Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘You might be able to, Hubert.’

‘Then I have your permission to speak with them?’

‘Gladly — if it were not a waste of your time.’

‘How a waste?’

‘They are Saxon boys, still struggling to learn our tongue and still unequal to the harsher demands of Latin. Kenelm and Elaf would not really know what you were talking about.’

‘But the sheriff has examined them.’

‘Only through an interpreter, Brother Frewine, our Precentor.’

Hubert felt a thrill of pleasure as he remembered Gervase Bret.

‘Then I will use an interpreter as well.’

When Gervase dined with his host that evening, he realised that the county was served by two sheriffs, both sharing the same name and body but quite distinct in personality. The man who had informed them of the murder was a brusque, arrogant man with no time for civilities and no tolerance of interference. In the presence of women, however, he became a considerate and almost playful character, laughing freely and trading on a rather heavy-handed charm. Seated directly opposite him in the hall, Gervase was grateful that Durand was flanked by his wife, Maud, a tall, slim creature with a pale beauty, and by Golde, looking every inch a Norman lady in a chemise and gown of light green hue with a white linen wimple. The interrelationships fascinated Gervase. Durand the Sheriff was humanised by his female companions and he, in turn, helped to take some of the haughtiness out of his wife’s manner by gently mocking her when she tried to patronise Golde.

Ralph Delchard was less interested in their host’s display of hospitality than in the quality of the food, which was excellent, the taste of the wine, which was above reproach, and the identity of a mystery man. The five of them were alone at table. When his cup was filled once more by a servant, Ralph sipped it with unfeigned satisfaction.

‘A splendid vintage, my lord!’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ replied Durand.

‘There is nothing to match the taste of Norman wine.’

‘I could not agree more.’

‘It is unmistakable.’

‘Not in this case,’ said the other with a grin. ‘What you are drinking has not come from Normandy at all but from somewhere much closer.’

‘I refuse to believe it.’

‘Go to the kitchens and ask them. They will tell you that this wine hails from the vineyard at Stonehouse in the Blacklow Hundred. Ride over there if you do not believe me.’

‘Our duties leave no time for excursions,’ said Ralph, peeved that he had been deceived. ‘Golde has been trying to lure me into drinking ale, as she does, but I have set my face against it.

Wine delights my palate.’ He looked warily into his cup. ‘Though it would delight me more if it had come from Normandy grapes.’

‘You must learn to enjoy the pleasures of England.’

‘I have, my lord. That is why I married one of them.’

Durand chuckled, Maud gave an ambiguous smile and Golde acknowledged the compliment with a grateful nod.

Ralph took another sip of the wine before trying to rid himself of his abiding fear.

‘Who is the Archdeacon of Gwent?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What a strange question!’ observed Maud with a shrill laugh.

‘Do you know, my lady?’

‘No, my lord. Nor do I care to know. Why do you ask?’

‘My husband believes that the archdeacon may be an acquaintance of his,’ explained Golde, ‘though I have assured him that it is unlikely.’

‘Give me certain proof,’ said Ralph. ‘What is his name?’

‘Abraham,’ replied the sheriff.

‘Thank God!’

‘You have met the fellow?’

‘Happily, I have not.’

‘Abraham the Priest is the Archdeacon of Gwent.’

‘You have done wonders for my digestion, my lord,’ said Ralph.

‘What manner of man is the archdeacon?’ wondered Gervase, looking across at Durand. ‘It seems that he is to appear before us. What should we expect, my lord?’

‘What you expect from every Welshman. Guile and deceit.’

‘I have a higher opinion of the nation.’

‘I don’t!’ said Ralph.

‘The Welsh have always dealt honourably with me.’

‘They deal honourably with me,’ asserted the sheriff, lapsing back into his surlier self, ‘when I have a sword in my hand and armed men at my back. It is the only way to extract honesty from them. By force.’

‘Away with such talk!’ complained Maud.

‘Of course, of course,’ said her husband in retreat.

‘It has no place at the table.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Durand, soothing her with a penitent smile.

‘We are here to enjoy our meal and not to raise the disagreeable subject of our neighbours.’ He turned to Golde. ‘My wife and I have a rule that I never bother her with affairs of state, still less with the trivialities which sometimes clutter up my day.’

‘I would hardly call a murder a triviality,’ observed Gervase.

‘It belongs outside this hall, Master Bret,’ chided his host with a glare. ‘That is why we treat of more homely subjects such as the quality of the vineyard at Stonehouse.’

‘Or the beer in Hereford,’ murmured his wife, who did not know whether to be amused or dismissive about the revelation of Golde’s earlier career as a brewer. ‘I want a husband who can separate his private life from his more worldly concerns. Is it not so with every wife?’

‘No,’ said Golde loyally. ‘I would love my husband whatever he talked about. I set no conditions whatsoever on his conversation.’

‘That’s just as well!’ commented Ralph.

‘What of your wife, Master Bret?’ asked Maud.

‘Alys seems content with me the way that I am, my lady.’

‘Newly wed, then, I see.’

‘Do not be so cynical, Maud,’ teased Durand. ‘Our guests will think that you are being serious.’ More food was brought in on large platters. ‘Ah! Here is the venison! Indulge yourselves, my friends. Eat your fill.’

The rest of the meal passed in pleasant banter. Whenever the talk seemed to be in the slightest danger of edging towards tedium, Durand would leap in with a gallant remark to the ladies or a provocative comment to the men. Time rolled easily by. It was Maud who brought an end to the festivities, stifling a yawn and excusing herself from the table, insisting that Golde went with her so that they could speak alone. Durand escorted them both to the door, bestowing a kiss on his wife’s cheek and another on Golde’s hand before he bowed them out. Then the smile froze on his lips. It was the other sheriff who came back to the table.

‘I bid you good night,’ he said off-handedly.

‘One moment, my lord,’ said Ralph, anxious to hear about the progress of the murder inquiry. ‘You have not told us what transpired at the abbey this afternoon.’

‘The abbey?’

‘You rode off there shortly after we arrived.’

‘So?’

‘Have you narrowed down the number of suspects?’

‘What is that to you?’

‘A polite question deserves at least a polite answer,’ said Ralph, straightening his shoulders. ‘And while we are on the topic of civility, I am bound to say that we found your manner offensive when you rode out of the castle earlier. It is equally unappealing now.’

‘It is not my wish to appeal.’

‘I can see that.’

‘We are curious about the murder, my lord,’ said Gervase, eager to prevent a row developing between the two men. ‘That is all.’

‘Master your curiosity. It is not welcome here.’

‘But the crime may have a bearing on our work.’

‘How could it?’ snorted the sheriff.

Ralph stood up. ‘Surely you can tell us something ,’ he urged.

‘Indeed I can,’ retorted Durand. ‘I can tell you in no uncertain terms to curb your interest in matters that do not concern you. I am sheriff here and I brook no intervention, however well intentioned. Your work is confined to the shire hall. Keep that in mind,’ he said, heading for the door again, ‘or it will go hard with both of you. Good night!’