Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘Heavens! Who was the victim?’

‘One of the monks at the abbey.’

‘Never!’

‘That is what Durand told us — in fairly blunt terms at that. His tone was less than friendly to us and I mean to point that out to him when he returns.’

‘What exactly happened, Ralph?’

‘Don’t worry yourself about it.’

‘But I want to know.’

‘The details are quite distressing.’

‘So?’

‘Better that you don’t hear them.’

‘I’m not a child.’

He gave a tired smile. ‘I can vouch for that.’

‘Then you know that I don’t need to be protected from unpleasant facts. And I’d much rather hear them from you. Since we’re staying in the castle, I’m bound to pick them up elsewhere sooner or later.’

‘True, my love.’

‘Tell me all.’

He nodded. ‘Thus it stands.’

Ralph gave her a shortened version of what the sheriff had told him and produced a long sigh of regret. Golde was shocked that murder had occurred within a monastic community. Her questions came thick and fast and Ralph took her by the shoulders to stem the flow.

‘Don’t interrogate me. I’ve told you all I know.’

‘What of Canon Hubert and Brother Simon?’

‘Forget them.’

‘Are they aware of this?’

‘Durand warned them about it in my hearing.’

‘It will make the abbey a frightening place to be.’

‘Simon was shaking at the prospect.’

‘I don’t blame him, Ralph. It’s the one place where you would expect to be completely safe. Are there any clues? Any suspects?

Does the sheriff think the murderer is still in Gloucester?’

He put a finger to her lips. ‘No more questions.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Enough!’

He silenced her with a kiss and she responded warmly, sinking into his embrace and enjoying their first moment alone since dawn. Ralph stood back and beamed at her.

‘That’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.’

‘There is ample time for improvement on a solitary kiss.’

‘I will remind you of that later on, my love.’

‘Do you think that I will need reminding?’ They exchanged a knowing smile. ‘But you said that there were two of them.’

‘Two what?’

‘Unheralded blows.’

‘Yes!’ he groaned. ‘And the second may be worse than the first.’

‘What could be worse than murder?’

‘Being haunted by a ghost.’

‘A ghost?’

‘The most terrifying kind, Golde. A Welsh ghost.’

‘Stop talking in riddles.’

‘He has come back from the dead to harry me.’

‘Who has?’

‘A certain archdeacon.’

‘Idwal?’

Ralph recoiled as if struck by an arrow and clutched at his chest.

‘I’ve asked you not to speak his foul name.’

‘But I grew quite fond of Archdeacon Id-’ She checked herself just in time. ‘Of that prelate from the other side of the border.’

‘If only he would stay there!’ said Ralph bitterly. ‘Gervase assured me that he would. He insisted that I would be completely safe from that garrulous little goat. Yet what happens? No sooner do we reach the castle to be told of the murder at the abbey than a second avalanche falls on me. A letter is handed to us regarding the major dispute we have come here to resolve. We thought we would be sitting in judgement on only three people, but a fourth has now declared himself.’

‘A fourth?’

‘The Archdeacon of Gwent.’

‘But that is not Idwal,’ she said, inflicting another wound with the unguarded mention of his name. ‘When we met him in Chester, he was Archdeacon of St David’s. Before that, during your stay in Hereford, he spoke as Archdeacon of Llandaff.’

‘Exactly!’ said Ralph, on the move again. ‘He changes his title at will in order to pursue me. He is Archdeacon of Gwent now.’

‘Are you certain of that?’

‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘The aches and pains of travel.’

‘He is haunting me, Golde. Wherever I go that ugly face of his is leering at me. We all have our cross to bear and mine is hewn from the heaviest Welsh timber. When I first read that letter, I wanted to turn tail and ride back home, but he would follow me even there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’d probably arrive back to find him Archdeacon of Winchester.’

Golde laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ she said. ‘And you know it.

I’m surprised at you, Ralph. You’re the most fearless man I’ve ever met. You fought bravely in many battles and would take on a giant in single combat. Yet a harmless Welsh churchman can make you tremble.’

‘There is nothing harmless about him.’

‘You alarm yourself without necessity. Id-’ She bit back the name once again. ‘The person we’re talking about is not the Archdeacon of Gwent.’

‘He could be, Golde.’

‘Impossible. Gwent is too small a county for a man of his high ambition. It would be a much lowlier office than the one he already occupies. On that account alone, he would spurn it.’

‘I had not thought of that.’

‘Rest easy.’

‘We are too close to Wales for me to do that.’

‘Forget this new archdeacon until you have to confront him at the shire hall. You’ve been so busy unburdening your bad news that I’ve been unable to tell you my good tidings.’

‘Good tidings?’

‘You and Gervase are not the only ones to receive a letter.

Mine was waiting for me here,’ she said, crossing to the little table to pick up the missive and hand it to him. ‘It’s from my sister. Aelgar expects to be here within a day or two.’

‘These are indeed good tidings.’

‘There’s more yet, Ralph. She is betrothed.’

‘It was only a matter of time.’

‘Her future husband will be travelling with her.’

‘Then we must give them both a worthy welcome. Gloucester may yet have some joy to offer us.’ He enfolded her in his arms.

‘I’m sorry to get into such a state, my love. It was the sheriff’s manner which put me out of sorts. That and the threat of the mad archdeacon.’ A sudden fear made him tighten his grasp. ‘Your sister is betrothed, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘To whom?’

‘A young man from Archenfield.’

‘Saints preserve us!’ he gasped. ‘Is he Welsh ?’

Golde shook with mirth until he kissed her into submission.

The abbey was smothered under a blanket of sadness. When the guests arrived, they were given only a token welcome by the Hospitaller, who conducted them in silence to their lodgings.

Hardly a monk looked up as they passed, hardly a spark of curiosity was ignited; a melancholy air pervaded the whole community. Those who padded across the cloister garth, shoulders hunched, chins on their chest, were deep in mourning.

Even the novices, taking instruction from their master as the visitors went past, were figures of dejection. The atmosphere was in marked contrast to that of the abbey that Canon Hubert and Brother Simon had recently quit on the King’s business.

Winchester throbbed with a subdued vitality; Gloucester was a charnel house.

‘I have never felt so uneasy inside the walls of a religious house,’ admitted Simon. ‘It is eerie.’

‘Sacrilege has taken place here,’ boomed Hubert as they followed their mute guide. ‘A spiritual refuge has been despoiled.’

‘I wish that we had not come, Canon Hubert.’

‘Nonsense! We are needed here.’

‘By whom?’

‘By the abbot, by the brothers, by God. A terrible crime has been committed. Our footsteps have been guided here so that we may help to track down the villain responsible.’

Simon blanched. ‘What can we do against a violent killer?’