Edward Marston - The Lions of the North

“You cannot leave me now,” he said with a laugh. “The lions would not let you, Golde. You will have to stay in here with your own king of the beasts.”

Herleve soon faded completely from their minds.

Since the night when intruders climbed in, additional guards had been assigned to patrol the walls of the castle. Torches burned in the courtyard below to throw a patchy light on the various buildings, but there was little illumination beyond the palisade itself. When the moon was hidden behind a blanket of cloud, the guards found themselves staring into an impenetrable blackness. It was tedious work and they complained bitterly to each other but they did not dare to leave their posts. They knew better than to provoke the ire of the castellan. The soul of benevolence to his guests, Aubrey Maminot could be less indulgent towards his soldiers. Those who failed him might find themselves on night duty at the castle in perpetuity.

“Did you hear anything?”

“No. Did you?”

“I’m not sure. Listen.” A pause. “There it is again!”

“I heard nothing.”

“Listen!”

“I am listening.”

“Shut up! You’ll miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“ Listen! ”

The hissed command silenced the young guard. He and his companion were patrolling the wall above the castle gate. It was a cold night and they stayed on the move to keep themselves warm. Now, however, they were motionless as they peered out into the darkness and strained their ears to catch any sound other than the murmuring conversations of their fellows guards and the occasional whinny of a horse in the stables. The younger man soon tired of the exercise.

“There’s nothing there.”

“There was,” argued his companion.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did it sound like?”

“A noise, that’s all. Fetch a torch.”

“It’s gone now.”

“Fetch it!”

The younger man strode quickly along the wall to collect a torch that was burning in an iron holder. When he returned to the area of the gate, he held it high so that they could look over the palisade and down into the ditch. The light was too poor for them to pick out anything and they eventually gave up, returning the torch to its holder before continuing their patrol. There was nothing outside the castle. The older guard decided that his ears were playing tricks on him.

Dawn revised his judgement. As the first fingers of light began to pluck at the darkness, the guards caught a glimpse of something lying just outside the gate. It was quite still and seemed harmless but they could take no chances. Alerting their fellows with a shout, they trotted down the steps to the gateway. A dozen guards came running with enough torches to turn night into a sunlit day.

More men arrived with weapons drawn and they formed a line as the gates were unbolted and opened. Eager for action, the young guard was the first to venture out, using his spear to jab menacingly at the objects on the grass. Torchlight showed him that he was launching no brave attack on a potential enemy. All that his spearpoint had touched was one of three large bundles.

Olaf Evil Child had come calling.

In order to get through the volume of work that confronted them, the two sets of commissioners made an early start that morning. The bell for Prime seemed scarcely to have died away before they were leaving their respective lodgings to make their way to their places of business. Canon Hubert led the delegation at the shire hall and occupied the central position at the table. Tanchelm of Ghent and Brother Simon were happy to sit in silence with him, the former so that he could learn through close observation, the latter so that he could record the proceedings on the sheets of parchment that lay before him.

The adjoining building was smaller, darker and decidedly less suit-able. It was occasionally used as a meeting place for the city’s four judges, who enjoyed custom beyond the normal privileges of a burgess, but its musty atmosphere suggested that it might also have done duty as a grain store. Ralph Delchard was plainly disgusted with its interior.

“I will not preside in a stable!”

“It will suffice,” said Gervase Bret.

“For horses, yes. For royal commissioners-no!”

“You were the one who offered the shire hall to our colleagues. It is too late to change your mind now.”

“The place is covered in dust.”

“According to the reeve, it has not been used for some time.”

“Fifty years or more, by the look of it.”

“We will manage somehow.”

“I’d sooner sit in judgement in the fish market.”

Two servants arrived and mumbled their apologies before cleaning the room as best and as quickly as they could. Ralph sneezed at the cloud of dust sent up by the broom but his howl of protest was cut short by the arrival of their scribe. Brother Francis was a big, solid man of middle years with a genial smile and a willing manner. Ralph could never bring himself to enjoy the company of a Benedictine monk but the newcomer at least promised to be rather more forthcoming than Brother Simon.

Introductions were made and Francis beamed helpfully.

“How may I best serve you?” he asked.

“I want you to look, listen and set down anything that I tell you,”

ordered Ralph. “Bear in mind that what you write will have the force of a legal document. It must be clear and exact.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“You have brought all that you need?”

“Yes,” said Francis, tapping the leather satchel that hung from his shoulder. “Everything is here. I am honoured to take part in matters of such weighty importance.”

“That makes a change. Brother Simon is always terrified when he sits beside us.”

“Brother Simon?”

“Our accustomed scribe,” said Gervase. “A punctilious man. He sets high standards.”

Francis smiled. “I will try my utmost to emulate him.”

Ralph gave him more detailed instructions and the monk plied him with a number of questions. While they were still deep in discussion, Gervase took charge of the servants and made them move the table, chair, stools and benches into their appropriate positions. The place was markedly cleaner when the two of them left. Even Ralph was agreeably surprised.

“It is now almost civilised,” he said, leading the way to the table. “At least I will not cough to death.”

Lowering himself into the chair, he gestured for Gervase and Francis to sit on the stools on either side of him. Both began to empty the contents of their satchels. The absence of Canon Hubert was a bonus to Ralph, though he would have preferred Brother Simon’s experienced hand to that of their new scribe. Brother Francis was eager and respectful but he was as yet unproven.

Tanchelm’s men-at-arms were on duty inside and outside the shire hall but Ralph had brought ten of his own escort to give his deliberations a show of strength. Since the room was so cramped, only four of them were on duty inside it. Their companions acted as sentries in the street, keeping prying eyes at bay and marshalling the witnesses as they arrived. Inured to the sight of Norman soldiers, most of the citizens of York shuffled past without comment.

Gervase handed a document to Ralph, who glanced down at it to refresh his memory before issuing a curt command.

“Bring in the first witness! Her name is Sunnifa.”

“Yes, my lord,” said one of the soldiers.

Ducking to avoid the lintel over the door, he went outside to discharge a duty that should have taken no more than thirty seconds.

Instead, he was gone for a couple of minutes. Ralph grew impatient with the delay. When sounds of a violent argument reached his ears, his impatience spilled over into anger. Rising to his feet, he sent the three remaining men out after their colleague.