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

  ‘My master is sorry if his passion spills over but he has been most grievously treated. He looks to you for retribution. Now,’ he said, gazing at each of them in turn, ‘you have the charter before you. We have a dozen witnesses who will vouch for the fact that the land in question was once – and still should be – the property of Strang the Dane. How else can we convince you of the strength of our claim?’

  Though he took his duties very seriously, Brother Frewine carried them lightly. Since he was in charge of the church services, the Precentor was the most important of the obedientiaries. It fell to him to arrange the daily services, to take charge of the abbey's music, to teach the monks how to sing, to decide the readings in church and to provide materials for the repair of books from the choir and the cloister. Responsibilities which would have weighed heavily on a lesser man were discharged with ease by a man whose philosophical calm was the envy of his holy brothers.

  ‘Are the funeral arrangements complete, Brother Frewine?’

  ‘Yes, Father Abbot.’

  ‘I will not pretend that I am looking forward to the service.’

  ‘No more am I. The nature of Brother Nicholas's death makes it a peculiarly sad occasion. But I am sure,’ he said with gentle sincerity, ‘that you will find exactly the right words of consolation.’

  ‘I hope so, Brother Frewine.’

  ‘You have a gift, Father Abbot.’

  ‘I pray to God that it will not desert me now.’

  They were in the abbot's lodging and, in the course of a busy morning, the Precentor somehow found the time to visit Serlo with a request. When they had discussed the details of the funeral service, he raised the subject which had brought him there.

  ‘I came in search of your permission, Father Abbot.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘It concern's Brother Nicholas's cell,’ explained Frewine. ‘I know that it was searched by the sheriff's officers and that you gave orders for it to be swept clean. But the officers did not really know where to look and those who went in with brooms were too scared to stay there long enough to be thorough.’

  ‘Too scared?’

  ‘To linger in the cell of a murder victim.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are superstitious.’

  ‘Superstition has no place in a religious house,’ said Serlo with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘God has cleared our minds of such nonsense. I am glad you brought this to my attention, Brother Frewine. Who were the weak vessels? Name them to me and I will make sure they go back to sweep and scrub the cell properly.’

  ‘That is not my request, Father Abbot,’ said the other with an appeasing smile. ‘Give me a broom and I will gladly do their office for them. No, what I seek is permission to search the cell. Not that I expect to find anything,’ he added quickly, ‘but at least I would know where to look. The sheriff's officers would have been repelled by the very bareness of Brother Nicholas's abode. I doubt if they gave it more than a cursory glance. I have lived in this abbey many years, remember.’

  ‘More than any of us. What has it taught you?’

  ‘That secretive people can often find the most ingenious hiding places and Brother Nicholas was unduly secretive.’

  ‘Granted. But what would he have to hide?’

  ‘Who knows until we find it?’

  ‘Do you really expect that there is anything to find?’

  ‘I am not sure, Father Abbot,’ admitted Frewine, ‘but it worries me that we are leaving this investigation to the sheriff and, it now seems, to the royal commissioners. Forgive me for saying so, but we should not be absolved from the duty of searching for evidence ourselves. After all, we knew Brother Nicholas and that surely gives us an advantage over anyone else.’

  Abbot Serlo watched him shrewdly for a few moments, hands clasped and forefingers meeting at the tiny cleft of his chin. Frewine waited patiently like an owl perched on the branch of a tree.

  ‘There is something behind this,’ said the abbot at length.

  ‘A desire to solve a dreadful crime.’

  ‘Something else. Something you are not telling me.’

  ‘I am not dissembling, Father Abbot.’

  ‘Of course not, I accept that.’ His forefingers tapped his chin. ‘Let me approach it another way. What first put this idea into your head?’

  ‘The need for a motive.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Why was Brother Nicholas murdered?’

  ‘You obviously have your own theory on the matter.’

  ‘I believe the killer wanted something from him.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Father Abbot.’

