The Owls of Gloucester (Domesday Series Book 10) Read online

  Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret are commissioners, appointed by William the Conqueror, to look into the serious irregularities that come to light during the compilation of Domesday Book, the great survey of England. Delchard is a Norman soldier who fought at the Battle of Hastings, and who does not suffer fools gladly. Bret, a talented lawyer, comes from mixed Saxon and Breton parentage. They make a highly effective crime-fighting team in a violent and unstable period of history. Each of the books in the series takes them to a different English county.

  Edward Marston was born and brought up in Wales. He read Modern History at Oxford then lectured in the subject for three years before becoming a full-time freelance writer.

  www.edwardmarston.com

  Domesday Books

  The Wolves of Savernake

  The Ravens of Blackwater

  The Dragons of Archenfield

  The Lions of the North

  The Serpents of Harbledown

  The Stallions of Woodstock

  The Hawks of Delamere

  The Wildcats of Exeter

  The Foxes of Warwick

  The Owls of Gloucester

  The Elephants of Norwich

  The Owls of

  Gloucester

  Edward Marston

  Ostara Publishing

  Copyright © 2000 Edward Marston

  The right of Edward Marston to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Originally published in 2000

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP reference is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781906288587

  Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom

  Ostara Publishing

  13 King Coel Road

  Lexden

  Colchester CO3 9AG

  www.ostarapublishing.co.uk

  To the Cooksons of Gloucestershire

  in memory of many happy times

  spent with them in their beautiful county

  over the past thirty years

  Before 1066 the City of Gloucester paid £36 at face value, 12 sesters of honey at that Borough’s measure, 36 dickers of iron, 100 drawn iron rods for nails for the King’s ships, and certain other petty customary dues in the hall and the King’s chamber.

  Now the City pays to the King £60 at 20 (pence) to the ora. The King has £20 from the mint.

  Domesday Book, Gloucestershire, 1086

  DOMESDAY WARWICKSHIRE

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  ‘Do you want to be beaten again?’ asked Brother Frewine quietly.

  ‘No, no!’ they cried in unison.

  ‘Well, that is what will happen if I report this to Brother Paul. You know what a dim view the Master of the Novices takes of any laxity or disobedience among his charges.’ The monk looked meaningfully at the two boys. ‘You also know how strong an arm Brother Paul has. When someone has once been flogged by him, they rarely wish to invite a second punishment. Yet the two of you seem to be almost imploring a further touch of his rod.’

  ‘That is not so, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm quickly. ‘Please do not report us to Brother Paul. Punish us yourself, if you must, but do not hand us over to our master. He is ruthless. My body ached for a fortnight after his last chastisement. It was vicious.’

  ‘Brother Paul was only doing his duty.’

  ‘We will do our duty from now on,’ promised Kenelm, turning to his companion. ‘Is that not so, Elaf?’

  ‘Yes!’ vowed the other boy.

  ‘Spare us, Brother Frewine.’

  ‘We did not mean to offend you,’ said Elaf.

  ‘It is God who was offended,’ chided the monk, wagging a finger. ‘You fell asleep during choir practice. It is an insult to the Almighty to doze off like that when you are singing His praises.’

  Kenelm shrugged. ‘We were tired.’

  ‘It will not happen again,’ added Elaf in an apologetic whisper.

  ‘I will make sure of that,’ warned Frewine. ‘If I see so much as a flicker of an eyelid from either of you again, I will drag you out of the church by the scruff of your unworthy necks and hand you over to Brother Paul without mercy. Is that understood?’

  The boys paled with fear and nodded meekly.

  Brother Frewine did not enjoy scolding them. He was the Precentor at the Abbey of St Peter and, like the novices, a Saxon who had been born and brought up in Gloucester. A kindly old man who inclined to leniency, he had neither the voice nor the manner for stern rebuke. The boys liked him enormously, but that did not stop them from mocking him in private. His round face featured two large, dark-rimmed eyes separated by a small, beak-like nose, giving him an unmistakable resemblance to an owl. The Precentor was well aware that his nickname among the novices was Brother Owl. He bore the title without complaint and liked to think that he had acquired some of the bird's fabled wisdom. While the muscular Brother Paul imposed his will by means of a birch rod, the owl could only inflict a sharp peck.

  ‘Are you truly penitent?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, Brother Frewine,’ they chorused.

  ‘This is not the first time you have earned my disfavour but it had better be the last. Remember the words of the great St Benedict himself. “Listen, my son, to the precepts of your master and hear them in your heart; receive with gladness the charge of a loving master and perform it fully so that by the hard road of obedience, you may return to him from whom you strayed along the easy paths of disobedience. ” Yes, it is a hard road you must follow. I know the temptations which beckon you on every side. But you must ignore them. You must learn obedience.’

  Brother Owl delivered a sermon on the virtues of the monastic life and the benefits of true humility. The two boys listened patiently, sensing that this was part of their punishment, and stifling the yawns that would have seen them delivered up to their fearful master. Both were finding life within the enclave too full of constraints. Kenelm was a high-spirited lad with a mischievous nature which had not been entirely curbed by the swing of a birch rod. Elaf, smaller and more tentative, was easily led by his friend, often against his better judgement.

