The Wildcats of Exeter Page 4

  ‘I share those memories,’ said Osbern. ‘When you leave Exeter, you will bear my reply to the good bishop of Salisbury. But tell me,’ he added as Hubert resumed his seat, ‘are you aware of the outrage which occurred on the eve of your arrival?’

  ‘Outrage?’ repeated Simon. ‘No, your Grace.’

  ‘A foul murder was committed not far from the city.’

  ‘This is grim news,’ said Hubert.

  ‘I fear that it may complicate your own work here, Canon Hubert,’ said the bishop with a shrug of resignation. ‘The unfortunate victim was Nicholas Picard. I believe that he was involved in a property dispute when the first commissioners came to Devon so I suspect that his name is not unknown to you.’

  ‘Indeed, it is not,’ confirmed Hubert. ‘His death makes a difficult case even more intractable. What was the motive for the murder?’

  ‘That has not yet been established.’

  ‘It may have some bearing on our investigation.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The lord Nicholas had substantial holdings, your Grace, many of which are contested. Now that he is no longer here to defend his title to the property, it may go elsewhere. Someone will gain handsomely by his death.’ His face puckered with concern. ‘The timing of his murder can surely be no coincidence. Hearing of our visit, someone may have been prompted to kill him. It is almost as if we instigated this crime.’

  ‘Dear God!’ cried Simon, studying his palms in horror. ‘What a disturbing thought that is! We have blood on our hands.’

  Ralph Delchard liked the town reeve from the moment he made his acquaintance. Saewin was polite without being servile and confident without being brash. The reeve would be in a crucial position during their stay, making the shire hall ready for their use and summoning all the witnesses whom they needed to examine. Ralph was pleased that he called at the castle to pay his respects and to collect his instructions. It showed diligence. Saewin was a big, broad-shouldered man with rugged features half hidden behind a beard. He wore the cap, tunic and crossEdward gartered trousers favoured by the Saxons but spoke French fluently and even with a certain pride.

  Their conversation took place outside the hall and they had to raise their voices above the clatter from within. Preparations for the banquet were becoming increasingly noisy.

  ‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ said the reeve.

  ‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘Obey the orders I have given you.’

  Saewin nodded. ‘I will detain you from the festivities no longer.’

  ‘It sounds more like a siege than a banquet. What are they doing in there?’ Ralph asked as a grating sound jarred on his ears. ‘Using a battering ram on the venison? Or are they knocking down a wall in order to bring in a fatted calf or two?’ Saewin smiled and made to withdraw, but the other plucked at his sleeve. ‘One moment, my friend. I wanted to ask you about this foul murder that has been committed.’

  ‘A sad business, my lord.’

  ‘And a highly inconvenient one. The lord Nicholas was to have been called before us to contest the ownership of several manors.’

  ‘I know,’ said Saewin. ‘It was at the forefront of his mind.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He mentioned it to me as he left my house.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday evening, my lord.’

  Ralph's interest quickened. ‘You saw Nicholas Picard yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, he came to discuss some business with me.’

  ‘Not connected with the property under dispute, I hope.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the reeve. ‘It was a separate matter, a small favour which I was able to grant. But he was looking forward to your visit so that he could attest his right to the land in question and put an end to the hostility which it has provoked.’

  ‘Hostility?’

  ‘There are other claimants, I understand.’

  ‘Two at least.’

  ‘I think you may find that there is another, my lord.’

  ‘You seem remarkably well informed.’

  ‘I only repeat what the lord Nicholas told me,’ said Saewin. ‘He was very bitter about it. This new claimant made no appearance before the first commissioners who visited the county. He only announced his intention to enter the fray a few days ago.’

  ‘Then you know more than we ourselves. Who is the fellow?’

  ‘The abbot of Tavistock.’

  ‘Saints preserve us!’ moaned Ralph. ‘Do I have to endure another pompous prelate? I will have to set Hubert on to him.’

