‘How long will this take?’ asked Trouville mutinously.
‘As long as is necessary,’ said Ralph.
‘You should have sent the documents on ahead to me so that I could study them in private and prepare myself.’
‘That was not possible, my lord,’ explained Gervase, patting the leather satchel which was slung from his shoulder. ‘These are the only ones we possess. It would have been long and tedious work for a scribe to prepare copies for you and they would, in any case, have been quite incomprehensible on their own. You will need my assistance. I have studied all the returns for this county brought back to the Exchequer at Winchester and will be able to explain to you the irregularities we have come to correct.’
‘Without Gervase we are all lost,’ said Ralph.
‘He is a masterly teacher,’ added Theobald.
‘That remains to be seen,’ muttered Trouville.
They walked on up the hill in the direction of the marketplace and got their first real feel of the town itself. Warwick was larger than Ralph remembered it, a thriving community with upwards of fifteen hundred inhabitants living in a jumbled confusion of streets, lanes and alleyways, which had survived the Norman occupation better than most by dint of offering it no resistance.
Towns like York, Exeter and Chester, already visited by Ralph and Gervase in the course of their work, had bravely offered defiance to the invading army and suffered hideous destruction as a result but Warwick had given a more neutral response and, but for the addition of its castle, the administrative centre of the county, was much the town it had been on the eve of the Conquest.
Shops were already open and tradesmen busy at their work.
The cold weather did not deter customers from visiting the bakers, the brewers, the tailors, the butchers, the grocers and all the others who had their wares on display. Women drew water from a well, boys fought aimlessly, girls played, horses pulled wagons, beggars wandered and dogs roamed in search of scraps. It was a busy, noisy, smelly, typically urban scene. Ralph studied it with interest, Theobald noted each church with a quiet smile and Gervase compared the description of the town which emerged from the returns of the earlier commissioners with what was now before his eyes. Benedict was in his element, hood back to let the wind smack at his bare skull and hand raised in greeting to everyone who looked his way. It was only Philippe Trouville who lacked curiosity and who gazed around instead with sullen indifference.
When they reached the shire hall, the town reeve was waiting to receive them. Ednoth was a tall, thin, rangy man with greying hair and a well-barbered beard. He had an air of competence about him which was offset by an obsequious manner. Shoulders hunched and palms rubbing against each other, he gave them a warm greeting and ushered them straight into the building so that they could feel the benefit of the fire which he had ordered to be lighted there. Trouville was annoyed to find that a Saxon held such an important post in the town and he said nothing to the reeve when he was introduced, but Ralph preferred to judge the man on his merit. He startled the reeve by speaking to him, albeit haltingly, in his native tongue.
‘My letters reached you, then?’ he said.
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Ednoth. ‘Everything is in readiness.’
‘Not quite.’
‘But I obeyed your commands to the letter. As you see, the table has been set out for you and benches have been provided for those who are summoned before you. Everything else you required is at hand.’
‘Except a certain Martin Reynard.’
‘Ah,’ sighed the other. ‘No, alas.’
‘I do not blame you, Ednoth, but I can tell you this. Our business in Warwick could have been dispatched much quicker if the fellow had been here to speak on his master’s behalf.’
‘Stop talking in that gibberish!’ demanded Trouville. ‘I cannot understand a single word of it.’
‘No more could I until I married a Saxon wife,’ said Ralph with a grin, lapsing back into Norman French. ‘Since she started to teach me her language I have come to a much better understanding of the people with whom we share this realm.’
Trouville bristled. ‘We do not share it — we rule it.’
‘With the help of obliging local officials like Ednoth here.’
‘He would not hold such a position if the appointment of a town reeve lay in my hands. Only a Norman can be really trusted.’
‘That has not been my experience,’ said Theobald mildly.
‘Nor mine,’ said Gervase, anxious to deflect them from a pointless argument. He handed his satchel to Ralph. ‘Here are the documents. You might care to show the first of them to our new colleague while I have a word with Ednoth.’
‘A wise suggestion,’ agreed Ralph.
‘Especially if you’re going to talk to him in that pigswill of a language called English,’ sneered Trouville. ‘What was it you told us at table last night, Master Bret? Your mother was Saxon, your father a Breton?’
‘That is right,’ joked Ralph, ‘and the stork which brought him into the world was a Celt of Arab origin with Greek blood.’ He winked at Gervase and moved Trouville across to the table. ‘This way, my lord. Back to school.’
Ednoth had listened intently to every word and garnered mixed impressions of the men he had to serve. Gervase wanted to find out how reliable the reeve would be. There was a cringing eagerness about Ednoth but there might be strict limitations on the amount of assistance that he was able to give them. Though he spoke French fluently, the man was more accessible in his own tongue and relaxed visibly when Gervase addressed him in it.
‘We are very grateful to you, Ednoth,’ he began.
‘Thank you.’
‘We will have to lean heavily on your knowledge of the county and its inhabitants. How long have you lived in Warwickshire?’
‘All my life.’
‘So you will be familiar with men such as Thorkell?’
‘Everybody knows Thorkell. He wields great power in the county.’
‘I can see that by the size of his holdings. Our predecessors, the first commissioners to visit you, spoke well of him and I have heard nothing to qualify their judgement.’ He watched the other carefully. ‘What of this man he has recently lost?’
‘Martin Reynard?’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Quite well, Master Bret,’ said Ednoth, choosing his words with care. ‘I saw more of him when he was in the lord Henry’s household but he left the castle almost a year ago.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Thorkell’s estate reeve died. He needed a replacement.’
‘And the lord Henry was willing to release Martin Reynard?’
‘Apparently.’
‘On what terms did they part?’
‘Amicable ones, as far as I could tell.’
‘It seems odd that he should so readily hand over a valuable member of his household. Compensation must have been involved.’
‘That was between the lord Henry and Thorkell.’
‘Did no rumours reach your ears?’
‘None that I care to repeat,’ said the reeve levelly.
Gervase had a partial answer. Ednoth would divulge no gossip.
He was too conscious of Henry Beaumont’s domination of the town to say anything remotely personal about him and, Gervase suspected, whatever comments he himself made about Henry would soon find their way back to the castle. He changed his tack slightly.
‘What manner of a man is Boio the Blacksmith?’
Ednoth gave a shrug. ‘Big, friendly and hard-working.’
‘Given to violence?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Easily provoked?’
‘Quite the opposite, Master Bret.’
‘The opposite?’