  The three of them were standing outside the church in which choir practice had just been supervised by the Precentor. Proud of the high musical standards of the abbey, Brother Frewine worked hard to maintain them. Sleeping novices were not tolerated, especially when, as he suspected, their tiredness was due to the same kind of nocturnal antics which had brought them their earlier beating.

  ‘You are blessed,’ he told them softly. ‘This abbey is admired and respected throughout the whole realm. It was not always so. When Abbot Wilstan ruled this house, there were only two monks and eight novices here to do God's work. I should know. I was one of those two monks.’ He let out a wheeze as ancient memories flooded back. ‘Gloucester Abbey was a sorry place in those days. But now, under the inspired leadership of Abbot Serlo, we have a vigorous community with almost fifty monks to follow true Benedictine traditions. You are very fortunate to be part of this community. Show me that you appreciate your good fortune.’

  �
��We will, Brother Frewine,’ said Kenelm solemnly.

  ‘We know that we are blessed,’ murmured Elaf.

  ‘Remind yourselves of that while you fast for the rest of the day. That is the punishment I order. If your eyes cannot stay open, your bellies will remain unfed.’ He saw them wince. ‘Now go back into the church and kneel in prayer until you hear the bell for Sext. Give thanks to God that He has chosen you to do His work on this earth. Commit yourselves to Him and beg His forgiveness for your shameful misbehaviour during choir practice.’ They were about to move off when he detained them with a raised palm. ‘Do not forget Brother Nicholas in your prayers. He has been missing for two days now. Pray earnestly for his safe return.’

  The boys nodded and let themselves into the church. Frewine watched them go and smiled. They were twin portraits of obedience. He believed that his sage counsel had brought them both to heel.

  As soon as they were alone, however, Kenelm turned apostate.

  ‘I will not pray for his safe return,’ he said with vehemence.

  ‘But we must,’ said Elaf. ‘Even though we don't like him.’

  ‘Not me. I hate him.’

  ‘Kenelm!’

  ‘All the novices do. Pray for him? No, Elaf. I hope that Brother Nicholas never comes back to the abbey!’

  The monastic day continued at its steady, unhurried, unvarying pace. Vespers was sung in church, followed by a light supper of bread, baked on the premises, and fruit, picked from the abbey garden. The meal was washed down with a glass of ale.

  Kenelm and Elaf were absent from the table, however. Hungry by the time of Vespers, they were famished when the bell for Compline summoned the monks to the last service of the day. As they shuffled off to the dormitory with the other novices, they were feeling the pangs with great intensity. Elaf gritted his teeth and accepted the discomfort. It was far preferable to a severe flogging by Brother Paul. He lay in the darkness until fatigue finally got the better of him.

  But Elaf was not allowed to sleep for long. His arm was tugged.

  ‘Wake up!’ whispered Kenelm.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ said the other drowsily.

  ‘Come on, Elaf. Wake up.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I'm starving!’

  ‘Wait until breakfast.’

  ‘I can't hold out that long.’

  ‘You have to, Kenelm.’

  ‘No I don't. Neither do you. Follow me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To find something to eat.’

  ‘Kenelm!’

  ‘And you're coming with me.’

  Elaf's protests were brushed aside and he was more or less dragged from his bed. The other novices were fast asleep, tired out by the rigours of the day and wanting to enjoy as much slumber as they could before they were roused in the early hours of the next morning. Kenelm led his friend along the bare boards of the dormitory, moving furtively in the gloom, one hand on his empty stomach. Elaf followed with the greatest reluctance, wanting food as much as his companion but fearful of the consequences of trying to find it.

  They descended the day stairs and slipped out into the cloisters. Moonlight dappled the garth. Keeping to the shadows, they crept along the south walk side by side. Both of them started when an owl hooted. Kenelm was the first to recover. He gave a snigger.

  ‘Brother Frewine!’

  ‘He was good to us, Kenelm.’

  ‘Starving us to death? You call that being good?’

  ‘We could have been reported to Brother Paul.’

  ‘He'd have beaten us and starved us.’

  ‘Be thankful for Brother Frewine's kindness.’

  ‘The only thing I'll be thankful for is food and drink.’

  Kenelm led the way past the refectory to the kitchen. Its door was unlocked and he opened it as silently as he could. Elaf darted inside after his friend then put his back to the door as it was shut again. Their eyes needed a few moments to adjust to the darkness. Vague shapes began to emerge. Kenelm let out a chuckle but Elaf was having second thoughts about the enterprise.

  ‘What if we are caught?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘Nobody will catch us.’

  ‘But they'll see that the food has gone, Kenelm.’

  ‘Not if we choose carefully. Who is going to miss a few apples from the basket? Or some bread from the bakehouse?’

  ‘It is stealing.’

