Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

‘Now,’ he said, ‘let us have the truth, Beollan.’

‘I can’t help you.’

‘You can and we both know it.’

‘No,’ Beollan protested. ‘No, no, no!’

‘Do not be afraid of me. Whatever you tell me, you will not be 60

The Hawks of Delamere

in any danger. I have no wish to report you or see you punished.

Your family has suffered enough. For Gytha’s sake, the truth must come out.’ He released the boy. ‘Have you told her yet?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Beollan studied the ground and shifted his feet.

‘Why not?’ pressed Gervase. There was a long pause. ‘In that case, I will tell you. I think that you were with them yesterday.

With your father and brother when they went out poaching.’

‘They were not poaching,’ protested Beollan. ‘Nor was I.’

‘Then what were the three of you doing?’

‘Going for a walk.’

‘Do not lie to me, Beollan.’

‘I’m not.’

‘And look at me when you speak.’

‘I don’t have to say anything.’

‘No,’ agreed Gervase. ‘You can hold your tongue as you’ve done so far and what will that achieve? Nothing. You’ll be eaten up with shame and guilt. And your sister will suffer the terrible pain of not knowing how and why your father and brother met their deaths.’ He knelt down to look up into the boy’s face. ‘Is that what you want?’

Beollan bit his lips and shook his head slowly.

‘Gytha will have to look after you from now on. It would be cruel to keep the truth from her.’

The boy said nothing but his resolve was gradually weakening.

‘Let me say what I believe happened,’ continued Gervase. ‘Your father and brother went out poaching yesterday. Times are hard.

The harvest was poor. There is no other way of getting enough food for the family. You went with them.’

‘I did not!’

‘You went with them to act as their lookout.’

‘No!’

‘When they were caught, you saw everything.’

The boy issued another stream of denials then burst into tears.

Gervase put a soothing arm round him. Beollan’s defences began to crumble.

‘I told you,’ whispered Gervase, ‘you’re safe. I’m your friend.

Whatever you tell me is between the two of us. I will not report you to anyone for taking part in poaching. For that is what you did, Beollan, didn’t you?’

His nod was almost imperceptible but Gervase saw it.

‘What happened?’ he coaxed.

‘I was … their lookout.’

‘And?’

‘I let them down.’

‘No, Beollan.’

‘I did. When the hunting party came, I took fright and fled. I should have stayed with them in their hiding place.’

‘Thank God you did not,’ said Gervase sadly, ‘or you might well have ended up in that ditch with them.’

‘I ran. I ran away. I feel so ashamed.’

‘There is no need.’

‘My place was beside them.’

‘You did the right thing. You saved your life at a time when you could not possibly have rescued them.’ He cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. ‘Now, Beollan. Did one of them shoot an arrow at Earl Hugh’s hawk?’

‘No. They would never have dared to do that.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. Quite sure.’

‘Then who did kill that hawk?’

‘I do not know, but …’ His voice trailed away and his feet betrayed him again.

‘Go on, Beollan.’

‘I thought I saw someone else leaving.’

‘Someone else?’

‘Running off through the trees,’ the boy recalled. ‘I have no idea who it was. I only caught a glimpse. But I did see a bow. Yes, there was a bow, I remember that.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Then my father and brother were captured. When I heard them yelling for mercy, I ran home as fast as I could.’ More tears threatened. ‘I was weak. I was a coward. I should have stayed to help.’

‘They were beyond it,’ said Gervase.

‘Gytha will blame me.’

‘No, Beollan. She will understand.’

Nothing more could be wrested from the boy. Gervase gave him a comforting hug then led him back to the others. Brother Gerold had managed to ease Gytha’s grief and she had lapsed into a wistful silence. The chaplain read the message in the boy’s face and donated a smile of approval to Gervase. Their journey to the Delamere Forest had not been in vain. Solace had been offered to two orphans.

‘Who is your priest?’ asked the chaplain.

‘Father Ernwin,’ murmured Gytha.

‘A sound man. I know him well. Leave everything to me. When we have escorted you back, I will go to Father Ernwin and tell him what has occurred. He will send a cart to collect the bodies so that they can be buried at your parish church.’ He flicked a sad glance back at the ditch. ‘Their gruesome death is of no account now. It is past. Put it out of your minds. They deserve a proper funeral and I will ensure that they receive one.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gytha.

Beollan gave a low murmur of gratitude.

It was time to go home.

Robert de Limesey strolled round the perimeter of the cathedral in the twilight and stopped to inspect the day’s progress on the exterior wall of the chancel. The last of the stonemasons was descending the scaffold with his tools and he gave the bishop a respectful wave of farewell. Robert smiled in reply. He was blessed in his craftsmen. They were skilled artisans with a due reverence for the project in which they had been engaged for so long.

Bishop Robert was still appraising their work when he heard footsteps approaching and caught an unpleasant whiff in his nostrils. He turned to see Idwal coming towards him.

‘Good evening, Bishop Robert,’ said the Welshman.

‘I am pleased to see you again,’ lied the other. ‘Have you had a busy day, Archdeacon Idwal?’

‘My days are always busy. The devil makes work for idle hands so mine are never allowed to be idle. I have been finding my way around this beautiful city of yours and speaking to some of its citizens. In vain, alas.’

‘In vain?’

‘Yes, Bishop Robert,’ complained Idwal. ‘They did not seem to understand how much better off Chester would be if it were part of Wales, which, by right, of course, it should be.’

‘Only in your opinion.’

‘It is not a question of opinion but of geography.’

‘I believe that it is a question of conquest.’

The firm rebuff actually silenced Idwal for once. Robert basked in the respite but it did not last long. Wrapping his disgusting cloak around him, the visitor turned his attention to the cathedral.

‘Do you have rich endowments?’ he said artlessly.

‘Alas, no.’

‘Wealthy patrons?’

‘Very few.’

‘Where, then, does your money come from, Bishop Robert?’

‘Rents and the offertory box. I hold over fifty houses in the city and this eastern suburb around the cathedral. It is called the bishop’s borough and is part of Redcliff, so named because of the red sandstone cliff on which the cathedral stands. There are 63

Edward Marston

other small sources of income,’ he said evasively, ‘but nobody could describe us as prosperous.’

‘What of holy relics?’

‘One or two.’

‘Any of particular note?’

‘Nothing that would interest a Welshman like yourself. If you seek the bones of St Deiniol or the skull of St David, you will have to go back over the border.’

Idwal gave a ripe chuckle. ‘I will do that very soon.’

‘When?’ asked Robert, eager to speed him on his way.

‘When I am ready.’

‘In a day? Two days? Three?’

‘Who knows, Bishop Robert?’ said the other with a wicked grin.

‘You and Frodo have made me so welcome that it will be an effort to tear myself away. And I can hardly deprive Canon Hubert of our theological contests. He thrives on them.’