he took it from its holder to guide him as he let himself out and began to descend the stairs.

Light snow had started to fall outside and flakes had been blown in through a window, making the steps cold and treacherous for naked feet. Ralph had to shield the flame of his candle with a protective palm to prevent it from being snuffed out by the wind.