  ‘Hubert, my lord?’

  ‘Ignore what I said. I was talking to myself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Let us come back to the lord Nicholas. At what time did he leave you?’

  ‘Not long before Compline, my lord,’ said the other. ‘He told me that he would ride straight home to his manor house. Unfortunately, he had to go through a wood on the way. That is where they attacked him.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘His killers.’

  ‘There was more than one of them?’

  ‘That would be my guess,’ ventured Saewin. ‘The lord Nicholas was a strong man, an experienced soldier with many campaigns behind him. I do not think that a solitary attacker could easily overpower him.’

  ‘Have you put that argument to Baldwin the Sheriff?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘What was his reply?’

  ‘That he would reserve his judgement until he had more evidence.’

  ‘A sensible course of action,’ said Ralph, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘So you were the last person to see the lord Nicholas in Exeter?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then who was?’

  ‘The guards at the North Gate.’

  ‘The exit by which he left the city? Who was the captain of the guard?’

  ‘A certain Walter Baderon.’

  ‘What does he remember?’

  ‘You will have to ask him that yourself, my lord. I know only his name and that of his master.’

  ‘His master?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the reeve. ‘The guard is provided by a succession of barons and other notables. The knights who were on duty last evening came from some distance away to stand vigil at the city gates.’

  ‘Whom do they serve?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘The abbot of Tavistock.’

  Overshadowed by an unsolved murder, the banquet that night was a strangely muted affair. The food was rich, the wine plentiful and the entertainment lively but a pall still hung over the event. It was not a large gathering. Some twenty or more guests had come to the castle to join the sheriff in welcoming the visitors. At the head of the table, Ralph and Golde sat either side of their host and his wife, Albreda, a gaunt beauty who did little beyond smiling her approval at everything her husband said. Even the smooth tongue of Hervey de Marigny was unable to entice more than a few words from the mouth of their hostess. Gervase Bret was also present and Canon Hubert had been lured from the cathedral by the promise of a feast, but Brother Simon felt unequal to the challenge of such a gathering and spent the time instead in restorative meditation.

  Gervase found himself sitting next to de Marigny. The latter was an agreeable companion and diverted his young colleague with endless stories of his military career.

  ‘Have you seen much of the city?’ said Gervase.

  ‘I have not yet had time to do so. A walk along the battlements is all I have been able to manage, though that taught me much and revived many memories. But,’ said de Marigny, ‘I have already seen what I hoped to find in Exeter.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘One of our tunnels, Gervase.’

  ‘Tunnels?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other with enthusiasm. ‘I noticed it when we entered through East Gate. When our siege failed to bring the city to its knees, the King ordered tunnels to be built under the walls. The intention was to weaken the foundations and – wit
h the aid of a fire in the tunnel – to bring about a collapse of the stonework. In the event, they were not needed. Exeter surrendered and work on the tunnels was abandoned. A sad moment for those who had laboured so hard to dig it,’ he observed. ‘They spilled blood and poured sweat while clawing their way through the earth.’

  ‘Was the tunnel you saw not filled in?’

  ‘Apparently not, Gervase. It did not undermine the walls so it is not a potential danger. Besides, there has been enough damage and decay within the city to repair. That is where all the efforts have been directed. That hole in the ground is exactly where it was almost twenty years ago.’

  ‘A bleak memento for Exonians.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why they have retained it,’ suggested de Marigny, sipping his wine. ‘To remind themselves of the fateful day when they finally accepted Norman overlordship. My lord sheriff would be able to tell us,’ he said, nodding towards the head of the table, ‘but I fear that he is not in the mood for conversation tonight.’

