Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘Who do you believe, Hubert? Strang or Hamelin?’

‘Neither.’

‘You think they are both lying?’

‘No, my lord. I think it would be foolish to make a judgement before we have examined all four claimants. Querengar would seem to have a more slender case, and we do not even know what the Archdeacon of Gwent is going to argue, but both deserve to be given the same opportunities as their rivals.’

‘That is ever our policy. Let all speak before a verdict is reached.’

He drained his cup. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘perhaps this Querengar will also produce a wondrous wife to brighten up our day.’

Simon gulped. ‘She would only darken mine.’

‘One thing is certain. Abraham the Priest will come alone.’

‘Do not be so sure, Ralph,’ teased Gervase. ‘Some of the older Welsh clergy are married. Idwal is.’

Ralph choked on his last pastry. ‘That name again!’

‘He spoke very fondly of his wife.’

‘What kind of woman would marry someone like that?’ asked Ralph incredulously. ‘It defies logic. She must have one eye, no teeth and swing from the trees by her tail!’

‘That is ungentlemanly,’ reproved Gervase.

‘Priests should be celibate,’ said Hubert seriously. ‘It is quite disgusting for them to have carnal relations with a woman.’

Ralph was jocular. ‘It all depends on the woman, Hubert. When you saw someone as gorgeous as the lady Emma sitting before you, I suspect that even you began to regret your vow of chastity.’

‘I did no such thing!’

‘Nor did I!’ murmured Simon.

‘No urgent little twitch beneath your cowls?’ asked Ralph.

‘Fleshly desire is beyond my ken,’ insisted Hubert.

‘The lady Emma will be disappointed,’ mocked Ralph. He looked up as one of his men came into the hall. ‘Ah, it seems that Querengar has arrived. Let us start anew, my friends. Take your places.’ The other three returned to their seats and Ralph waved to his knight. ‘Is the Breton alone?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘No wife, no concubine?’

‘None.’

‘Send him in while we master our regret.’

Hubert reprimanded him for his levity but Ralph took no notice.

Resuming his own seat, he consulted the papers before him and waited for the arrival of the third claimant. It was a lengthy wait and Ralph became restive. He was about to go in search of Querengar when the man finally entered. The delay was explained at once. While Strang had marched and Hamelin had glided, Querengar had to drag himself into the shire hall on his crutches.

One leg heavily bandaged and dangling uselessly, he made his way with painful slowness to the bench in front of them. They could see the effort that it cost him.

Gervase leaped up and went forward to help him but Querengar brushed him away with a shake of the head. He was too proud to accept any assistance. A short, compact man, he was shrunk by his injury into an almost dwarfish shape. Each of the commissioners felt a sharp tug at their sympathy. Lowering himself gingerly on to the bench, the newcomer set his crutches aside and turned a wizened face up to the table.

‘I am Querengar the Breton,’ he said firmly. ‘I expect justice.’

It was not until dinner was over that Brother Frewine was able to slip away on his errand. Having eaten a frugal meal of fish, vegetables, cheese and milk, the Precentor left the refectory and made his way to the cell vacated by the untimely death of Brother Nicholas. When he reached the door, he paused out of respect rather than fear, halted by the grim thought that he would never again see alive the monk whose corpse lay in the morgue awaiting burial. Death had robbed him of any personal reservations he had about Nicholas. Frewine mourned him like a brother.

Letting himself into the little room, he gazed sadly around it.

Built of stone, it was cool in summer but icy in winter; there was no source of heat. The ceiling was low, the floor sunken. All that the cell contained by way of furniture was a small table, a stool and a rough mattress. A crucifix stood on the table, its shadow magnified on the wall behind it by the shaft of light which came in through the little window. It was a bleak room but contained all that a monk would need. Frewine wondered if it might also contain something unsanctioned by the Benedictine Rule. Brother Nicholas would not be the first monk to harbour forbidden items in his private abode.

His search began on the ceiling then moved to the walls.

Frewine’s old fingers probed for loose masonry or chance crevices.

None could be found. Lowering himself to his knees, he began to grope around the floor of the cell, wishing that there was more light to assist him. What he could see was that the place had been only superficially swept. A thick layer of dust was largely untouched in some areas of the room. It was especially noticeable at the foot of the bed and he brushed it away with his hand to reveal something which had been invisible before. The floor was scored with parallel lines as if the mattress had been dragged out from the wall and replaced again many times.

Frewine’s curiosity was set alight. Grabbing the edge of the mattress, the Precentor eased it into the centre of the room then walked to the end which had been pressed against the wall.

Nothing unusual presented itself. The section of wall now uncovered was as bare and uneven as the rest. A spider was scurrying across it on long legs. It was only when Frewine began to explore with his fingers that he noticed something suspicious.

One of the stones in the wall was protruding slightly, allowing him to get a purchase on it. When he jiggled it to and fro, he got more and more movement until it suddenly popped away from the wall altogether. He was right. Brother Nicholas did have a hiding place after all.

Frewine set the stone down and reached inside the cavity until his hand closed on something soft and pliable. When he extracted it, the object was much heavier than it had felt at first. Holding it on one palm, he shook it slightly and heard the telltale chink.

He did not know whether to be pleased that his instinct had been sound or shocked by the nature of his discovery. It gave him something to think about as he hurried off to report to Abbot Serlo.

‘Did you explain this to the first commissioners who visited the county?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Why not?’

‘I was unfit to travel,’ said Querengar, indicating his wounded leg. ‘The accident happened only days before your predecessors arrived. I sent my reeve to the shire hall to represent me.’

‘Unsuccessfully.’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘Did you berate him?’ asked Ralph, remembering that Hamelin of Lisieux had seen fit to dismiss his own reeve for his inability to win ratification from the earlier commissioners. ‘Is he still in your employ?’

‘Of course.’

‘You bear him no ill will?’

‘Why should I? He did his best.’

‘Yet he failed.’

‘Not entirely,’ said the Breton. ‘My reeve must have made some impression or I would not be given this second chance to attest my claim. The fate of those hides in the Westbury Hundred remains in the balance.’

‘True.’

‘Until I persuade you who has the moral right to them.’

‘The moral right?’ echoed Canon Hubert.

‘Moral and legal,’ said Querengar, ‘though I’m sure that you will agree with me, Canon Hubert, that all law should have a moral basis.’

‘Quite so.’

‘I knew that you would appreciate that.’

He gave a little nod of gratitude. Querengar the Breton was an enigma. Unlike the two claimants already questioned, he said nothing to the detriment of his rivals. Where the testy Strang had fulminated and the urbane Hamelin had airily dismissed, Querengar made no mention of the others, preferring simply to state his own case to the commissioners and to rely on their estimation of its worth. He was a curiously modest man, one of the many Breton mercenaries who had fought at Hastings and been repaid with grants of land in England and, in his instance, in Wales. Yet there was nothing boastful or belligerent about him. He spoke with quiet authority.