Edward Marston - The Elephants of Norwich

‘Is there?’

‘Yes, Alys. Get something for him as well.’

The younger woman laughed again and turned to face her companion. It was Golde’s presence on the expedition that had convinced her to join it. Eager as she was to be with her husband, Alys would never have left Winchester if she had been the only woman in the party, yet that hitherto had been Golde’s position. She marvelled afresh at her friend’s courage and independence. To be with her husband, Golde had ridden to places as far apart as Chester, York, Canterbury and Exeter. Bad weather and uncomfortable accommodation had been endured without complaint. It made Alys resolve to make light of any problems she encountered. The slight queasiness had passed off now. She would soon be able to respond to the notion of a banquet with real enthusiasm.

Golde sensed that something was troubling her and stepped in closer.

‘What ails you?’ she asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘The life seems to have drained out of you.’

‘It will come back.’

‘Are you not in a mood for celebration this evening?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Alys lied.

‘Something’s on your mind, Alys. What is it?’

Alys gave a shrug and moved back to the middle of the room to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts. She looked at Golde again. ‘It was that old man,’ she said. ‘The one we met on our way here.’

‘Poor wretch. I felt so sorry for him.’

‘How could anyone treat a human being like that? Ralph wouldn’t beat a dog the way that that old man was beaten. It was painful to look at him.’

‘I know. But his is not an isolated case, I fear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps we should break off this conversation,’ suggested Golde tactfully. ‘I don’t want to say anything out of place.’

‘How could you possibly do that?’

‘I’m from Saxon stock and you’re not, Alys. You were born in Winchester, I know, but your father came from Normandy and fought at Hastings. That sets the two of us apart. I belong to the conquered and you to the conquerors.’

‘What does that have to do with the old man we met?’

‘I’ve seen him before a hundred times,’ explained Golde. ‘Sometimes he’s old, something young, sometimes neither. But he’s always badly treated by his master. He’s always a reminder that a Saxon peasant lives at the mercy of his Norman overlord. Not that all members of your nation are harsh,’ she added, quickly, ‘because they’re most certainly not. Some are much kinder than the thegns they replaced. But I can’t change what I am, Alys. Though I married a Norman soldier and love him to distraction, I never forget where my roots lie. That old man we saw today was a symbol to me.’

‘Of what?’

‘You’ll understand in time,’ Golde brightened. ‘But enough of such thoughts! A banquet is being prepared for us. That should raise our spirits.’

‘Are we all invited?’

‘Oh, yes. Including Brother Daniel.’

‘Is a monk allowed to eat rich food?’ asked Alys, innocently.

‘You wouldn’t pose that question if you’d ever seen Canon Hubert at table. He has the appetite of half a dozen men. My guess is that Brother Daniel will not restrict himself to bread and water either,’ said Golde cheerfully. ‘He’s not just a scribe to the commissioners. He’s a Benedictine who’s been released for a while from his abbey.’

‘So?’

‘He’s here to enjoy himself, Alys.’

Brother Daniel was brimming with energy and filled with curiosity about his new abode. After he had been shown to the tiny room where he was to sleep, he found his way to the chapel and knelt down to offer up a prayer of thanks for their safe arrival. He then befriended the ancient chaplain, pumped him for information about the castle, and went out into the town to take stock of his surroundings. A paradox confronted him. Though there were plenty of people about, Norwich seemed curiously empty. In a city of almost five thousand souls, the monk felt oddly alone, as if the crowds that were drifting away from the market were mere assemblies of ghosts. Daniel was puzzled. It was not so much a question of what he could see as what he felt. He sensed bitterness, neglect and a resignation that bordered on despair. The castle was casting a long shadow.

As he walked down one of the side streets close to the fortress, he saw evidence of a destructive past. During the ill-fated revolt of the earl and his confederates, the castle had been besieged for three months. Many of the nearby dwellings were razed to the ground or simply abandoned by their panic-stricken owners. Those that remained were grim reminders of those troubled times. Daniel glanced into a few of them. The first was barely standing and the second boarded up with pieces of rough timber. Through the cracks in the shutters, he saw a small room with a sunken floor that was littered with rubbish. Something was crawling about in the gloom. Flies buzzed noisily. The stench made him hold his breath and move away.

The third house was in a more dilapidated state. Its wooden walls were pitted, its thatch all but done and its shutters hanging off like torn limbs. Brother Daniel went up to the entrance, then stepped back in surprise as a cat suddenly darted out between his bare legs. He gave an indulgent smile. The front door was simply propped against the opening. When he took hold of it, he was able to lift it aside. The room into which he now gazed was long, low and covered in the charred remains of furniture. The stink was even more powerful but it did not dispatch him on his way. Something had captured his attention. Revealed by the light that came in through the open door and the broken shutters was a piece of sacking in the far corner. It was heavily stained and seemed to be covering a large uneven object. Picking his way through the ashes, the monk took hold of the corner of the rough material and drew it slowly away.

Daniel was shocked. His stomach heaved and his temples pulsed. His legs went limp. Sweat broke out all over his body. He wanted to replace the sacking and hurry away to raise the alarm but he had no strength even to move. He was forced to stand there and gaze down in silent horror at the mutilated corpse.

Staring back at him were the sightless eyes of Hermer the Steward.

The discovery of the dead body threw the castle into a turmoil. When the trembling Brother Daniel broke the news, the sheriff immediately surrounded the derelict house with an armed guard. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret went into the building with him to investigate. The murder victim was in a sorry condition. The blood that stained the sacking came from a series of stab wounds in the chest. Hermer’s throat had also been cut and both hands had been hacked off. Congealed blood from a head wound formed a gruesome mask across the upper half of his face. All the ritual humiliations of death had set in. The foul smell made Ralph turn away in disgust.

‘What a way to end a life!’ he said. ‘Who is the poor devil?’

‘Hermer the Steward,’ said Bigot.

‘You recognise him?’

‘More by his apparel than his face, my lord. But that’s the lord Richard’s man, I’m sure. I’ve met the fellow often enough to pick him out even in that hideous state.’

‘When did he go missing, my lord sheriff?’ asked Gervase.

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘That accounts for the stink.’

‘It’s not the only cause,’ said Ralph, looking around at the accumulated excrement on the floor. ‘This place is a latrine. No wonder there are so many flies in here.’

‘One thing is certain,’ observed Bigot.

‘What’s that?’

‘Whoever stole those elephants, it wasn’t Hermer. The lord Richard was wrong about that. His steward is a victim, not a villain.’