His departure was abrupt. Richard de Fontenel did not even linger to spare a word of gratitude to the priest. Stalking out of the churchyard, he mounted the waiting horse and cantered off with the two men-atarms who had come with him. It was not a long ride. As soon as he reached his house, he dropped to the ground and summoned one of his companions into the parlour.
‘Huegon?’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘How long would it take you to round up my knights?’
‘That depends how many you want, my lord?’
‘All of them!’
Huegon was astonished. ‘That may take a while, my lord.’
‘Then make a start now.’
‘What do I tell them?’ asked the other.
‘That I need them immediately.’
‘They are bound to ask why, my lord.’
‘Say that we’re going to teach someone a lesson he’ll never forget.’
‘Who might that be?’
‘The lord Mauger.’
‘You want all your men summoned to pay a visit to the lord Mauger?’
‘We’ll be doing much more than simply paying a visit,’ said de Fontenel. ‘We’re going to exact revenge. Now hurry, man! There’s no time to lose.’
In spite of his age, Eustace Coureton was an accomplished horseman. Long years spent moving from one battlefield to the next had given him a natural affinity with his destrier. No matter how hard they rode, he never seemed to tire even though he was wearing a hauberk beneath his tunic. It was Gervase Bret, in much lighter apparel, who showed the first signs of strain. Sweat glistened on his brow and his breathing was laboured.
‘How do you manage to do it, my lord?’ he asked, gulping in air.
‘Do what?’
‘Ride so fast yet remain so calm.’
Coureton chuckled. ‘You’re looking at a centaur, Gervase. I was half man and half horse for over thirty years. War leaves its mark.’
‘That’s what Ralph always says.’
‘The lord Ralph is a soldier still at heart. So am I.’
‘Yet you’ve renounced that world,’ noted Gervase. ‘You turned to scholarship.’
‘Yes,’ said the other with a philosophical smile. ‘I wanted something to occupy my mind while I was riding a horse.’
They had slowed to a steady trot to rest the animals and to make conversation a little easier. Their journey had taken them due south of Norwich over flat countryside with an abundance of sheep grazing on it. Woodland slowed them down and put them on the alert against a possible ambush but they emerged unscathed into the sunlight again.
Gervase had got his breath back. He studied the horizon ahead. ‘It shouldn’t be too far now,’ he said.
‘And what do you expect to find when we get there?’
‘A lady with good reason to hate Richard de Fontenel.’
‘Hatred doesn’t always drive someone to murder,’ said Coureton, ‘or there’d be homicides by the hundred every day of the week. I can think of a few victims that I might have added to the list.’
‘You don’t strike me as a man capable of deep hatred, my lord.’
‘I’m only human, Gervase. When I’ve been hurt, I want to return that pain. In my position, you’d feel the same, I dare say.’
‘Would I?’
‘You’ve a beautiful young wife who dotes on you. But supposing that some injury was inflicted upon her. An assault that left her badly wounded, for instance. Or a rape.’ He saw Gervase tense. ‘Yes, my friend. You, too, would feel hatred burning inside you then, but I doubt very much if it would drive you to kill. You’re a lawyer. You’d use the might of the law to bring the miscreant to heel.’
‘Prevention would be my first duty,’ said Gervase, ruffled at the thought of any harm befalling his wife. ‘I’d make sure that Alys was never in a position to suffer harm.’
‘That’s why you’re such a good husband.’
‘I try my best.’
Another mile brought them within sight of their destination. The woman they sought lived in a modest house on the remains of an estate that had dwindled almost to nothing over the previous twenty years. Of the seven timber huts that stood in a rough circle, only three were still occupied by the people who built them. The others were either derelict or inhabited by chickens or pigs. Brushwood fences surrounded the little encampment, which was situated beside a stream and in the shadow of a wooded hill. When the visitors rode into the middle of the dwellings, there was no sign of anyone at first. A sturdy young peasant then emerged from one of the huts and looked resentfully up at the Norman soldiers. Gervase nudged his horse forward so that he could speak to the man in his native language.
‘Good day, my friend. We’re looking for someone by the name of Olova.’
‘Why?’ grunted the other.
‘That’s our business.’
‘Have you come to take even more land from her?’
‘No,’ said Gervase, taking no offence at the man’s gruff hostility. ‘My name is Gervase Bret and my colleague here is the lord Eustace of Marden. We’re royal commissioners who’ve come to settle property disputes in this county and we are more likely to restore land to Olova than to take it away. Not that I can promise that,’ he stressed, quickly, ‘because I would never prejudge a case. But nothing here is under threat. That I can assure you.’
The other remained tense. ‘Is that your business with Olova?’
‘No, my friend. We come on a more urgent matter.’
‘Nothing is more urgent than getting our land back,’ the youth declared.
‘ Our land?’ repeated Gervase. ‘You’re related to Olova, then?’
‘Yes,’ said a loud voice behind him. ‘Skalp is my grandson.’
Gervase turned to take his first look at Olova. Standing in the doorway of the largest hut, she surveyed the newcomers with a blend of dislike and disdain. Olova was a proud woman, declined in years but lacking none of the spirit she had possessed when she was the wife of a Saxon thegn of considerable standing in the county. The estates that she inherited on his death had been steadily whittled away by her Norman overlords and it had transformed a handsome face into a mask of bitterness. Gervase dismounted and walked across to her. Eustace Coureton followed his example. The old woman was surprised by the courtesy they were showing.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, eyeing them both.
‘To ask you a few questions,’ said Gervase. ‘We’ve ridden from Norwich to speak to you. You know a man called Hermer, I believe.’
‘More’s the pity!’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s the man who helped to rob me of my estates,’ she said. ‘Hermer is steward to the lord Richard. Two such black-hearted men never existed before.’
‘When did you last see Hermer?’
‘Not for several months.’
‘Is that the truth?’ he pressed.
‘Why should I lie?’
‘Have you been into Taverham hundred recently?’
‘I’ve no cause to do so. What land I once owned there was taken from me.’
‘What about your grandson? Has he been there?’
‘Skalp looks after me. He rarely stirs from here.’
‘Do other members of the family live with you?’
Olova was irascible. ‘Why are you pestering me?’ she said, flaring up. ‘Isn’t it enough that you strip me of land that’s rightfully mine? Have you come to gloat?’
‘No,’ said Gervase. ‘We mean you no harm.’
‘Then ride on your way. I haven’t seen Hermer the Steward for months and neither has anyone here. We keep well away from that evil rogue.’
Gervase exchanged a look with Coureton. Even though he could not understand all she said, the latter got a clear impression of the woman’s honesty. Olova clearly had no idea that the man she hated had been killed. Convinced that she was not involved in the crime, Gervase turned back to her. ‘You’ll have no more trouble from the lord Richard’s steward,’ he said.