The Foxes of Warwick

  Table of 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

  Chapter Thirteen

  Domesday Books

  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 Foxes of Warwick Edward Marston

  Ostara Publishing

  Copyright © 1999 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 1999

  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 9781906288570

  Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom Ostara Publishing 13 King Coel Road

  Lexden

  Colchester CO3 9AG

  www.ostarapublishing.co.uk

  To old friends in Warwickshire where I lived for so many happy years Fortunatus est ille deos qui novit agrestis All were ready to conspire together to recover their former liberty, and bind themselves by weighty oaths against the Normans.

  In the regions north of the Humber violent disturbances broke out … To meet the danger the King rode to all the remote parts of his kingdom and fortified strategic sites against enemy attacks.

  For the fortifications called castles by the Normans were scarcely known in the English provinces, and so the English – in spite of their courage and love of fighting – could put up only a weak resistance to their enemies. The King built a castle at Warwick and gave it into the keeping of Henry, son of Roger of Beaumont …

  Orderic Vitalis

  DOMESDAY WARWICKSHIRE

  The Foxes of Warwick

  Prologue

  ‘A stag in a churchyard?’ he said incredulously. ‘This is some jest.’

  ‘No jest, I do assure you.’

  ‘Come, Henry. We are no fools. Do not vex our intelligence.’

  ‘I was there, I tell you. I saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘A runaway stag taking Communion in church?’

  ‘It sought sanctuary, that is all. It knew where to go. We hunted it for a mile or two through the forest until it gave us the slip.

  When the hounds eventually found it again, there it was.’

  ‘On its knees in front of the altar!’ mocked the other.

  ‘In the churchyard, Arnaud. Resting in the shade.’

  ‘And eating a bunch of grapes, I’ll wager!’

  Arnaud Bolbec gave a sceptical laugh but the rest of the hunting party were reserving their judgement until they heard more details. They were the guests of Henry Beaumont, constable of Warwick Castle, and they had enjoyed excellent sport with their host. Deer were plentiful and their arrows had brought down a dozen or more. The carcasses were now tied across the backs of the packhorses, waiting to be taken back to the castle kitchens.

  Prime venison would be served to them in due course and they would eat it with the supreme satisfaction of men who had helped to provide the game.

  The vigorous exercise warmed them up on a cold morning. As they now rested in a clearing, they were glad of the chill breeze which plucked at them. Steam rose from the horses. Blood dripped from the deer. The riders were in the mood for an anecdote from their host before they rode back to Warwick with their kill. Henry Beaumont could be cunning and devious, as his enemies had discovered, and, as they had also learned, quite ruthless, but he was not given to idle boasting. Most of the hunting party wanted to believe his story. Arnaud Bolbec, a fat, fractious, noisy man with freckled cheeks, was the only apostate.

  ‘I refuse to accept a word of it!’ he said with a derisive chuckle.

  ‘It is true,’ affirmed Henry. ‘Let Richard here bear witness.’

  Bolbec was scornful. ‘The fellow would not dare to disagree with his lord and master,’ he said. ‘If you told us you had seen a herd of unicorns celebrating Mass, he’d vouch for you without hesitation. Besides, what value can we place on the word of a mere huntsman?’

  Richard the Hunter bristled and fought to control his anger.

  ‘My word has never been questioned before, my lord,’ he said firmly. ‘I would take my Bible oath that what you have heard about that stag is true. Yes, and the priest himself will say the same. He saw the miracle.’

  ‘Drunk on his Communion wine, no doubt!’ said Bolbec.

  ‘Sober as the rest of us,’ insisted the huntsman.

  Richard was a stocky man of middle years, with greying curls tumbling out from beneath his cap. His broken nose, collected during a childhood fall from his pony, gave him a slightly menacing appearance. A solid man in every sense, he took a pride in his work, served his master faithfully and was known for his simple integrity. To have his word doubted by a quarrelsome lord was very irksome. His hounds closed instinctively around him, barking in protest and offering their testimony to his honesty. They were a mixed pack, some bred for speed, others for strength and ferocity so that they could start game from their lairs, but most for their skill in following a scent. Richard silenced them with a command then moved his horse to the edge of the clearing.

  Henry Beaumont gave him an appeasing wave before turning to face his guests. A tall, elegant figure, he had a military straightness of back and firmness of chin. He was a fine huntsman and they had all marvelled at the way he had brought down the largest stag with his arrow, then dispatched it with one decisive thrust of his lance. Henry did not need to invent wild stories in order to gain admiration. It was his by right. There was a consummate ease about all of his accomplishments.

