The Lions of the North d-4 Read online

  The Lions of the North

  ( Domesday - 4 )

  Edward Marston

  Edward Marston

  The Lions of the North

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.

  1 PETER 5:8

  PROLOGUE

  The two men were courting danger. They knew that. Throughout all their discussions, it had been an invisible presence at their shoulders but it remained silent when their brave words instilled a heady confidence. Strength of purpose brought them to the city and enabled them to conduct their reconnaisance with care and precision.

  Bright sunshine blessed their enterprise. The swirling crowds were an ideal cover for them. It all went as planned.

  Darkness changed everything. The populous streets slowly emptied.

  The teeming wharves became deserted. The boisterous taverns closed for the night. The last of the day’s cacophony gradually died away.

  Even the competing smells of the city seemed to lose their pungency.

  York was no longer the bustling marketplace that had opened its gates to them at first light with a smile of welcome. A chill wind began to blow. They found themselves locked inside a cold and hostile prison.

  Danger could now be seen and heard on every side. It conjured fearsome shapes out of the gloom and assaulted their ears with strange and unexpected cries. Danger could also be felt, tingling in their blood, pressing in upon them with gentle but persistent force, weighing down their bodies, fettering their ankles. Their courage was put to the test.

  It was the older of them whose resolve began to weaken.

  “We need more men,” he said.

  “No,” said his companion. “Two may succeed where twenty would surely fail.”

  “Twenty? Ten times that number could not storm the castle.”

  “We are not trying to storm it. We come but to look.”

  “The walls are too high to scale.”

  “That is why we brought the rope.”

  “The castle has a garrison. There will be guards.”

  “Then we must elude them.”

  “What if they catch us?”

  “They will not,” insisted the other, “if we stay alert and act boldly.”

  He grabbed his friend’s arm. “What ails you, man? Have you so soon lost your nerve? I have not come all this way to turn back now with the task undone. Think how many depend on us. I’ll go alone if the dark brings out your cowardice.”

  “I am no coward!” retorted the other, stung by the charge. “It was my idea to come here in the first place and I stand by that. I merely counsel caution.”

  “Say no more. Let’s about it.”

  The younger man was nineteen, tall, sturdy and lithe. His beard and hair were bleached by the sun, his face bronzed and weathered.

  Five years older, his companion was shorter and more compact. Though he could move swiftly, he did so with a pronounced limp, executing a curious dance on his toes. His beard was fuller and already salted with grey. Both of them wore tunics and gartered trousers. Each had a dagger concealed in his belt.

  As they flitted through the streets, they felt the first drops of rain.

  They were on the west bank of the Ouse, the river that flowed through the heart of York before greeting its tributary, the Foss, with a liquid kiss beyond the city walls. When they came round the angle of a house, they halted in their tracks. Directly ahead of them, rising into the night sky like a small mountain, was the castle they had so meticulously studied during daylight hours. It looked indomitable. Its sheer bulk taunted them.

  Rain now began to fall in earnest but the younger man ignored it.

  His eyes traced the outline of the stronghold with the calculating ardour of a lover appraising his mistress before their first embrace.

  “There it is!” he whispered.

  “If only we knew what is inside.”

  “We do know.”

  “We may only be guessing.”

  “We know,” affirmed the other. “My father helped to build this place.

  He described it to me in great detail.”

  “It has altered since then.”

  “Not much. They lavished their time and money on that.”

  He pointed across the river to an even bigger castle, which was climbing out of the shadows. The two citadels were monuments to military might, twin sentinels that protected York from attack without while discouraging any thoughts of insurrection within.

  “Two Norman castles,” said the older man ruefully. “York is doubly cursed. I would love to torch them both.”

  “Think only of one tonight. This is our target.”

  “I am ready.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said the other, mastering his apprehension.

  “I need a strong man at my side, not a fearful one.”

  “I am with you.”

  “That heartens me.”

  They embraced in a brief display of friendship, then steeled themselves for the task ahead. The younger man furtively led the way through the dripping darkness.

  The castle loomed malevolently above them. Fronted by a deep ditch, its walls were high earthen banks surmounted by a wooden palisade.

  Night painted out the gaudy colours in which the timberwork had been daubed. As they slithered down the bank, they found the ditch filled with accumulated refuse. One man swore under his breath as his foot slipped on human excrement, the other was startled when he trod on the putrefying body of a dead dog. They held their breath and scrambled up the bank towards the palisade.

  The young man uncoiled the rope he had been carrying over his shoulder. It already had a loop tied in the end. He swung it a few times before tossing it high above him. It bounced harmlessly off the wood and caught his companion a smarting blow across the face as it came snaking back down. The rope was pulled in, partially coiled, then swung in the air before being hurled upwards again. The aim was true this time. The loop settled over one of the upright timbers that had been sharpened to a spike.

