Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘What do you mean?’

‘His presence here confirms it, Ralph. The King is indeed coming.’

Ralph squirmed in the saddle as he foresaw a prickly discussion ahead with his wife. It made him ride out of the city with eagerness.

Durand the Sheriff conducted his guest to the hall in the castle.

Wine awaited them and a servant poured two cups before he retired. When it was offered to him, the bishop waved the cup politely away but Durand felt the need of sustenance. He gulped down his own wine with undue haste and undisguised relish.

‘That’s better!’ he said, licking his lips. ‘I needed that.’

‘Wine is a mocker, my lord. Put it aside.’

‘I prefer to be mocked.’ He indicated a chair and his visitor sat down. ‘It is good to see you again, Bishop, though I would be grateful to know precisely why we are meeting like this.’

‘So would I, my lord sheriff.’

‘Do you have no notion what this portends?’

‘None. I was hoping you might enlighten me.’

‘All I know is that King William is on his way.’

‘When is he due to arrive?’

‘By nightfall today.’

‘That is more than I was told.’

‘A message to that effect arrived this morning.’

‘I am glad I reached Gloucester before him,’ said Wulfstan.

‘The King does not like to be kept waiting. Who else has been summoned? If others descend on you, we may have some clue as to the size and nature of the crisis.’

‘If, that is, a crisis actually exists.’

‘Why else would he come here? Much as he appreciates us, I do not believe that King William would ride all this way to enquire after our health. Something is afoot. I smell an emergency.’

Durand took a step away from him. What he could smell was the noxious stink which came from the lambskin cloak. The garment looked even more ragged at close quarters, as wrinkled with age as its wearer and far more blotched. Wulfstan seemed sublimely unaware of the reek. He was a small man with a huge reputation, the only surviving Saxon bishop in England, ready to serve Archbishop Lanfranc as steadfastly as he had served Stigand, the previous primate. Well into his seventies, Wulfstan still had remarkable vitality and an extraordinary range of interests. His learning was matched by his political skills, making him one of the King’s most able counsellors. Durand distrusted him as much as the bishop distrusted the sheriff, but he could not deny the prelate’s expertise in affairs of state. Wulfstan was the Great Survivor. That, in itself, entitled him to a respectful hearing.

‘I wonder if it may concern Wales,’ ventured Wulfstan.

‘Possibly.’

‘Disturbing reports have reached me from Bishop Robert. He tells me that Hereford is reinforcing itself against the possibility of attack.’

‘We have also had worrying intelligence about activity on our western border,’ confided Durand. ‘Sporadic raids have taken place. They are on a very small scale but I wonder if they presage a larger assault.’

‘I hope not.’

‘So do we all, Bishop.’

‘But if not Wales, what, then, brings the King to Gloucester again?’

‘We will have to wait until he tells us but I begin to doubt that it is a real emergency. I know of nobody else who has been summoned. You and I are the sum total of his advisors, unless we count Hamelin of Lisieux, that is.’

‘Is he in Gloucester as well?’

‘On his own account. Commissioners have descended on us.’

‘I thought they came and went.’

‘The first ones did,’ said Durand petulantly. ‘After they had caused several flutters, I may say. When the returns for this county were examined in Winchester, irregularities appeared.

Serious discrepancies. The new commissioners have come to investigate them.’

‘That might explain the King’s need to be here.’

‘Might it?’

‘Yes, my lord sheriff. The King needs money to raise an army to fight the Danes. That is the main purpose of this Great Survey, is it not?’

Durand was rueful. ‘To see who owns what and how much can be wrung from them by way of tax or knight-service. I do not like tax collectors at the best of times, but these have been the worst who have ever afflicted my county.’

‘And mine,’ said Wulfstan philosophically. ‘Letters of complaint flooded in to me, asking me to use my influence with the King to relieve the burden of taxation. What influence, I cry? If I had any, I would employ it to seek relief for myself. The church of Worcester suffers as much as anyone.’

‘Why grant us land if he then bleeds us dry with taxes?’

‘Take the matter up with him,’ suggested Wulfstan with a chuckle. ‘I am not sure that I have the courage to do so. You saw how determined he was to push this Great Survey through when he first mooted the idea at the Christmas council here in Gloucester. The King would hear no whisper of criticism.’

‘I admire that aspect of him.’

‘So do I, my lord bishop. From a safe distance.’

‘But to answer your original question, I doubt very much if he is coming on the heels of his commissioners. Apart from anything else, they knew nothing about his imminent visit. Other teams are visiting other counties to unravel peculiarities in the returns.

Why should the King pick Gloucester when he has so many other counties to choose from?’

‘A telling point.’

‘All I know is that it is a most inconvenient time to receive a royal visit. Still less to host a meeting of the whole council, if that is what is in the wind. Not only are the commissioners here, I have had another problem dropped into my lap.’

‘Another problem?’

‘A murder, Bishop Wulfstan.’

‘Where?’

‘At the abbey.’

The bishop was on his feet. ‘Who was the victim?’

‘One of the monks, Brother Nicholas.’

‘This is dire news,’ said the other. ‘Has any arrest been made?’

‘Not yet,’ admitted Durand, ‘nor is there likely to be one in the near future. My officers are hunting high and low for clues but they are very scarce. It is a most vexing case in every way. Abbot Serlo refuses even to consider the possibility, but I feel more and more that the killer lives within the abbey itself.’

‘A Benedictine monk? Out of the question!’

‘The evidence points that way.’

‘But you just told me how flimsy it is. Do not accuse a monk, my lord sheriff. I have spent a whole lifetime within the enclave, first in the abbeys of Evesham and Peterborough, then in my beloved Worcester. In well over half a century inside a cowl, I have never once met a monk who would dare to contemplate murder, let alone actually commit it. This has upset me more than I can say,’ he confessed, starting to pant slightly. ‘I must go to the abbey at once to learn the full details of this crime.’

‘I expected that you would stay here at the castle.’

‘In these circumstances?’

‘But I have an apartment prepared for you, Bishop.’

‘Thank you,’ said Wulfstan, pulling his cloak around him so tightly that bits of it were shaken off to float aromatically to the floor. ‘But I must decline your kind invitation. When the King calls me, I will return at once. Meanwhile, I will be at the abbey,’

he asserted, hurrying towards the door. ‘Look for me there. That is where I am needed.’

Caradoc made them think again. Having heard so much about Brother Nicholas from a variety of sources, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret had formed a very clear idea of his character. The deceased monk was a loner, deliberately kept away from an abbey where he never earned general acceptance, who had a suspect interest in attractive boys. The cache found by the Precentor confirmed that there was a darker side to the murder victim, one which he had cunningly hidden from his Benedictine brothers and which might in time provide the motive for his death. Caradoc talked about another Brother Nicholas, however, but he did so at such breathtaking speed that Ralph was only able to catch one word in three and sensibly left the questioning to Gervase.