‘The kindest thing we can do is to return the elephants to him.’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘But you want to speak to Jocelyn Vavasour first.’
‘I’ll go in search of him at first light.’
Ralph turned to look up the table at his host. Roger Bigot was just breaking off a conversation with Alys in order to wave to the minstrels. They struck up a more lively tune and the sheriff nodded his approval. Ralph caught his eye.
‘Perhaps you could help us, my lord sheriff,’ he said.
‘Gladly.’
‘You must have heard of one Jocelyn Vavasour?’
‘Heard of him and known him, my lord,’ said Bigot with admiration. ‘I fought alongside him more than once. He was a doughty soldier, brave and loyal. But if you wish to know about Jocelyn Vavasour, the man to ask is the lord Ivo.’
‘Ivo Tallboys?’
‘The same. It was he who commanded the siege of Hereward the Wake in the fen county. Jocelyn Vavasour was one of his ablest lieutenants. I remember the lord Ivo telling me how valuable an asset he was. Jocelyn Vavasour knew the fens almost as well as Hereward. He was completely at home there.’
‘That settles it!’
‘Settles what?’
‘The location of his refuge. He’s probably hiding in the marshes.’
‘That’s very likely,’ agreed Bigot. ‘A second Hereward.’
‘I hope I don’t have to lay siege to the lord Jocelyn.’
‘He’s known by another name now.’
‘Vavasour the Madman?’
‘No,’ said Bigot, solemnly. ‘Jocelyn the Anchorite.’
Made out of rough timber and roofed with thatch, the hut amid the marshes was small, bare and primitive. From a distance, it looked less like a human dwelling than a random collection of logs washed up by the sea. Birds perched familiarly on it. Wind plucked at the thatch and carried salt spray in its wake. It was remote and unwelcoming terrain. The man who emerged from the hut had chosen its location with care, yearning for a solitary existence where he could atone for what he saw as the sins of his past life. No comforts were needed, no company sought. Jocelyn Vavasour was a true anchorite, spending his days in prayer and meditation before sleeping at night on the cold ground. When he came out of his simple abode, the birds on his roof were not disturbed. They were used to him by now, accepting him as one of their own, a creature of the marshland.
Vavasour was a big, powerful man in his forties, muscles hardened by long years as a soldier, face craggy and weather-beaten. A hot summer had darkened his complexion and his bare arms. Dressed like a Saxon peasant in ragged tunic and gartered trousers, he had almost nothing of a Norman lord about him now. His earlier swagger had been replaced by a gentle gait, his boldness by complete selfabnegation. He had shed the personality of Jocelyn Vavasour like an outer skin that had died and become useless. The world of the anchorite brought him deep satisfaction. Only one book shared the hut with him and he read from his Bible at regular intervals throughout each day, educating himself and searching for guidance in its wonderful Latin cadences. Psalms had been learned by heart, favourite passages studied again and again. Nobody ever disturbed him. A life once committed to violence was now dedicated wholly to God.
The sky was almost dark now and a breeze had grown up to ruffle his hair and his long, curly beard. It was the time of day that he liked most. Alone with the elements and unable to see anything apart from the crescent moon and a scattering of stars, he felt closer to his Creator and more keenly aware of his own purpose on earth than at any other hour. Inhaling deeply, he smiled up at the heavens. Then he fell to his knees to begin his prayers.
The first lash of the whip produced a howl of anguish. A plea for mercy soon followed. Richard de Fontenel ignored it and wielded the whip even harder the second time, slicing open the man’s naked back and sending a rivulet of blood curling its way down his body. Clamahoc jerked and struggled but there was no escape. His wrists and ankles were tied to a wooden hurdle. By the light of a flaming torch, his master administered some more punishment, turning the white flesh into a raw expanse of agony. The tall figure of Clamahoc sagged under the onslaught, his cries of pain dwindling to mere whimpers.
Grabbing him by his bushy hair, de Fontenel glared into his face. ‘ Now will you tell me?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, my lord,’ gasped the other.
‘No lies, mark you.’
‘I’ll tell you everything, my lord.’
‘Or I’ll flay you.’
Richard de Fontenel had been in an irate mood when he returned to his house. Not even a surprise visit from the lady Adelaide that afternoon could assuage his fury. Indeed, her presence only served to remind him of the ignominy he had faced at the hands of his rival. Not only had he been outflanked by Mauger Livarot, but the sheriff had been alerted to his strategy and caught him in the act. There was nothing he could do but slink away with his tail between his legs. One thought occupied his mind. If his adversary knew of his imminent arrival, he must have been forewarned by a member of de Fontenel’s own household. Stern questioning of each and every man had eventually delivered the culprit. Clamahoc was the last person he suspected: a young man who courted the shadows and gave least offence yet one who was well placed to listen at doors and to spy on his master. He deserved no compassion.
Taking the torch from his servant, de Fontenel held it close to Clamahoc’s face. ‘I want the truth,’ he insisted.
‘You’ll have it, my lord,’ groaned the other.
‘Who paid you to spy on me?’
‘Drogo.’
‘The lord Mauger’s steward?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Did you warn him that I was riding against his master?’
‘I had to,’ said Clamahoc, still wincing at the pain. ‘If I’d failed him, he’d have taken his revenge on me.’
‘That’s nothing to the revenge I’ll take on you, if I don’t get the answers I want. Do you hear me?’ he said, thrusting the torch closer so that its heat made Clamahoc yell. ‘I’ll send your head back to Drogo with your eyes burned out.’
‘No, no, my lord! Please!’
‘Then tell me all you know.’
‘I will!’ exclaimed the other. ‘Take the flame away and I will.’
The torch was drawn back. ‘How long have you been spying on me?’
‘For months.’
‘What were the lord Mauger’s orders?’
‘To report anything that happened under this roof,’ said Clamahoc, breathlessly. ‘I was to take a particular interest in what happened between you and the lady Adelaide.’
‘You eavesdropped on those conversations?’ roared de Fontenel.
‘I had to, my lord. Drogo forced me to do it.’
‘And paid you, no doubt,’ sneered the other. ‘Let’s have no more talk about being forced. I’m your master, Clamahoc, not that weasel of a steward. Your first loyalty was to me yet you betrayed me.’
Clamahoc hung his head in shame. His back was on fire, his temples pounding. Ropes were biting into his wrists and ankles. His only hope of clemency lay in complete honesty. He had neither strength nor duplicity enough to hide anything.
‘What did you tell them about those gold elephants?’ asked de Fontenel.
‘That they were a wedding gift for the lady Adelaide.’
‘Did you say where they came from?’
‘That you brought them back from Normandy.’
‘Are you sure?’ said the other, squeezing the man’s throat.
‘Yes, my lord,’ spluttered Clamahoc. ‘It’s what I heard you say to the lady Adelaide. I was outside the door at the time.’
‘Those elephants were stolen from my house not long afterwards.’
‘It was none of my doing, I swear it!’
‘What about Hermer? Was he in the lord Mauger’s pay as well?’
‘No, my lord. He couldn’t be bought.’
‘So Hermer didn’t steal the elephants on his behalf?’
‘How could he?’ said Clamahoc, relieved that the grip on his throat had been relaxed. ‘The lord Mauger didn’t know of the existence of the gold elephants until I told him and that was after they’d disappeared.’