  They waited for a few minutes to make sure that the thud of the rope had not aroused any of the guards on the rampart. Satisfied that they were unobserved, the younger man tested the rope before shinning up it with speed and agility. When he reached the top, he peered over the palisade to take inventory of the manpower. They were in luck. Only a handful of sentries had been posted on the walls and they were too busy complaining to each other about the wet weather to notice the lone figure who now rolled over the palisade and crouched on the rampart.

  A tug on the rope signalled a second ascent. The man with the limp had strong arms and he was soon hauling himself over the palisade to kneel beside his accomplice. Torches flickered in the courtyard below to illumine a large oval area dotted with wooden buildings. Raucous laughter identified the guardhouse, and the stables were also easy to locate. Barracks and storerooms lay under the wall. Sheep and cattle were kept in separate open pens. A low fire still burned in the armourer’s forge.

  The keep was at the far end of the bailey. Constructed of solid oak and sitting atop a huge mound, it was encircled by a ditch, which was in turn defended by a palisade of sharpened stakes. The soaring tower looked impregnable.

  “We’ll never get in there,” hissed the older man.

  “We must.”

  “But how? ”

  “Watch me.”

  He retrieved the rope and coiled it up again. The rain thickened.

  Though it hindered their movement and obscured their vision, it also came to their aid. Grumbling guards shuffled away to take cover. The intruders were able to scurry along the rampart without fear of b
eing seen. When they were close to the keep, they sat hunched against the palisade while they took their bearings. A strange odour drifted into their nostrils.

  “What’s that foul smell?” said the younger man.

  “Normans.”

  “I’ve never known such a stench.” He surveyed the keep for a full minute. “I’ll go first. Wait until I’m inside before you leave the rampart.”

  “God go with you!”

  “Amen!”

  He checked to see that nobody was looking, then hurried down the wooden steps into the courtyard. Moving towards the rear of the keep, he chose a part of the palisade that was largely obscured from the bailey. It was lower than the wall they had already scaled and his rope found its target on his first throw. Within a second, he was up and over the initial line of defence.

  The older man was about to follow when a great roar went up from beyond the palisade. The noise was so loud and so savage that it seemed to fill the whole castle. His friend cried out in terror but his voice was drowned beneath a second blood-curdling roar. Guards came running, lights appeared at windows in the keep, animals in the courtyard were restive. Wanting to rescue his companion, the figure on the rampart was frozen by fear.

  He caught one last glimpse of his friend. The younger man clambered up the inside of the palisade and tried to climb over it but something caught him from behind with a triumphant roar and began to drag him back down. As the courtyard filled with soldiers, the older man looked to his own safety. His accomplice was beyond salvation.

  Impaled on the sharp stakes, he was howling in agony as unseen tormentors attacked him from below.

  The man on the rampart took to his heels. With the roaring still in his ears, he flung himself unceremoniously over the palisade and dropped through the darkness into the filth of the ditch. Bruised by the fall, he yet had enough strength to drag himself to his feet and limp off in the direction of the river. His mind was ablaze and he was further impeded by the weight of the terrible news that he bore.

  The lions of York were still dining noisily behind him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Who is he?” demanded Canon Hubert with frank disdain.

  “Tanchelm of Ghent,” said Gervase.

  “I know his name and his country of origin. But what of his character, his rank, his fitness for this important work? In short, what manner of man is this Tanchelm of Ghent and why is he being allowed to interfere in our affairs?”

  “He is coming to aid and to advise us, Canon Hubert.”

  “We need no aid,” argued the other vehemently. “We require no advice.

  Did we not discharge our duties ably enough in the Savernake Forest?

  Were we not decisive in our handling of irregularities in the Blackwater Estuary? Have we not earned praise for our success in Archenfield?”

  “We have, indeed.”

  “All that was achieved on our own, Gervase.”

  “True enough.”

  “Then answer me this. If we can manage perfectly well without him in Wiltshire, in Essex and in Herefordshire, why are we saddled with Tanchelm of Ghent when we ride to that heathen wasteland known as Yorkshire?”

  “It is the King’s express wish.”

  “We do not want another commissioner.”

  “Royal command overrides our own inclinations.”

  Canon Hubert sulked in silence. He was sitting astride his donkey close to the half-built cathedral up on the hill. It was shortly after dawn and the city of Lincoln was already bursting into life below them.

  Gervase Bret, also mounted, hid his amusement behind an expression of studied neutrality. The young Chancery clerk remembered only too well how long and how vociferously Hubert had resisted the summons to take up his present role, contending, with righteous indignation, that he had been called to serve God in Winchester rather than to oblige the Conqueror by journeying to inhospitable corners of his kingdom. Yet this same reluctant canon was now boasting about their earlier triumphs and strongly resisting the addition of a new member to their commission. Canon Hubert did not want to share any of their glory with a stranger.

  He came out of his silence to repeat his question.

  “Who is Tanchelm of Ghent?”

  “I do not know,” admitted Gervase. “All I can tell you is that he has substantial holdings in this county.”

  “Then why does he not stay to look after them instead of obstructing our deliberations?”

  “He has been sent to assist us, Canon Hubert.”