  ‘Brother Nicholas had nothing of his own. Like the rest of us, he took a vow of poverty. No earthly possessions. The only thing a killer could take from him was his own life.’

  ‘You are probably right,’ sighed the Precentor.

  ‘But you would still like to search his cell.’

  ‘With your permission, Father Abbot,’ he said respectfully. ‘And I promise to sweep it clean before I leave.’

  ‘It will be a wasted visit. You realise that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You will search in vain.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why do you bother?’

  ‘To put my mind at rest.’

  ‘Instinct tells me that you will not find a thing.’

  ‘I, too, am impelled by instinct.’

  Serlo was cautious. ‘But if, by chance, you do,’ he said, locking eyes with his Precentor, ‘send for me at once.’

  Hamelin of Lisieux took them all by surprise. Having seen his name recurring time and again in the returns for the county sent to the Exchequer in Wiltshire, they knew him as a leading landholder and one of the few who actually lived in Gloucestershire itself. Hamelin was no absentee landlord. His manor was at the heart of the county. Strang the Dane painted his portrait in such dark colours that they half-expected Hamelin to prance into the shire hall on cloven feet, swishing his forked tail behind him. No such malignant creature appeared. The man who sailed in to greet them was a tall, well-favoured, elegant Norman lord in his forties, immaculately dressed and accompanied by his wife, Emma, a woman of such startling loveliness that she caused Ralph Delchard's jaw to drop in wonderment and Canon Hubert's eyebrows to shoot up in disbelief. Even Gervase was momentarily taken aback, but it was Brother Simon who suffered the greatest impact, recoiling from her beauty as if from a physical assault and screwing his whole body into a tight ball so that more of it could be comprehensively covered by his cowl.

  With a grace singularly lacking in his Danish predecessor, Hamelin introduced himself and his wife then left Emma to distribute a generous smile between the four men behind the table. Ralph responded with a broad grin but his scribe yelped like a branded animal. The newcomers were waved to seats on the front bench then Ralph went through the preliminaries, introducing his companions and explaining the methods they would adopt during their inquiry. He also found himself apologising profusely for the dinginess of the hall and the inadequacy of the seating arrangements. Both man and wife were clearly accustomed to far more comfortable surroundings than those they now shared with the four commissioners.

  It was Canon Hubert who initiated the questioning.

  ‘Now that the formalities are finally out of the way,’ he said with almost imperceptible sarcasm, ‘perhaps we can address the problem which brought us here? I take it that you are familiar with Strang the Dane, my lord?’

  ‘All too familiar!’ said Hamelin, suppressing a sigh.

  ‘He was here before you.’

  ‘I hope that does not betoken an order of merit, Canon Hubert.’

  ‘Far from it. Every claimant has equal status.’

  ‘How can that be when our claims do not have equal validity?’

  ‘Relative validity has yet to be decided, my lord.’

  ‘Not by me,’ said Hamelin politely. ‘I willingly concede tha
t Strang the Dane did, at one time, have a legitimate right to that land in the Westbury. It is unfortunate for him that his right melted in the heat of conquest. As for Querengar the Breton,’ he continued, with a fond glance at his wife, ‘you must not ask me to take his claim at all seriously. And I can muster even less respect for Abraham the Priest.’

  ‘You know that he is also represented here?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I am well informed, my lord.’

  ‘More so than we ourselves. We did not learn of the Welshman's intervention until we arrived and Strang the Dane was astonished to hear of it. Why did you catch what eluded his ears?’

  ‘I have many friends in Gwent.’

  ‘Enemies, too, if Strang is to be believed.’

  Hamelin laughed. ‘Several enemies. He is one of them.’

  ‘You do not seem perturbed by that thought.’

  ‘Why should I be, my lord? You and I are two of a kind, Norman lords in a land we first had to subdue. Our very presence here makes us despised intruders. Where would we be if we could not cope with a little enmity?’ he asked, bestowing another fond look on his wife. ‘Especially when we can offset all that hatred with so much love.’

