Edward Marston - The Wildcats of Exeter

‘What manner of man is the town reeve?’ asked de Marigny.

‘Saewin?’ said the steward. ‘He is a good man and a diligent reeve. Saewin also has another distinction. He is one of the few Saxons in whom you can place absolute trust.’

‘Take care what you say,’ warned Ralph with a jovial nudge. ‘My wife is the daughter of a Saxon thegn and Gervase here, too, has Saxon blood in his veins. They will take you to task for any aspersions you may cast upon their forebears.’

‘I meant no disrespect,’ said the other calmly, ‘but you must remember our history. Exeter was the site of a major rebellion soon after we took possession of this island.’

‘I know it well,’ said de Marigny with a nostalgic grin. ‘I was part of the army which laid siege to this city. It took us almost three weeks before we persuaded Exeter to submit.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ continued Joscelin, ‘but that was not the end of the matter. When you departed with the rest of the army, four more attempts were made to stir up a revolt and expel us. It has made the lord sheriff view the Saxon population with some degree of suspicion. However,’ he said, waving an arm towards the inner bailey, ‘you are completely secure here and I will be happy to escort you to your apartments. A feast has been prepared in your honour and the lord sheriff will be there to give you a more formal welcome to the city.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ralph.

‘He had intended to be here when you arrived, but the investigation took him out of the castle this afternoon.’

‘Investigation?’

‘Yes, my lord. A man was brutally murdered last night.’

Golde was shocked, Gervase curious and Ralph alerted but it was Hervey de Marigny who pressed for the salient details.

‘Has the killer been apprehended yet?’ he said.

‘No, my lord,’ replied the steward.

‘Is his name known?’

‘The lord sheriff is at present seeking to identify him.’

‘Who was the victim? Norman or Saxon?’

‘Norman, my lord. And well respected in the county. His name was Nicholas Picard.’

‘Picard?’ echoed Gervase with slight alarm. ‘But he is involved in one of the major land disputes we have come to settle. Only last night, I was studying the documents relating to his case. Nicholas Picard was to have been called before us on several counts.’

‘That will no longer be possible,’ said the steward discreetly.

‘But you will glean fuller details from the lord sheriff over the banquet. He knows far more than I may tell you. Come,’ he added,

‘you must be tired after your journey and in need of rest. Please follow me.’

‘Lead on,’ said Ralph.

The four of them were led across the courtyard, noting how neat and tidy it was kept and how well-drilled the guards appeared to be. Exeter Castle felt completely safe, yet its garrison seemed to be poised to fight off an imminent assault. The visitors suddenly became aware of how isolated the city was and how they were part of a small Norman minority in a city that was still essentially Saxon in tone and atmosphere.

Golde felt once more the pull of conflicting loyalties, her instinctive sympathy for the indigenous population offset against the vow of obedience she had given to her husband and the ties of love which bound the two of them so indissolubly together. It put her in an anomalous position and she wondered whether it had been altogether wise to accompany Ralph on this particular assignment. Holding her arm as they walked towards the inner bailey, he sensed her misgivings.

‘What is the matter, my love?’

‘It is nothing.’

‘Something is troubling you.’

‘I am fatigued.’

‘Are you not glad that we have arrived?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Glad but … unsettled.’

‘You cannot be both, Golde.’

‘Yet I am.’

‘That does not make sense,’ he argued. ‘Do you still feel guilty about being the wife of a Norman? Is that it?’ He gave a chuckle.

‘I thought you had learned to live with that disability.’

He squeezed her arm and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. Golde relaxed. Her doubts vanished and she thought only of the more pleasant aspects of their stay in Devon, reminding herself that she was merely a passenger and had no official function. It was not her place to introduce any personal qualms.

Golde was there to support her husband and to share the few private moments they would contrive together.

The keep was a tall, square, solid structure, perched on the high mound which was a characteristic feature of a Norman castle.

They went up the steps which had been cut into the grass and entered through the door. A staircase faced them but they were not allowed to ascend it. Blocking their way and beaming inanely at them was a short, round individual with an unusually large head from which hair sprouted wildly like weeds in a neglected garden. He was dressed in the garb of a Saxon peasant and wore a full beard. In his hand he bore a stick with an inflated pig’s bladder at the end of it.

When the group appeared, he let out a cackle of joy and brought them to a halt with a wave of his stick. Without warning, he then pretended to fall down the steps before he pulled himself to his feet, went through the door and somersaulted down the mound.

They watched in amazement.

‘Who, in God’s name, was that?’ spluttered Ralph.

‘Berold,’ explained the steward.

‘Berold? Is he a madman?’

‘Of a sort, my lord. He is a jester.’

Canon Hubert and Brother Simon did not feel entirely safe until they entered the cathedral precincts and saw black Benedictine cowls moving about with Christian assurance. Travel was a source of great discomfort to Hubert, whose portly frame was always balanced precariously on his long-suffering donkey, and it was a continuous agony for Simon, who had committed himself to the monastic life partly in the hope that he would escape lay company and the affairs of the workaday world in perpetuity. Thrust into royal service, the two of them were caught between a sense of duty and a profound discomfort. While Hubert veered towards self-importance and regarded each new assignment as a recognition of his considerable abilities as a jurist, his companion viewed their work as a kind of martyrdom and prayed daily for release.

The cathedral church of St Peter soared above them like a huge protective hand and their spirits were immediately lifted. It was a Saxon foundation, distinguished more by its sheer size than by any architectural merit, but they surveyed it with a mixture of relief and awe. A certain amount of rebuilding had taken place in recent years, but there had been no major additions to the basic structure and its essential simplicity set it apart from the elaborations of Canterbury Cathedral and York Minster, both of which the newcomers had visited in the course of their duties.

They felt at home. As they made their way to the cloister, a figure emerged through the stone arch and came towards them with measured tread. Dean Jerome was a tall, spare man in his forties with a long, rather lugubrious face and a tonsure so perfectly suited to the shape of his skull that he seemed to have been born with it. He introduced himself, bade them welcome and showed them where they could stable their mounts. His voice was deep and reassuring.

‘We have been looking forward to your arrival,’ he said.

‘Brother Simon and I are grateful to be here,’ said Hubert. ‘The journey was interminable and the conversation not always fit for monastic ears. Now that we have found you, we feel cleansed.’

‘That is as it should be, Canon Hubert.’

‘I bear a letter of greeting to Bishop Osbern from our own dear Bishop Walkelin of Salisbury,’ said the other, tapping the leather satchel slung from his shoulder. ‘I hope to be able to deliver it in person.’