Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

‘What of the other two men from whom land was taken?’

‘Both died, my lord.’

‘Before or after their property was seized?’

‘Before.’

‘That was convenient.’

‘It is the manner of their deaths which alerted my suspicions,’

said Hubert, tapping his scroll. ‘Coincidence can only stretch so far.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Both men were killed in hunting accidents.’

‘Ah!’

‘On each occasion, Raoul Lambert was in the party.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I took the trouble to speak with the town reeve again.’

‘Canon Hubert has been admirably thorough,’ said Simon. ‘He has gone to great pains, my lord.’

Hubert struck a pose. ‘One cannot marshal an argument without facts and they have been extremely difficult to confirm in this particular case. Several of the people I questioned were evasive or untruthful. Fortunately, the town reeve is a man of some integrity.’

‘What did he tell you about those accidents?’ said Ralph, anxious to hear more.

‘One man broke his neck when thrown from his horse.’

‘And the other?’

‘Struck down by a wayward arrow.’

‘Who first found the dead bodies?’

‘Raoul Lambert.’

‘Was he alone at the time?’

‘So it seems.’

Ralph let out a low murmur. ‘How accidental were these so-called accidents?’ he wondered.

‘We have no means of knowing, my lord,’ admitted Hubert, ‘but one is bound to entertain suspicions. Do not forget what happened in Lambert’s berewics on the other side of the Welsh border. The two men who held the land before him protested violently when it was taken from them. One was drowned in the River Gowy and the other vanished from sight.’

‘What is your conclusion?’

‘The obvious one.’

‘Lambert killed them deliberately?’

‘At the very least,’ ventured Hubert, ‘he was somehow involved in their deaths. And that is supported by some of the other facts I was able to unearth by patient research.’

‘Let me hear them.’

Canon Hubert unfolded his scroll and read its contents with a reverence which he normally reserved for Holy Writ. Ralph was enthralled by the picture of Raoul Lambert which began to emerge, completely at variance, as it was, with the description of the deceased that was given at the funeral. Hubert had been particularly assiduous in tracking down the heirs of the landholders whose deaths had removed large obstacles from the path of the huntsman.

When the recital of facts and figures came to an end, Hubert poked the scroll back into his scrip and awaited congratulation.

Ralph was more than willing to offer it.

‘Well done, Hubert!’ he said effusively. ‘I applaud your persistence and your assiduity. You have not only uncovered the truth about Raoul Lambert, you have provided a motive for his assassin.’

‘A motive, my lord?’

‘Revenge.’

‘He has many enemies.’

‘I am surprised that he still has any friends,’ commented Ralph.

‘He is such a dangerous character with whom to consort. Three men died when Lambert appropriated their land. Two Norman barons and a Welshman. Each had a son who would have expected to inherit his father’s holdings. I know how I would feel in their position.’

‘Lambert was killed by a Welsh arrow.’

‘Then we can hazard a guess who employed the archer.’

‘My choice would be the son of Owen ap Hywel,’ elected Hubert.

‘According to the town reeve, he was as vociferous as his father in threatening Lambert. Yes, it has to be him.’

‘What of the man who simply disappeared?’

‘Mansel of Denbigh? He was without male issue, my lord.’

‘He must have some sort of family.’

‘Yes,’ piped Brother Simon. ‘He has a daughter.’

Ralph Delchard felt a thud in the pit of his stomach. ‘A daughter, you say?’

Eiluned drew back the bowstring until it caressed her cheek then took careful aim. When the arrow was released, it flew through the air until it embedded itself in the trunk of a tree a hundred yards away. A young man in peasant garb stepped out from behind the trunk and waved to her in approval. After pulling six arrows out of the tree, he took them back to her.

Grinning in appreciation, he spoke in Welsh. ‘You never miss the target, Eiluned.’

‘Only because I practise regularly,’ she said. ‘My father insisted on that. There was nothing he loathed so much as a wasted arrow. A miss was a stigma on the archer.’

‘He taught you well.’

‘I have put his teaching to good use, Dafydd.’

‘You are our secret weapon.’

They strolled back to the deserted cottage to gather up Eiluned’s few belongings. She glanced around the ruins.

‘I am not sorry to leave this place.’

‘It has been poor habitation for you.’

‘It was somewhere to lay my head. That is all.’

‘When this is over,’ he said, kissing her softly on the cheek, ‘you may lay it on a pillow beside my head. We deserve each other, Eiluned.’

‘Our work is not yet done.’

‘It soon will be.’

He put an arm round her shoulders to guide her away but she broke from him gently and walked off into the trees. Dafydd followed her. Sturdy but lithe, he had long black hair and a shaggy beard through which white teeth gleamed like eggs in a bird’s nest. He knew where she was going and he shared her sadness.

Eiluned paused beside a mound of fresh earth and offered up a silent prayer. Dafydd came to stand beside her. He had helped to bury the old woman who had been such a good friend to Eiluned.

Lacking a priest, they had conducted their own service. As she stared down at the grave, her eyes were moist.

‘She saved my life,’ she murmured.

‘And gave her own to warn you.’

‘Yes,’ said Eiluned. ‘She so wanted to be buried under Welsh soil but it was not to be. She will have to lie in an unmarked grave here in the Forest of Delamere.’ A wry smile brushed her lips. ‘There was one consolation.’

‘What was that?’

‘She lived long enough to see Raoul Lambert die.’

‘That must have given her great satisfaction,’ he observed. ‘If her cottage was on his land, she must have been one of his many victims.’

‘She was, Dafydd. It drew us together.’

He put a comforting arm round her and she nestled into his shoulder. They stood in silence over the grave until they heard a sound behind them. Both reacted with speed, spinning round and moving apart. Dafydd pulled a long dagger from its sheath and Eiluned had an arrow from its quiver in a flash, but neither weapon was needed. The bird who had caused the noise now flapped its wings and took to the air. It was a white dove.

‘A symbol of peace,’ noted Dafydd with light sarcasm.

‘There has been little enough of that in this forest,’ she said.

‘It is a place of death and darkness. No wonder Raoul Lambert was at home here.’ She put the arrow away. ‘Are the others ready, Dafydd?’

‘They will be arriving shortly.’

‘Then we must not keep them waiting.’

‘The horses are tethered nearby.’

‘Lead the way.’

After a last sorrowful glance at the old woman’s grave, Eiluned followed him into the trees until they reached the spot where the horses were concealed behind thick foliage. They were soon riding due west on their way out of the Delamere Forest. The white dove trailed them for a few miles then lost them in heavy woodland.

Ralph Delchard could never bring himself to like Canon Hubert any more than the latter could ever choose him as a soulmate, but their long conversation about Raoul Lambert had moved them closer together than they had ever been before. There was a new respect for his colleague on Ralph’s part and a growing realisation by Hubert of how much his personal safety depended on the soldier who led the commissioners. Critical of his shortcomings in the past, the canon was now more willing to acknowledge his virtues. If conflict lay ahead, it was men like Ralph Delchard who would protect him. The cathedral church was an inspiring place of sanctuary but it would prove a poor fortress against a concerted attack.