  ‘Have you and Strang ever come to blows, my lord?’ said Gervase.

  ‘Unfortunately, we have not.’

  ‘He says otherwise.’

  ‘Then he is lying, Master Bret.’

  ‘Strang the Dane is an appalling man,’ said Emma demurely. ‘I know that it is not my place to speak here but I feel it my duty to tell you that his word is not to be trusted.’

  ‘He spoke under oath, my lady,’ said Hubert.

  ‘So does my husband.’

  ‘And I say, under oath,’ continued Hamelin pointedly, ‘that I have never crossed swords with Strang. More's the pity! Had I done so, that verminous Dane would not now be alive to poison your ears with his wicked lies.’

  ‘He showed us a wound, my lord,’ said Gervase.

  ‘It was not inflicted by me.’

  ‘By one of your men, perhaps?’

  ‘That is not impossible. Strang has trespassed on my estates.’

  ‘Did he have to be expelled by force of arms?’

  ‘How else, Master Bret?’

  ‘Recourse to law.’

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said Hamelin blandly. ‘To attest the legal basis of every hide in my possession. Most of the country is howling in protest at this Great Survey, fearful that it will cost more in taxes and knight-service. My voice is not raised in complaint, as my wife will tell you. I appreciate the true value of this Domesday Book.’

  ‘It is good to meet someone who does!’ said Ralph.

  ‘You draw clear lines, my lord. You clarify who holds what where. Once you have pronounced, nobody can lay false claims to my land any more. That is why I welcome this inquiry.’

  ‘Even if we find against you?’ probed Hubert.

  ‘That is out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I will show you, Canon Hubert.’

  ‘Why did you not show the first commissioners?’

  ‘Unhappily, I was not in a position to do so when they first visited the shire,’ said Hamelin easily. ‘I was visiting Normandy to deal with a problem concerning my estates there. My reeve spoke on my behalf before your predecessors but he lacked conviction, I am told. That is why I replaced him on my return and why I come before you in person this time. To eliminate even the slightest possibility of error.’

  ‘Do you fear we will make an error?’ probed Ralph.

  ‘The first commissioners did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By having insufficient evidence set before them.’

  ‘What new evidence do you have to add?’

  ‘First, peruse this,’ advised Hamelin, rising to give Ralph the charter which he held in his hand. ‘You will recognise the hand and seal of King William and note that I am granted fifteen hides in the Westbury Hundred. Much of the land which abuts mine is held directly by the King himself so I have one neighbour with whom I am on very friendly terms.’

  Ralph skimmed through the charter then handed it to Gervase, who, having read it more carefully, passed it on to Canon Hubert. When Gervase looked back at them, Hamelin, seated once more, was smiling complacently and Emma was looking earnestly at the commissioners.

  ‘Is any more proof than that required?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I fear that it is, my lady,’ said Gervase.

  ‘Why, Master Bret?’

  ‘Because the document is not as specific as it might be. Fifteen hides are indeed granted to your husband but it is not clear that they include the eight hides formerly given to Strang the Dane.’

  ‘It is clear to us.’

  ‘But not to Strang himself.’

  ‘What irks him most,’ said Ralph, taking over, ‘is that some of this land lies close to the Severn, down which his boats sail with cargoes of iron ore. Among other things, Strang has the right to mine ore in the Forest of Dean.’ His eyes flicked to Hamelin. ‘The loss of those hides in Westbury have caused him great inconvenience. He has to transport the ore a longer distance over land, adding to his costs.’

  ‘That is not my concern, my lord,’ said Hamelin.

  ‘But it is the consequence of your annexation of the land.’

  ‘It was not annexation. I merely took what is mine.’

  ‘Which, according to Strang, amounted to rather more than the twenty hides to which this document refers.’

  ‘That is palpably untrue,’ said Emma with feeling. ‘Go to Westbury yourselves and you will surely find as much.’