  Gervase looked across at their host. Baldwin de Moeles, sheriff of Devon and castellan of the fortress in Exeter, was clearly not enjoying the occasion. Chewing his meat disconsolately, he was gazing into space with an expression of severe disappointment. Ralph Delchard was trying to talk to him, but his words were going unheard. Angered by his inability to bring the murder investigation to a swift conclusion, Baldwin was caught up in bitter self-recrimination. It took a nudge from his wife to bring him out of his fierce reverie.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, rounding on her.

  ‘Our guests are being ignored,’ she whispered.

  ‘Guests?’ He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Why, so they are,’ he said with forced joviality. ‘What kind of host forgets such important visitors? More wine, ho! Let it flow more freely.’

  ‘It has flowed freely enough, my lord sheriff,’ said Ralph with a grin. ‘We have had both wine and ale in abundance.’

  Baldwin was startled. ‘Ale? Someone is drinking ale at my table?’

  ‘I am, my lord sheriff,’ admitted Golde. ‘From choice.’

  ‘You choose English ale over French wine? That is perverse.’

  ‘Not if you appreciate the quality of the ale.’

  ‘Golde is an expert on the subject,’ boasted Ralph. ‘I have tried to coax her into drinking wine but her fidelity to ale is impossible to breach. When we first met, she was in the trade. You will find it hard to believe, but this beautiful creature beside me was once the finest brewer in the city of Hereford.’

  Baldwin was amused enough to smile but his wife curled her lip in distaste. Albreda's only trade consisted of being wife to the sheriff. The smells and toil involved in brewing would be anathema to her. Golde was upset by her reaction and by the supercilious lift of her chin which followed. She sensed that Albreda would not be the most affable hostess during their stay at the castle.

  ‘It is a fine banquet!’ continued Ralph. ‘Thank you, my lord sheriff.’

  Baldwin scowled. ‘It would be a more lively occasion if the spectre of Nicholas Picard was not sitting at the table with us. I have spent a whole day on the trail of his killer without picking up a whiff of his scent.’

  ‘In what state was the body found?’

  ‘Too gruesome to discuss here, my lord.’

  ‘Where does the corpse lie?’

  ‘In the mortuary.’

  ‘Here at the castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I see it?’

  ‘Not if you wish to keep any food in your stomach,’ said Baldwin with a grimace. ‘I have looked on death a hundred times but never seen anything quite as hideous as this. Whoever murdered Nicholas Picard did so out of a hatred too deep to comprehend.’

  ‘I would still like to view the body, my lord sheriff.’

  ‘This murder need not concern you.’

  ‘But it does,’ argued Ralph. ‘We have already made the acquaintance of the lord Nicholas in the returns for this county. It is a name which recurs, often. He was due to appear before us. We are anxious to know why he was prevented from doing so – and by whom.’

  ‘So am I,’ grunted the other.

  ‘Where was the body found?’

  ‘In a wood not far from the city.’

  ‘Could someone take me to the place?’

  ‘I am the sheriff, my lord,’ said Baldwin with a proprietorial glint in his eye. ‘Let me deal with this crime. I will soon track down the villain and I will brook no interference. Look to your own affairs.’

  ‘I will,’ said Ralph, backing off at once. ‘I sought to help rather than to interfere. But you are right, my lord sheriff. My nose has no place in this inquiry. I will sniff elsewhere.’

  ‘Please do.’ He turned to Golde and forced another smile. ‘You hail from Hereford, I hear?’

  ‘That is so, my lord sheriff,’ she said.

  ‘Then you must meet Bishop Osbern.’

  ‘It would be an honour to do so.’

  ‘It is, it is, I assure you,’ said Canon Hubert, seizing a chance to get into the conversation. ‘We spent an hour with the bishop ourselves. It is a privilege to be in the company of such an exalted being.’

  ‘His brother, William FitzOsbern, was earl of Hereford,’ said Baldwin.

  Golde smiled. ‘I remember him well as a just and upright man.’

  ‘Osbern has spoken of happy visits to the city. He will be interested to hear that we have a guest from Hereford.’