  ‘Thus it was, friends,’ he said with a patient smile. ‘Judge for yourselves whether it be fact or fancy. Last summer, when the forest was in full leaf, I had a day’s hunting with my guests and we slew enough deer to feed a small army. But one stag eluded me, a big, bold creature with antlers the size of a small tree. Was that not so, Richard?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ corroborated the huntsman.

  ‘With a target so large, I thought I could not fail to hit him but I could never get close enough to loose a shaft. The stag knew the forest far better than we. It led us here and there, dodging and weaving until we lost sight of it, then outrunning the hounds.

  We suddenly found ourselves at the very edge of the forest with no sign of our quarry. Below us was a long slope leading down to a village on the margin of the river. We were about to turn back when one of the hounds picke
d up a scent and went bounding off down the slope. Is that how you remember it, Richard?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. One went and the whole pack followed.’

  ‘And so did we,’ continued Henry. ‘Down the slope in a cavalry charge until we reached the church and reined in our mounts.

  There we saw it, as large as life, resting calmly on the grass among the gravestones and seeming to say to us, “Noli me tangere.”

  Richard called off the hounds and we lowered our weapons. The stag was on consecrated ground. It was out of our reach. Some said it had run itself to exhaustion and stumbled in there by mistake but I saw intelligence at work in its choice of refuge. All that we could do was to leave it there and ride off.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Bolbec with a sneer. ‘Did it ascend to heaven on a white cloud amid a choir of angels?’

  ‘No, Arnaud,’ said the other. ‘It violated its right of sanctuary.

  When we moved off, some rogue from the village seized his chance to turn poacher and eat well for a change. Grabbing a stake, he rushed into the churchyard to attack the stag with it but only served to provoke the animal’s rage. It turned on the man and gored him to death before quitting its resting place and heading back to the forest. We gave chase at once, friends, but the nature of the hunt had changed. We were no longer after more venison for the table. Our quarry was a homicide, a murderer who had both killed a man and committed sacrilege at the same time. We cut it down without mercy then left it where it lay, unfit to be eaten, unworthy to be buried. A sad end for a noble beast but it could not be avoided. When Richard returned to that spot a month later, there was little beyond the antlers to mark the place of execution.’

  He spoke with such measured solemnity that even Bolbec was held. A stillness fell on the party, broken only by the twitter of birds and the jingle of harnesses as the horses shifted their feet in the grass. One of the hounds then shattered the silence with a loud yelp. Its ears went up, its nose twitched and it came to life in the most dramatic way, darting off between the legs of Richard’s mount and vanishing into the undergrowth. Still full of life and sensing a new quarry, the rest of the pack were close behind, ignoring the huntsman’s call in the excitement of the chase and setting up their baying requiem. Henry turned to Richard the Hunter.

  ‘Deer or wild boar?’

  ‘Neither, my lord. A fox.’

  He had caught only a glimpse of a distant red blur through the trees but it had been enough to identify the quarry. Henry responded at once, wheeling his horse around before letting it feel his spurs and throwing an invitation over his shoulder.

  ‘Those with breath enough for more sport – follow me!’

  Richard was already goading his own horse into action and a few of the others followed him but the rest were content with their morning’s work and chose to amble back in the direction of the castle. Their host, meanwhile, led the chase through a stand of elms and oaks before coming out into open ground and getting his first sight of their prey. Fleet of foot and with its tail held up in a valedictory wave, the fox flew across the frosted grass before disappearing into a copse. The hounds raced after it with the riders galloping at their heels.

  Henry Beaumont rarely took part in a foxhunt. Deer and wild boar were the protected species of the forest, reserved for his sport and table. It was important to keep down animals who might be harmful to deer, and rights of warren were granted for the hunting of foxes, hares and wildcats. Occasional licences were also given for the killing of badgers and squirrels. Henry would not normally deign to bother with vermin himself but a fox was different. Its guile presented a huntsman with a challenge; it was more easily caught with nets or traps than by pursuit. When the hounds plunged into the copse, he went after them with Richard close behind and the others trailing.

  Leaving the copse, the fox tore across a field then vanished once more into the trees. The hounds kept up their clamour but were already split by disagreement, entering the trees and fanning out as separate groups chose their own lines. As the woodland thickened, the scent seemed to weaken, which made them at once more excited and frustrated. Richard overhauled his master and followed the hounds on whom he could most rely, ignoring the branches which jabbed angrily at him, and ducking under a low bough which would have decapitated him. Only yards behind, Henry picked his own way through the looming trunks and the spiky bushes. He was so exhilarated that he let out a cry of pleasure and urged his mount on.

  The fox was a wily adversary. After leading them into the densest part of the forest, it struck off to the right in a wide and confusing circle. The confident baying of the hounds was now a petulant yelp and their headlong rush slowed to a cautious lope.

