Family members had pride of place at the front of the nave. It was not difficult to pick out the grief-stricken widow, her elderly parents and her close relations. There appeared to be no children from the marriage unless they were too young to attend or were being spared the ordeal. Three mourners in particular caught Gervase’s eye. One was Ednoth the Reeve, wearing a dolorous expression and keeping a supportive arm around a sobbing woman whom Gervase took to be his wife. The second was the striking figure of Thorkell of Warwick, instantly recognisable by his Saxon attire and air of authority, and clearly distressed by the loss of his reeve. Four retainers, who had ridden into the town that morning with their master, had stayed to attend the funeral with him.
But the person whom Gervase was able to study most carefully was the short, slight, fair-haired individual in his twenties with a ragged beard through which he kept running nervous fingers.
Like Gervase himself, the man took a seat at the rear of the nave and was more of an observer than a mourner, yet he was patently no stranger because several people gave him a nod of acknowledgement when they first arrived. His mean apparel showed that he held no high station in life and, since the service was conducted in a mixture of Latin and Norman French, Gervase was not sure how much of it the young Saxon actually understood for the solemn words did not still his restless hand nor his darting glances.
Though the parish priest was in attendance, it was the chaplain from the castle who conducted the service, another indication of the respect which Martin Reynard had earned from his former master. During his sermon the chaplain spoke of the deceased as a man whom he had known and admired for some years, and furnished many personal details about him, some of which were so touching that they set the widow and family members off into a flood of tears. Gervase noticed that Ednoth nodded in agreement throughout the sermon, Henry Beaumont sat immobile and Thorkell lowered his head in dejection. The fair-haired young man was uncertain what expression was most appropriate and he tried several before settling for a studied lugubriousness.
The sizeable congregation took time to file out into the churchyard. Gervase was the last to leave and he stood on the periphery of the crowd which ringed the grave. In a high, reedy voice the chaplain recited the burial service and the coffin was lowered into ground so hard that it sorely taxed the muscles of the gravedigger. As the first handful of earth was tossed after Martin Reynard, the mourners tried to remember him for his good qualities and to forget the gruesome way in which he’d been killed. When people slowly began to disperse, Gervase saw the fair-haired young Saxon steal away, only to be intercepted by Thorkell of Warwick, who pointed an accusatory finger at him and said something which provoked a vigorous shaking of the other’s head. When the young man left there was quiet fury mingling with the sadness in Thorkell’s face.
On impulse, Gervase walked across to the old man and introduced himself. Pleasantly surprised to hear a royal commissioner talking in English, Thorkell was nevertheless wary.
‘What are you doing here, Master Bret?’ he asked.
‘Gathering information.’
‘About whom?’
‘Martin Reynard. Judging by the size of the congregation, he was a respected man who was well known in the town.’
‘Funerals are private matters. You had no place here.’
‘I did not come to intrude, my lord.’
‘Only to pry.’
‘Your reeve was to have appeared before us,’ said Gervase. ‘On your behalf. When our predecessors, the first commissioners, visited this town several months ago, they were impressed with the way that Martin Reynard spoke for your cause. You have lost a skilful advocate.’
‘I am all too aware of that.’
‘What interests me is whether his murder was a case of accident or design. The fact that he was killed days before our arrival here may not be entirely a coincidence.’
‘It was not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Instinct.’
‘Does that instinct tell you who the murderer was, my lord?’
‘No,’ said Thorkell, ‘but it tells me who it was not.’
‘Boio the Blacksmith?’
‘He would never raise a hand against any man.’
‘The lord Henry believes otherwise.’
‘He does not know Boio as I do.’
‘Ednoth spoke of his gentle nature. He said how kind and even-tempered a man your blacksmith is. I have never met the fellow but he does not sound like a murder suspect to me.’
‘Have you voiced that opinion to the lord Henry?’
Gervase nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I did.’
‘Unfortunately?’
‘It brought his anger down upon my head. He upbraided me for poking my nose into the business and told me to let justice take its appointed course.’
‘Justice!’ Thorkell’s tone was rancorous. ‘What does the lord Henry know about justice? He should be out hunting down the real killer, not imprisoning one of my men on false evidence.’
‘But a witness saw Boio in the forest near the murder scene.’
‘Grimketel!’
‘Can his word be trusted?’
‘Not by me. Grimketel is a liar. He even had the gall to attend the funeral today. I spoke to the villain as he was leaving and demanded that he tell the truth. All I got was further lies.’
‘I watched you talking to the man,’ said Gervase.
‘I would as soon have struck the villain.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I do not believe that he saw Boio in the forest on the morning in question. It is a tale he invented. Grimketel is deliberately trying to throw suspicion on to him.’
‘For what reason?’
‘To embarrass me and to conceal the real killer.’
‘You think this Grimketel is in league with him?’
‘It would not surprise me.’
‘How can his evidence serve to embarrass you?’
‘Boio is my man. If he is convicted, I will be tainted.’
‘Why should this Grimketel work against you?’
‘To advantage his master.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Adam Reynard.’
Gervase was startled by the intelligence and it set his mind racing. Extensive land in the possession of Thorkell of Warwick was at the heart of the major dispute which the commissioners had come to resolve. Two claimants were contesting the ownership of the property and each seemed to have a legitimate cause for doing so. One of the claimants was Robert de Limesey, Bishop of Lichfield, currently domiciled in nearby Coventry, and the other was Adam Reynard, kinsman to Martin. In locking horns with Thorkell of Warwick’s reeve, Adam Reynard would have been fighting with his own blood relation. Gervase slowly began to realise the full implications of that situation.
‘Is he here today?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘Adam Reynard.’
‘No, Master Bret.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he and Martin were hardly on speaking terms,’ said Thorkell gloomily. ‘They were only distant relations but Adam tried to use the blood tie for gain and urged Martin to give him covert help. When my reeve refused, he was roundly chastised, but he felt that his first duty was to his master.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Martin Reynard’s sense of duty to me may have proved fatal.’
‘You point a finger at his kinsman, then?’
‘He is a far more likely killer than Boio.’
‘Strong enough to crush his victim to death?’
‘No,’ admitted the other, ‘but rich enough to employ someone to do the office for him. I have no evidence to offer beyond my low opinion of Adam Reynard but I tell you this, Master Bret. Instead of torturing an innocent blacksmith, the lord Henry would be better employed asking stern questions of my reeve’s kinsman.’