Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘Yes, but I want proof of your penitence first.’

‘Must I don sackcloth and ashes?’

‘A simpler form of atonement will suffice,’

‘Name it, my love, and I will agree to it.’

‘Good,’ she said briskly. ‘Let us first eat with Gervase then visit them straight afterwards. They are half-expecting us.’

‘Who are?’

‘My sister and her betrothed. I want you to meet Forne.’

Ralph stiffened. ‘The arrogant young fool who dares to have serious qualms about your marriage to me?’

‘I knew that you’d like him,’ said Golde with a laugh.

Before the bell for Compline drew them to the abbey church for the last service of the day, Canon Hubert and Brother Simon walked side by side around the cloisters. Both were at peace.

Unaware of the sheriff’s reaction to their search for the killer, Hubert was still preening himself after his performance in front of Abbot Serlo and Bishop Wulfstan. He had made a profound impression on both of them and it would stand him in good stead.

Both men had influence. It would be used in his favour.

Simon’s tranquillity had returned the moment he set foot back inside the comforting walls of the abbey and shook off the horrid memories of the archdeacon’s venture into midwifery, an escapade which had appalled Simon and made him glad that he did not live in the diocese of Gwent. Abbey life was all to him. There was no danger of meeting any young Welsh mothers shrieking in labour there.

‘What is your opinion, Brother Simon?’ asked Hubert.

‘Of what, pray?’

‘This dispute we have spent so much time trying to resolve.’

‘I am only your scribe, Canon Hubert. I have no opinion.’

‘In the shire hall, perhaps not. In the privacy of the cloister, it is a different matter. You heard all that we did. What is your conclusion?’

‘Hamelin of Lisieux has prior claim.’

‘That is what I have come to accept.’

‘Only the Breton can mount a serious challenge.’

‘Not the Welshman?’

‘I found it too distressing to listen to all his evidence.’

‘A pity, Brother Simon. His arguments were sound and forcefully put. They had a certain glibness but you expect that from the Welsh. Credit where it is due. Abraham the Priest gave a good account of himself.’ His brow furrowed. ‘Though I could have done without the lurid description of his journey here.’

‘So could I, Canon Hubert!’

They turned a corner to perambulate along another side of the garth and found a diminutive figure waiting for them. Elaf stood there with a look of quiet apprehension. The monks stopped in front of him.

‘You wish to speak to me?’ said Hubert loftily.

‘If I may, Canon Hubert,’ replied the boy nervously. ‘You and Master Bret were asking me about Brother Nicholas.’

‘And?’

‘I remembered something else about him.’

‘Is it significant?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well? Be quick. Compline is at hand.’

‘A week before Brother Nicholas’s death, I saw him talking to someone outside the abbey. A well-dressed man. I have never seen him before. All that I remember is that they seemed to be having some kind of argument.’

‘What made you decide that?’

‘The way the man was waving his arms about.’

‘In anger, you mean?’

‘Yes. Brother Nicholas was trying to calm him down. When he turned to point at the abbey he caught sight of me by the gate and scowled. I ran back inside.’

‘And that was all?’

‘Yes, Canon Hubert.’

‘Brother Nicholas did not come after you to scold you?’

‘No, I hardly saw him after that. Then, with the shock of what we discovered in the church, it went out of my head, this meeting he had with the stranger.’

‘Did he appear to be a stranger to Brother Nicholas?’

‘Oh no. I think they knew each other.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘By the way they stood and talked.’

‘Can you describe this other man?’

‘Not really. They were some distance away.’

‘Was the fellow old or young?’

‘Old, I think. He had a beard.’

‘That tells us little. Almost every man in Gloucester seems to have a beard. Yet another deplorable habit of the Saxons. But you said earlier he was well dressed. A man of wealth?’

‘Yes.’

Hubert patted him on the head. ‘You did well to bring this to me, Elaf. Have you told any of this to Brother Frewine?’

‘As soon as I remembered it.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That I was to come to you or to Master Bret.’

The bell began to toll and monks headed towards the church from all directions. Hubert and Simon were about to join them when they became aware that the boy was hovering. He had more to tell.

‘This may have nothing to do with it,’ he said tentatively, ‘but I talked to Brother Owl … er, Brother Frewine, that is, about something else. Earlier this year, two novices disappeared from the abbey.’

‘Disappeared?’

‘So I thought. Their names were Siward and Dena. I believed that they must have run away.’

‘And didn’t they?’

‘Nobody knows for sure, Canon Hubert. They have never been found. Their parents still grieve for them.’

‘How tragic!’ said Simon.

‘Very tragic,’ added Hubert. ‘When you spoke to Brother Frewine, did he throw any light on their departure?’

Elaf’s lower lip began to tremble with dismay. A disturbing idea had been implanted in him by the Precentor. Hubert put a steadying hand on his shoulder and knelt down in front of him.

‘Does he know why they left, Elaf?’

‘He thinks they may have been kidnapped.’

The visit got off to a quiet start. Schooled by his betrothed, Forne was polite and engaging. Ralph, too, was on his best behaviour, pleased to see his sister-in-law once more and anxious not to upset her. Aelgar and Forne were astonished by his grasp of their language and it did much to smooth out some of the inevitable social wrinkles. They were in the parlour of the house where the guests from Hereford were staying; Golde felt completely at home there but Ralph was uneasy in what were her natural surroundings. Even in the friendly atmosphere, he was never quite able to relax. However, the visit had one unexpected bonus.

‘You know Querengar the Breton?’ said Ralph in surprise.

‘He has holdings in Archenfield.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Once or twice,’ said Forne. ‘He struck me as a forthright man.

With a pleasant manner. I could not say that of many of them.’

‘Them?’ echoed Ralph.

‘Invaders.’

‘Forne!’ said Aelgar warningly.

‘The lord Ralph did ask.’

‘And I got a fair answer,’ said Ralph. ‘So you think of Querengar as an invader, do you? Even though he has lived in this country for over twenty years. That is almost as long as you, Forne.’

‘I was born here.’

‘Why is the Breton so unusual?’

‘Because most of the others who took our land from us revel in their conquest,’ said Forne bitterly. ‘They live in their fortified manor houses and treat us with disdain. In Archenfield, where I live, but especially in lowland Gwent, there are dozens of them, Normans, Bretons and, worst of all, the hated Flemings.’

‘They are not easy to love,’ agreed Ralph.

‘If they fought at Hastings, they were given our land.’

‘The spoils of war, Forne.’

‘Need we talk about this subject now?’ said Golde meaningfully.

‘No,’ added Aelgar.

‘But I must just point something out to this argumentative young man of yours,’ said Ralph easily. ‘You call it your land, Forne, but your ancestors stole it from the people who were settled here before them. So, in a sense, you, too, are enjoying the fruits of conquest, albeit at several removes. As for Querengar and the rest, they give valuable service by settling in less desirable parts of the kingdom like Wales and the Welsh borders. Most of their estates are held by military tenure, I’m sure you know what that means.’