Edward Marston - The Wildcats of Exeter

‘And so you shall,’ said Jerome. ‘We had notice of your coming in a letter from the King himself, and Bishop Osbern left instructions that you were to be admitted to him as soon as you reached us. Let me first show you to your lodging then I will take you both to meet him.’

Hubert was delighted at their reception. No less a person than the dean himself had taken the trouble to greet them and the bishop was treating them like visiting dignitaries. Simon was thrilled to be included in the audience. The spectral monk was accustomed to fade into anonymity whenever they encountered a prelate, leaving Hubert to speak for both of them.

To be summoned to the presence of so illustrious a bishop as Osbern of Exeter was an honour to be savoured.

When they had deposited their satchels at their lodgings, they were conducted across the cloister to the bishop’s quarters. Dean Jerome tapped on a door and waited for the invitation to enter.

As he went into the room, he beckoned the others after him.

‘Our guests are here, your Grace,’ he said deferentially, indicating each in turn. ‘This is Canon Hubert and this, Brother Simon.’

‘A hearty welcome to you both!’ said the bishop. ‘I thank God for your safe arrival in Exeter. We are pleased to have you as our guests.’

‘Thank you, your Grace,’ said Hubert with an obsequious smile.

‘Yes,’ added Simon nervously. ‘Thank you.’

‘I trust that your journey was without incident?’ said Osbern.

‘Happily, yes,’ replied Hubert.

Unhappily, no, thought Simon, recalling his ordeal amid the bushes.

‘It is a tiresome ride,’ said the bishop, ‘and must have left you both fatigued. Do sit down and rest your aching bones.’

The visitors lowered themselves on to an oak bench along one wall and beneath a crucifix. Bishop Osbern was opposite them, seated at a table where he had been studying the Scriptures in preparation for a sermon he was due to deliver. He was an elderly man of medium height but he exuded such a sense of religiosity that he appeared to fill the whole room. His round face had a beatific smile which robbed him of a decade or more. A network of blue veins showed through the luminous skin of his high forehead. But it was the kindness and compassion in his blue eyes which most impressed the travellers. They knew that they were in the presence of a truly holy man.

Hubert was pleased to have the opportunity of meeting someone who had been chaplain both to Edward the Confessor and to King William yet bore such a daunting pedigree so lightly. For his part, Simon was so overwhelmed by his proximity to a legendary churchman that he did not hear Dean Jerome leave the room and close the door behind him.

‘This is your first visit to Exeter?’ enquired Osbern.

‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Hubert, answering for both of them.

‘It is a pleasant town though not without its faults. My predecessor, Bishop Leofric, came here almost forty years ago to find the minster in a sorry condition. All that remained of a monastic community was a set of mass vestments and a few sacred books. Leofric had to start afresh, renovating a dilapidated building and creating an establishment of canons and vicars.

There was little enough money to spare on such worthy projects,’

said Osbern with a sigh, ‘but Leofric put what there was to the best possible use. He is buried in the crypt and I offer up a prayer of thanks for his episcopate whenever I visit his tomb.’ A smile played on his lips. ‘But there was one idiosyncrasy.’

‘What was that, your Grace?’ said Hubert.

‘When Bishop Leofric installed canons, he made them subject to the Rule of St Chrodegang.’

Hubert frowned. ‘A curious decision, indeed.’

‘You are familiar with the Rule?’

‘No, your Grace,’ muttered Simon.

‘Yes,’ said Hubert, grateful for the chance to display his intellectual credentials. ‘Chrodegang was bishop of Metz over three centuries ago. He had a distinguished political career, but his ecclesiastical achievements were even more impressive. He founded the abbey of Gorze and devised the Rule by which his name is remembered.’

‘That is true,’ said Osbern. ‘The canons of his cathedral lived a community life devoted to the public prayer of the Church but in close association with diocesan officers. They were also — and this is what makes the Rule so odd in my view — authorised to own property individually. I incline strongly to the more stringent dictates of Benedict.’

‘So do we, your Grace,’ said Hubert.

‘A vow of poverty leaves no place for ownership of property.’

‘We are glad that you have righted your predecessor’s error.’

‘It was not an error, Canon Hubert,’ said the other tolerantly,

‘but merely a difference of emphasis. God may be worshipped in many ways, all of them equally valid. I have knelt in prayer beside a Saxon and a Norman King of England. Their language, upbringing and attitudes separated them but their devotions united them as one.’

‘Yes, your Grace. But I forget myself,’ said Hubert, realising that he was still holding something in his hand. ‘Bishop Walkelin sends his warmest greetings and bids me deliver this to you.’ He crossed to the table to place the letter upon it. ‘He has fond memories of your last meeting.’

‘I share those memories,’ said Osbern. ‘When you leave Exeter, you will bear my reply to the good bishop of Salisbury. But tell me,’ he added as Hubert resumed his seat, ‘are you aware of the outrage which occurred on the eve of your arrival?’

‘Outrage?’ repeated Simon. ‘No, your Grace.’

‘A foul murder was committed not far from the city.’

‘This is grim news,’ said Hubert.

‘I fear that it may complicate your own work here, Canon Hubert,’ said the bishop with a shrug of resignation. ‘The unfortunate victim was Nicholas Picard. I believe that he was involved in a property dispute when the first commissioners came to Devon so I suspect that his name is not unknown to you.’

‘Indeed, it is not,’ confirmed Hubert. ‘His death makes a difficult case even more intractable. What was the motive for the murder?’

‘That has not yet been established.’

‘It may have some bearing on our investigation.’

‘In what way?’

‘The lord Nicholas had substantial holdings, your Grace, many of which are contested. Now that he is no longer here to defend his title to the property, it may go elsewhere. Someone will gain handsomely by his death.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘The timing of his murder can surely be no coincidence. Hearing of our visit, someone may have been prompted to kill him. It is almost as if we instigated this crime.’

‘Dear God!’ cried Simon, studying his palms in horror. ‘What a disturbing thought that is! We have blood on our hands.’

Ralph Delchard liked the town reeve from the moment he made his acquaintance. Saewin was polite without being servile and confident without being brash. The reeve would be in a crucial position during their stay, making the shire hall ready for their use and summoning all the witnesses whom they needed to examine. Ralph was pleased that he called at the castle to pay his respects and to collect his instructions. It showed diligence.

Saewin was a big, broad-shouldered man with rugged features half hidden behind a beard. He wore the cap, tunic and cross-gartered trousers favoured by the Saxons but spoke French fluently and even with a certain pride.

Their conversation took place outside the hall and they had to raise their voices above the clatter from within. Preparations for the banquet were becoming increasingly noisy.

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ said the reeve.