  “Unnecessarily.”

  “I disagree. We have a large number of cases to examine, some of them so tangled that we may be grateful for an extra pair of hands to help to unravel them. This is by far our most onerous assignment. We must look to spend at least a fortnight in the North Riding alone.”

  Hubert emitted a groan of despair and rolled his eyes towards heaven in supplication. The adipose canon was not enjoying the journey to Yorkshire. He was a poor traveller at the best of times and they had been on the road for over a week already. Lincoln seemed like a beacon of hope after the interminable ride from Winchester and he expected to be welcomed and soothed by Bishop Remigius himself. Instead, since the bishop was absent from the city, Hubert had spent the night at the home of one of the secular canons. Having arrived in Lincoln too late to see anything of the place, they were now leaving too early to permit any but the most cursory exploration. It was galling.

  There was another reason for Hubert’s deep frustration. It came out through the gate of the nearby castle. Ralph Delchard rode at the head of a troop of fifteen men-at-arms from his personal retinue but it was not the sight of the Norman lord that offended Hubert. He was accustomed to the mocking joviality of his fellow commissioner by now.

  What he could not get used to-still less, approve of-was the presence at Ralph’s side of an attractive and gracious woman.

  Golde had drifted into their lives during their stay in Hereford and she would assuredly have drifted out again if circumstance had not thrown her and Ralph Delchard together. She was now his constant companion. Gervase was very fond of her but Hubert regarded the Saxon woman as an irritating encumbrance and a symbol of moral decay.

  “Good morrow!” called Ralph.

  Golde offered a warm smile by way of greeting.

  Gervase gave them a cheery wave but Hubert merely grunted in acknowledgement. Brother Simon, faithful scribe to the commission, could not even manage a grunt. He lurked in the shadows a short distance away and watched Golde with mute disquiet. Women of all kinds unsettled him and he had taken the cowl partly as a means of isolating himself from the terror of their tenderness. What scandalised him was that Golde had such a close and candid relationship with a man to whom she was not married. In Simon’s codex, she was anathema.

  He was being forced to travel alongside someone who deserved excommunication.

  “Where is our new colleague?” asked Ralph, reining in his horse.

  “He should have been here at first light.”

  “Let us ride on without him,” urged Hubert.

  “We have orders to wait.”

  “Our embassy will brook no delay.”

  “He will not be long,” said Gervase. “Tanchelm dwells nearby. And it would be foolish to continue without the additional escort that he will surely bring.”

  “Wise words,” agreed Ralph. “The road to York is a long one and many bands of outlaws haunt it in search of easy prey. We will need all the swords that we can muster in order to ensure our safe passage.”

  He beamed at Golde. “And to guarantee the lady complete protection.”

  “I fear nothing when I am at your side, my lord,” she said softly. A spluttering noise drew her attention to the figure in the shadows. “I did not see you there, Brother Simon. Good day to you!”

  To be in Golde’s company was ordeal enough for him: To be addressed directly by her was like a sudden descent into purgatory with no intervening stops. Brother Simon shut his eyes tigh
t, crossed himself and began to pray vigorously. Ralph came across to tease him but the clatter of hooves diverted his attention away from the Benedictine monk.

  Clad in helm and hauberk, with his cloak trailing behind him in the wind, a tall, stately man in his forties was cantering up the hill on his destrier. At his back, riding in formation, were a dozen soldiers with an array of weapons. Sumpter-horses were pulled along behind the cavalcade, which scattered pedestrians in the narrow street. When they reached the waiting commissioners, the newcomers came to a halt and drew up in a semicircle. Their leader nudged his mount forward and bestowed a disarming smile upon them.

  “Welcome to Lincoln!” he said affably. “I am Tanchelm of Ghent.”

  Aubrey Maminot was a genial man of middle years with an almost boyish eagerness about him. Time had silvered his hair and etched lines into his face but it had stolen none of his restless energy. As he discussed preparations with his steward, he paced up and down the hall at the castle, his gown billowing and his heels clacking on the oaken boards.

  “Venison served with frumenty,” he decided.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Or maybe lamb would be more to their taste.”

  “We will have both, my lord. With a dozen other dishes beside them.”

  “Spiced rabbit must be an offer as well,” said Aubrey. “I want my guests to be well fed during their stay.”

  “When will they arrive?”

  “In a day or two at most.”

  “And how many of them will be staying at the castle?”

  “That remains to be seen, Bodin. Ralph Delchard’s letter spoke of five or six but they will bring a sizeable escort as well. I want them to have all the comforts of the castle. Ralph is an old friend of mine and deserves the best that we may offer here in York.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “They will banquet in here on their first evening.”

  “Everything will be put in readiness.”

  Bodin was a dark and slightly sinister individual but Aubrey had always found him a most efficient steward of his household. Quiet, watchful and discreet, Bodin had a quick mind that enabled him to adapt to the ever-changing whims of the castellan. If five or fifty guests arrived at the gate of the castle, he would be able to accommodate them.