  ‘From Hereford by way of Hampshire,’ Ralph corrected him. ‘I tempted her away from her native city to live with me. Not that we have spent much time on my estate. But Golde and I are together and that is the main thing.’

  She squeezed his hand under the table and caught another unfriendly glance from Albreda. It was proving to be an uncomfortable feast. Their host was distracted and his wife either meek or disdainful. Golde began to question her wisdom in travelling with the commissioners. Exeter Castle looked to be a cold and friendless establishment.

  Joscelin the Steward tried to introduce some vitality into the scene. Watching from the edge of the hall, he saw with dismay the dull faces and lacklustre gestures of the guests. The long silences which fell on them were all too eloquent. Since the tumblers, the musicians and the conjurer had failed to hold the interest of the assembly, Joscelin turned to a novel form of entertainment. Clapping his hands to attract the attention of the whole room, he gave a signal to the musicians who began to play their instruments with more gusto than they had hitherto shown. A door opened and four dancers came whirling into view, spinning nimbly on their toes and drawing a momentary applause for their colourful attire and spirited performance.

  Three of the dancers were men, but it was the sole woman who caught the eye. Short and plump, she was yet remarkably lithe and led her partners in a merry jig up and down the hall. She had long fair hair that hung down her back and a thick veil which hid the lower half of her face. While the three male dancers had great vigour, she had both grace and effervescence, eluding them as they tried in turn to grab at her and jumping up on to the table at one point before stealing a cup of wine and leaping high into the air.

  The listless atmosphere was completely dispelled. Within a short space of time, the four dancers had reminded the guests that they were there to enjoy themselves and even enticed the sheriff into pounding on the table in appreciation. When the music reached its height, the three men converged on the woman and formed such a close ring around her that she disappeared from sight. As the applause rang out, the men sprang suddenly apart, but there was no sign of the woman. Her wig, dress and veil had been shed in an instant to reveal a weird creature with a bulbous head, a bushy beard and a mischievous grin.

  Cries of astonishment went up as the guests realised how cunningly they had been fooled. The woman who led the dancing with such verve and femininity was none other than Berold the Jester. He dropped a curtsey to his audience then held his arms wide in acknowledgement of the gale of l
aughter which ensued. Even his master was sharing in the general hilarity. Berold had banished all thought of Nicholas Picard.

  Golde stood open-mouthed in amazement and clapped her hands.

  ‘Is he really a man?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Ralph. ‘He is a magician.’

  Catherine sat in her accustomed position with the tapestry across her knees. What had once been an art in which she excelled had now become a chore which did not bring any pleasure. Her needle was plied without any sense of purpose and her mind was drifting. It was almost twenty-four hours since they brought news of her husband's death on the road home from Exeter and she was only just beginning to feel the full impact. Unable to grieve for a man she never truly loved, she instead mourned the wasted years she had spent as the wife of Nicholas Picard.

  As she worked on, she grew careless and the needle jabbed her thumb. She sat up with a sharp intake of breath and sucked the blood which oozed from the tiny wound. Her companion, an old servant who had been with her since she first married, looked up from her seat in alarm.

  ‘Are you hurt, my lady?’

  ‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘It was only a prick.’

  ‘You are too tired to work at that tapestry.’

  ‘I must have something to do.’

  ‘Would you like me to sew it for you, my lady?’

  ‘No,’ said her mistress firmly. ‘It is mine and only mine. Nobody else must ever touch it. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You asked me to sit with you.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said the other softly. ‘You felt the need for company.’

  ‘Well, I no longer do so,’ announced Catherine in a tone which brought the servant instantly to her feet. ‘You may go and attend to your duties.’

  ‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then I will leave you here alone.’

  After a moment's hesitation, the servant headed for the door, her face etched with concern. A household which was known for its calm was suddenly in turmoil. Anxious for her mistress, the woman was also fearful about her own future. When she opened the door to quit the room, she was stopped by a sudden call.