  When the riders caught them up in a clearing, they had temporarily abandoned the chase and were sniffing the ground balefully. Richard the Hunter and Henry Beaumont reined in their horses and they were soon joined by the others. It seemed as if their quarry had outwitted them until hounds who had earlier peeled off in another direction suddenly set up a chorus of triumph. The dogs in the clearing immediately bounded off to find them.

  ‘They have him!’ said Henry with a grin.

  ‘I am not so sure,’ said Richard, listening to their tumult with a practised ear. ‘We may be misled.’

  ‘Follow me!’

  Henry rode off again, guided by the noise as he threaded his way through the trees, anxious to get to the fox before the hounds tore it to shreds. The other men were towed along in his wake.

  They had no more than fifty yards to ride before they came to a pathway through the forest, running alongside a dry ditch. It was in the ditch that the hounds were congregating, more out of curiosity than eagerness to sink their teeth into any quarry. On a command from the huntsman, the pack fell quiet and confined themselves to looking and sniffing. Henry dismounted and ran to the ditch with his lance at the ready but it was not needed.

  Instead of seeing a dying fox, he was staring down at the corpse of a man, covered by dead leaves until the hounds had scattered them in the course of their snuffling researches.

  Richard joined his master to view the body. The dead man was lying on his back at an unnatural angle, his mouth agape, his tongue protruding, his eyes still filled with horror at the manner of his death. Though his face was badly bruised, they both recognised him at once.

  ‘Martin Reynard!’ said the huntsman.

  Henry kneeled beside the body to examine it, then stood again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said ruefully. ‘Martin Reynard. Way beyond our help, alas. It seems that we have lost one fox and found another.’

  Chapter One

  From the moment they set out from Winchester, he’d been in a rebellious mood. Two days in the saddle did not improve Ralph Delchard’s temper nor dispel his sense of persecution. On their third departure at dawn, he voiced his displeasure once more to Gervase Bret, who rode alongside him, body wrapped up against the biting cold and mind still trying to bring itself fully awake.

  ‘I am too old for this!’ moaned Ralph.

  ‘Age brings wisdom.’

  ‘If I had any wisdom, Gervase, I would have found a way to wriggle out of this assignment. I am too old and too tired to go riding across three counties in wintertime. Surely I have earned a rest by now? I should be sitting at home beside a roaring fire, enjoying the fruits of my hard work, not having my arse frozen off in deepest Warwickshire.’

  ‘Oxfordshire.’

  ‘Have we not crossed the border yet?’

  ‘No, Ralph. We have to get beyond Banbury first.’

  ‘Well, wherever we are, it is miserably cold. My blood has congealed, my body is numb, my pizzle is an icicle of despair.’ He gave an elaborate shiver. ‘Why is the King putting me through this ordeal?’

  ‘Because of your experience.’

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gervase. ‘You have proved your worth time and again.

  That is why the King sought you out. Whom is he to trust as
a royal commissioner? Some untried newcomer who proceeds by trial and error, or a veteran like Ralph Delchard with immense experience?’

  ‘You are starting to sound like William himself.’

  ‘It is an honour to be taken into royal service.’

  ‘There is no honour in going abroad in this foul weather. It is a punishment inflicted upon us by a malign king. Wait until we are caught in a blizzard, as assuredly we will be sooner or later,’ he said, scanning the thick clouds with a wary eye. ‘Tell me then that it is an honour. You should be as angry as I am, Gervase.

  We are both victims of the royal whim here. How can you remain so calm about it?’

  ‘I call my philosophy to my aid.’

  ‘And what does that do?’

  ‘Provide an inner warmth.’

  ‘I prefer to find that in the marital bed.’

  Gervase suppressed a sigh. He was as reluctant as his friend to set out once more from Winchester but he saw no virtue in protest. A royal command had to be obeyed even if it meant leaving a young wife at home with only fond memories of their fleeting connubial bliss to sustain her through his absence. Ralph might complain but his own spouse, Golde, was riding loyally behind him and would be able to offer comfort and conversation along the way. Gervase had no such solace. The burden of separation was heavy. He was less concerned for himself, however, than he was for his beloved Alys, shorn of her husband for the first time and wondering where he might be and what dangers he might encounter.

  Ralph glanced across at him and seemed to read his thoughts.

  ‘Are you missing Alys?’

  ‘Painfully.’

  ‘Why did you not bring her with us, Gervase?’

  ‘There was no question of that.’

  ‘She would have refused to come?’

  ‘I was not prepared to ask her,’ said Gervase. ‘Apart from the fact that she does not have a robust constitution and would be taxed by the rigours of the journey, I had to consider my own position. Much as I love her, I have to confess that Alys would have been a distraction.’

  ‘Rightly so.’

  ‘I do not follow.’