  ‘We would rather determine this matter here, my lady,’ said Hubert as he finished studying the charter. ‘We do not have unlimited time at our disposal and cannot ride around the county to measure hides and count the heads of those who work on them.’

  ‘Then tell us this,’ requested Hamelin. ‘Apart from Strang, has anyone else in Westbury raised objections against me?’

  ‘Querengar and Abraham the Priest.’

  ‘I discount them. Neither actually holds property in the hundred. Both merely claim to do so. Of those that do – the King excepted, of course – which have spoken against me? Go further afield, Canon Hubert. Name me anyone in the Berkeley or Bledisloe Hundreds who accuses me of seizing their land.’

  Hubert gave a shrug. ‘I cannot, my lord.’

  ‘Does that not say something in my favour?’

  ‘It might indicate that people are too afraid to challenge you.’

  ‘Why should they be afraid of my husband?’ asked Emma with apparent surprise. ‘He is the most amenable of men. Talk to any of his sub-tenants and they will tell you the same.’

  ‘I'm sure that they will,’ commented Gervase quietly.

  ‘Let us go back to the charter,’ decreed Ralph, reclaiming it from Hubert. ‘Perhaps you can tell us the circumstances in which the King saw fit to grant you such valuable holdings, my lord.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Hamelin of Lisieux.

  And he delivered his speech with ringing confidence.

  It took Elaf a little while to find his friend. When he finally did so, he was alarmed to see the expression of utter dejection on Kenelm's face. The mettlesome boy who had led him on so many exploits was now hiding in the abbey garden, wrestling with his guilt and contemplating a bleak future in the Benedictine Order. When Elaf touched him on the shoulder, Kenelm let out a gasp and jerked involuntarily away.

  ‘It's only me,’ Elaf reassured him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to be alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To do some thinking.’

  ‘About what happened to Brother Nicholas?’

  ‘What else, Elaf?’

  ‘It preys on my mind as well.’

  ‘It is gnawing its way through my brain,’ confessed Kenelm, turning to face him with hollow eyes. ‘There is
no respite. Whatever I am doing, it is there, nibbling away like a rat inside my skull.’

  ‘Brother Owl says that we must seek help through prayer.’

  ‘How can I pray when my mind torments me?’

  ‘I have managed to do so,’ argued Elaf, ‘and I was the one who actually touched Brother Nicholas that night. The very thought makes me shiver afresh but I am learning to banish the thought.’

  ‘That is because you have less to banish than me.’

  ‘Less?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kenelm, his face ashen with dismay. ‘The shock of finding the dead body is all that you have to chill your heart. I have a deeper source of guilt, Elaf, one that will not be so easily forgotten.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I did something unpardonable.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we were sent into church by Brother Owl to pray for the safe return of Brother Nicholas. I didn't only wish that he would never come back. I prayed,’ he admitted, chewing his lip, ‘I actually beseeched God to kill Brother Nicholas.’

  Elaf was shaken. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘To my eternal shame, it is.’

  ‘Kenelm!’

  ‘Now do you see why I am in such despair? I prayed for his death, Elaf. I willed his murder.’

  ‘But you didn't.’

  ‘I did. I'm responsible for it.’

  ‘How can that be? You had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I feel that I did.’

  ‘No, Kenelm.’

  ‘And I can see no way to atone.’

  ‘There's no need for atonement.’

  ‘Isn't there?’ said the other vehemently. ‘When I'm an accomplice in his murder? I wished him dead and God answered my prayer. I feel as if I slit his throat with my own hands.’

  ‘That's ridiculous!’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Then you have learned nothing since you became a novice here,’ chided Elaf. ‘God is bountiful. He responds to pleas for help, guidance and forgiveness. God is the supreme giver of life. He would never take it away in an act of foul murder simply because someone prayed for that to happen. God is not so cruel, Kenelm.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘You do yourself a wrong here.’

  ‘That is my punishment.’

  ‘An undeserved punishment.’