Edward Marston - The Lions of the North

“Nothing of importance,” he said.

Intense discussion followed the departure of Inga, Sunnifa and Brunn the Priest. Their evidence had intrigued Gervase Bret but struck a different chord in Ralph Delchard. While the former believed that they had told the truth, the latter suspected that their stories were largely confected, especially as they could produce no written proof of their claims.

Nigel Arbarbonel himself had still to be questioned, and they would reserve their judgement until that examination had been completed, but their respective sympathies were already tipping in opposite directions.

Brother Francis preserved a tactful silence. Completely detached, his sole aim was to fulfill his duties as a scribe in a satisfactory way.

Ralph and Gervase were more than pleased with him. When they read through his record of what had so far transpired, they could see a penetrating mind behind the neat calligraphy. Brother Francis had missed nothing of significance in Inga’s impassioned testimony.

Before continuing, the commissioners elected to take a break for refreshment. Ralph went out with Brother Francis, and the men-at-arms also vacated the room. Gervase remained behind to clear up his papers and put them back into the satchel. When he was ready to leave, he was astonished to see Inga standing just inside the door.

There was a long pause. Some of her earlier confidence seemed to have drained away and there was a hint of apprehension in her eyes.

For the first time, Gervase saw how vulnerable she really was. His sympathy welled up.

“May I please speak with you?” she asked softly.

“Not if it concerns the dispute under consideration.”

“But there is something you must know.”

“You should have divulged it under oath when you had the opportunity.”

“And risk the scorn of your colleague?” she said with asperity. “You listened to what we said. He simply attacked our evidence.”

“My lord Ralph is a just man,” said Gervase firmly. “You will not find a more honest and impartial judge. It is his job to sift every allegation with care just as it is mine to support him. We may have a different approach but we seek the same end: to establish the true facts of every claim and to rectify any illegalities.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Do not try to advance your cause by seeking me out alone so that you may in some way influence me.”

Inga was hurt. “Is that what you think I am doing?”

“Why else have you come?”

“To explain.”

“This is not the time and place for explanation.”

“A few moments is all that I crave.”

He shrugged his reluctance. “I must decline.”

“Was I so wrong about you?” she said, coming across to him. “All I seek is a fair hearing but you believe I am here to exert influence.

How? Am I supposed to give you money? Or did you expect me to offer myself?”

Gervase was jolted. Without meaning to, he had clearly insulted her. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and his guilt deepened when he saw the first tear in her eye. He stepped around the table to stand next to her. Striking a note of appeasement, he spoke to her in Saxon.

“I am deeply sorry if I have offended you,” he said. “It was not inten-tional.”

Inga blinked at him. Surprised by the apology, she was even more surprised to hear it offered in the language of the common people. She scrutinised him with new interest.

“I had a Saxon mother,” he explained. “When you talked to your own mother and to your priest, I understood what you were saying. I feel that you should know that.”

“Thank you.”

“Not that you said anything that compromised you in this dispute.

And I was certainly not eavesdropping in the hope of catching you out.”

They were only a couple of feet apart now and Gervase became more fully aware of her charms. When they had faced each other earlier across the table, she had been a bold advocate in search of justice. Inga was now a handsome woman with the bloom of youth on her. Gervase felt strangely drawn to her and had to school himself to remember his judicial role. She, too, sensed an affinity. As they gazed at each other, they shared a momentary tenderness that neither of them dared to acknowledge.

Inga lowered her head while she gathered her thoughts.

“Toki,” she said at length. “His name is Toki.”

“Whose name?”

“He has the evidence that you demand.”

“He is not listed among the witnesses,” said Gervase.

“No,” she said. “He works through us. Toki has been gathering proof on our behalf. His job was to provide the documents that would enable us to enforce our claim.”

“Then where are they?”

“We have no idea.”

“Why not?”

“Toki has vanished. There has been no trace of him for days. Something dreadful must have happened to him. He knew how important it was for us to appear before you while you are in York. It is our only hope of justice. Toki would never deliberately let us down.” She shrugged. “He gave me his word.”

Gervase did not need to ask what relationship she had with Toki.

The softness in her voice and the wistfulness in her eyes told the same story. Toki was her beloved and she was patently shattered by his disappearance. Gervase was overtaken by a sense of uneasiness.

“What was Toki like?” he asked.

“The most caring man in the world.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Tall, fair and lean with a kind face.”

“And a beard?”

“Yes, Toki had a fine beard.”

Gervase felt a stab of recognition. It was him.

“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus et dismissis peccatis vestris, peducat vos at vitem aeternam …”

Philip the Chaplain conducted the burial service with brusque solemnity. Nobody was there to mourn the deceased. The mangled remains of an unknown man were lowered into the ground and the chaplain tossed a handful of earth onto the coffin as his chant continued. When the signal came, the gravedigger stepped in quickly with his spade to suffocate the foul smell that rose up from inside the rough wooden box. It was a hasty funeral.

The chaplain forced himself to stare down at the grave until it was almost filled with earth. As he turned away, he heaved a sigh of relief.

A burdensome responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders, and an excrescence had been removed from his mortuary. He found it difficult to view the corpse as a human being. Romulus and Remus had left so little of the body that he had virtually consigned no more than a pile of bones and some rotting flesh to the grave.

His relief was overtaken by a sudden remorse and he turned to look back. The gravedigger was now stamping on the soft earth to press it down, executing a slow dance that seemed like a final act of contempt on a carcass that had already suffered the ultimate humiliation.

Philip the Chaplain thought of the dismembered corpse that had lain on his slab in an attitude of torment. It was difficult to imagine a more cruel and agonising way to quit life than to be mauled by two lions. He found himself hoping that the man’s family and friends never discovered how he was killed. It would be a kindness to protect them from such disturbing knowledge.

As he continued on his way, his pity surged. He was vexed once again by the cold anonymity of the burial.

“Who are you?” he asked.

It never occurred to him that Toki might soon answer that question from beyond the grave.

Olaf Evil Child chewed his way through the roasted capon and washed it down with a cup of strong ale. He and his men were camped near a stream so that the horses could be watered. There was abun-dant cover from trees and bushes but sentries were posted as a matter of course. Olaf had also sent out scouts to comb a wider area in search of prey or potential danger.