  ‘No, Elaf,’ reasoned the other. ‘It is taking what we should have enjoyed at supper. There is no theft involved. Come on.’

  ‘I'm not happy about this.’

  ‘Then stay hungry, you little coward!’

  Elaf was stung. ‘I'm no coward.’

  ‘Prove it!’

  ‘I've done that by taking the risk of coming here.’

  ‘You've been shaking like a leaf all the way,’ said Kenelm, growing in confidence. ‘But for me, you wouldn't have dreamt of taking what's rightfully yours. Out of my way.’

  He pushed Elaf aside and crossed to a basket of apples, picking two at random and sinking his teeth voraciously into each one alternately. His friend could not hold back. Hunger got the better of caution and he dived forward to grab his own share of the bounty. The two of them were soon gobbling food as fast as they could grab it and swilling it down with a generous swig of ale. It was a midnight feast that was all the more satisfying because of the daring circumstances in which it was being consumed. As his stomach filled and the ale made its impact, Kenelm's high spirits increased. He wanted more than a meal. It was time to shake off the strictures of the abbey and play.

  The first apple core hit Elaf on the back of the head.

  ‘Aouw!’ he cried, turning around. A second missile struck him full in the face. ‘Stop it, Kenelm!’

  ‘Make me stop,’ taunted the other.

  ‘I will!’

  Taking a last bite from the apple in his hand, Elaf hurled the core at his friend and secured a direct hit. Success emboldened him and he searched for more ammunition. Caution was now thrown to the wind. Laughing aloud, the two of them ran around the kitchen, hurling fruit, bread and anything else which came to hand. It was only when Elaf backed into a table that the game was brought to a sudden halt. The table overturned and its rows of wooden bowls scattered noisily over the stone floor. From the empty kitchen, the sound reverberated tenfold. Keen ears picked it up and within minutes a monk came to investigate. A lighted candle in his hand, he flung open the door of the kitchen.

  The two novices were hiding behind the fallen table.

  ‘What do we do now?’ whispered Elaf, trembling with fear.

  ‘Get out quickly.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This way.’

  Kenelm threw a last apple core to distract the monk then dashed through the door of the bakehouse with Elaf at his heels. They ran into the adjoining brewhouse with its cloying stink and dived behind a barrel to see if they were being followed. Pursuit was vengeful.

  ‘Where are you?’ roared a voice.

  Elaf quailed. ‘It's Brother Paul!’

  ‘Come here, you little devils!’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Kenelm under his breath.

  Pulling his friend in his wake, he groped his way to the back door and eased it open. The Master of the Novices saw their silhouettes and lumbered after them, tripping over a wooden pail on the way and cursing inwardly. Pain served to add extra speed and urgency to his pursuit. Hauling himself up, he charged after the miscreants and reached the cloister garth in time to see two shadowy figures vanishing swiftly in the direction of the abbey church.

  Elaf was now panic-stricken.

  ‘We're trapped!’ he said as they entered the church.

  ‘Not if we can find a hiding place.’

  ‘I can't see a thing!’

  ‘Keep quiet!’ ordered Kenelm. ‘Hold on to me!’

  Desperate to elude Brother Paul, he felt his way along the nave and tried to work out where they could best take refuge. The
ir master was thorough. Aided by his candle, he would search every nook and cranny until he found them. The repercussions were unthinkable. Elaf was now sobbing in despair and Kenelm shook him to instil some courage.

  ‘I know where we can go!’ he announced.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The one place he'll never think of looking.’

  Still holding Elaf, he headed towards the bell tower and groped around until his fingers met the steps of the ladder. He made his friend go up first then scrambled after him. The west door clanged open as their pursuer arrived in a tiny pool of light. Elaf hurried through the trap door, Kenelm after him. Clutching each other tightly, they hardly dared to breathe as they crouched on the wooden platform beside the huge iron bell. They ignored the stench of their refuge. Footsteps moved about below them. The candle flickered in all parts of the church as a systematic search was carried out. When the footsteps approached the base of the ladder, Elaf finally lost his nerve and jerked backwards. Something blocked his way and he fell across the obstruction, letting out an involuntary cry of alarm. It turned to a yell of sheer terror when he realised that he was lying across the stiff, stinking body of a man.

  Kenelm was as horrified as his friend. As the two of them tried to scramble out of their hiding place, they collided violently with the bell and sent its sonorous voice booming throughout the abbey to tell everyone the grim news.

  The missing Brother Nicholas had at last been found.

  Chapter One

  Ralph Delchard reined in his horse and held up an imperious hand to bring the cavalcade to a halt. Shading his eyes against the afternoon sun, he gazed into the distance. A rueful smile surfaced.

  ‘There it is,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Gloucester. That's where this whole sorry business started. That's where the King, in his wisdom or folly, had his deep speech with his Council and announced the Great Survey which has been the bane of my life for so long. Consider this: if the Conqueror had not spent Christmas at Gloucester, I might not have been forced to wear the skin off my arse riding from one end of the kingdom to the other.’