Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

Durand waited until the end of the meal before he broached the topic which had occupied his mind since he first heard of the possibility of a royal visit. He leaned respectfully across to his guest of honour.

‘Is there anything else you require, my liege?’

‘A soft bed and a quiet night.’

‘We all need those.’

‘Not all of us, Durand,’ said William, casting an eye over some of the members of his entourage. ‘There are a few here who would prefer a warm woman in that soft bed, then the night would be far from quiet.’

‘Hot blood runs in young veins.’

‘I should know. I have spilled it often enough.’

William the Conqueror, King of England and Duke of Normandy, spoke with gruff regret. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with extremely long arms. The aura of majesty was unmistakable but so was the fatigue of warfare. He was approaching his sixtieth year now and the cares of office showed in the craggy face, already lined by the succession of betrayals, reversals and disappointments he had suffered, and scored most deeply by the death of his wife, Matilda, a tiny woman for such a portly warrior but a true queen in every sense. William was a bundle of contradictions, peremptory yet pious, uncultured yet intelligent, harsh yet capable of great gentleness, a belligerent man who desired nothing more than the peace which constantly eluded him.

‘You have not told me the purpose of this visit,’ said Durand.

‘Do I need a purpose before I can come to Gloucester?’

‘Of course not, my liege.’

‘Is friendship not excuse enough, Durand?’

‘More than enough. But I am bound to observe that two members of your Council have arrived with you, and Bishop Wulfstan was already here at your request. May we expect others to join us?’

‘No,’ said William, sitting back in his chair. ‘With your own good self, I have four sage counsellors around me. That will suffice.’

‘To discuss what?’

‘Whatever we choose.’

‘I will press you no more on the matter,’ said Durand, backing off at the sign of evasion. ‘I just felt that I should point out that another of your erstwhile counsellors is in Gloucester at this time.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Hamelin of Lisieux.’

‘His opinion will not be sought,’ said William sharply. ‘I heard that he spends most of his time in Normandy with that pretty wife of his. What brings him here?’

‘A dispute over his holdings, my liege.’

‘But of course. I was forgetting that the second commissioners were sent to the county. Are they still here?’

‘Under this very roof. Except for Canon Hubert and their scribe.

They prefer to lodge at the abbey.’

‘A fortuitous decision,’ said Wulfstan, sitting on the other side of the King and easing himself into the conversation. ‘A foul murder was recently committed there. They have been able to assist in tracking down the fiend responsible.’

Durand crackled. ‘Their help is quite unnecessary.’

‘But Canon Hubert has such a quick mind.’

‘Too quick, Bishop Wulfstan.’

‘I have met the man,’ said William thoughtfully. ‘And I know Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret even better. All three are very able or I would not have given them such high office. Make use of them while they are here, Durand. You could not ask for more efficient deputies.’

‘I do not ask for any deputies at all.’

‘The crime must be solved swiftly,’ urged Wulfstan. ‘You should be grateful that these men are taking the trouble to help you.’

‘I am grateful,’ lied Durand.

‘So you should be,’ said William firmly. ‘Seek assistance from those best suited to give it to you. That is what I always do. I ask, I discuss, I consult. As a result, my decisions are the sounder and I do not feel that my authority has in any way been undermined. Is that your fear?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘A loss of control?’

‘Only a sheriff can investigate a homicide.’

‘Not when he is sitting in council with his king. We will spend a lot of time in this hall over the next day or two, Durand, because we have much to discuss. My needs have priority over those of the abbey. Even the bishop will acknowledge that.’

‘Freely, my liege,’ said Wulfstan.

‘I am sure that you have capable officers but they will lack the perseverance of Ralph Delchard and the others. Put your trust in them,’ he said, resting a hand on the sheriff’s arm. ‘They are not untried in such matters. If anyone can apprehend the killer, it is them.’

Durand’s food was organising an armed rebellion in his stomach.

Kenelm was in a quandary. Too tired to stay awake, he was too afraid to sleep lest it render him vulnerable to more of the hideous nightmares that afflicted him. As he lay on his mattress in the dormitory, he inhabited a kind of limbo between the two, dozing off, shaking himself instantly awake, then feeling the drowsiness creep over him once again. He had jerked himself out of his slumber for the third time when he heard the sound. Someone was moving stealthily across the floor. The creak of a board caused them to stop and wait before inching their way forward again. At first Kenelm thought it might be Elaf, but his friend was still on the mattress next to him, sleeping soundly, impervious to all around him. Who, then, was creeping out of the dormitory?

Raising himself on his elbows, Kenelm saw the figure flit through the doorway. He was bewildered. Owen was the last novice he expected to sneak out in the middle of the night. He was the most timid and well-behaved boy in the abbey, and nocturnal wandering was strictly forbidden. Kenelm wondered what could possibly make Owen court a beating from the Master of the Novices. He had to find out. Rising to his feet, he made for the door with greater speed than Owen, cleverly negotiating the floorboards which creaked. Kenelm caught up with him near the cloister garth. The other boy was patently frightened, darting nervously from one hiding place to another, but something impelled him to go on.

Kenelm followed until he saw where Owen was going. He stopped immediately. Nothing could make him venture into the cemetery at night. It held the accusing presence of Brother Nicholas.

Watching the other boy pick his way nimbly between the gravestones, Kenelm lost his nerve and turned tail. He ran all the way back to the dormitory but it was no refuge. New horrors assaulted him. Sleep of any kind was impossible.

Owen, meanwhile, was filled with a strange confidence. When he reached the mound of fresh earth, he gazed down at it without any sign of fear. Even in death, Brother Nicholas was still his friend. The only way to reach him now was by means of prayer, and Owen knelt on the damp grass with his palms together. His prayer was long and fervent. He was convinced that Brother Nicholas heard every word. When he opened his eyes and clambered to his feet again, he was smiling. He had talked at night to his friend as he had done so many times before. It was thrilling. Waving a farewell, he turned to scamper away but someone was waiting for him, a stout figure in a monastic cowl, barely visible in the darkness. Pale moonlight gave him a ghostly air.

Owen was unperturbed. He went hopefully towards the man.

‘Brother Nicholas?’ he asked.

Occupying a chamber near the base of the keep, Gervase Bret retired early to bed and fell swiftly asleep. Even the heavy murmur of voices from the hall did not disturb him. It took the fist and voice of Canon Hubert to pluck him from his dreams.

‘Gervase!’ called Hubert. ‘Wake up, Gervase!’

‘What?’ muttered the other, opening an eye. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Canon Hubert!’

‘Here at the castle?’

‘I must speak to you!’