‘Very well,’ said the earl at length. ‘I will not enforce your attendance at the banquet. Go to Bishop Robert, if you must.
But I remain disappointed.’
‘Our profound apologies, my lord,’ said Hubert soothingly.
‘You may leave.’
It sounded more like an order given than a permission granted.
Hubert and Simon reacted with speed. After a flurry of farewells, they rode swiftly out of the castle they abhorred and headed for the sanctuary of the cathedral.
Earl Hugh brought the niceties abruptly to an end. ‘You will be shown to your apartments,’ he said curtly, clapping his hands to bring servants running. ‘Your men will be bestowed in their lodging.
Everything is in readiness. When you have unloaded your baggage, I would be happy to take you round my castle. If that offer appeals to you.’
‘Very much, my lord,’ said Ralph.
‘So be it.’
Their host turned on his heel and strode off briskly across the courtyard. After offering them a placatory smile, Gerold went trotting after him. Ralph watched the pair of them until they vanished into the chapel.
‘What did you make of that, Gervase?’ he asked.
‘Earl Hugh does not like to be crossed.’
‘There is no love lost between him and Bishop Robert.’
‘That is clear from the disputes we are here to settle,’ agreed Gervase. ‘A trial of strength is obviously going on here between Church and State.’
‘Real power in Chester lies with the State.’
‘Yet the Church has a powerful ally.’
‘Bishop Robert?’
‘No, Ralph,’ said the other. ‘Brother Gerold. Unless I am much mistaken, he is the only man with any appreciable influence over the earl. We can learn from him.’
The search was entirely fruitless. For several long and anxious hours they combed the Delamere Forest, but without success.
Gytha began to despair. Still only eighteen, she had been worn down by family responsibilities and her pretty face was beginning to lose its youthful bloom. Fear etched new lines around her eyes and mouth. She used the edge of her hood to wipe away the beads of perspiration on her forehead.
She turned to the boy who trudged reluctantly beside her. ‘Was this the clearing?’ she said.
‘I do not know, Gytha.’
‘You must remember.’
‘I’m trying to.’
‘Try harder, Beollan.’
He looked around and shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure.’
‘Is there nothing that you recognise?’
‘Not really.’
‘But you know every inch of the forest.’
The boy turned away so that she would not see the guilt which flooded into his face. Beollan was barely ten, a tousle-haired lad in rough attire with cross-gartered stockings. He and his sister were the children of a Saxon cotarius, a cottager without any land. Beollan carried a stick to aid him in his search but he had used it without conviction to poke among the bushes. It was almost as if he did not really wish to find what they were seeking.
Gytha finally lost patience with him. ‘What are you hiding?’
she challenged.
‘Nothing!’ he retorted.
‘I know you too well, Beollan. You’ve been behaving strangely since we left the house. I think that you’re keeping something back from me. Are you?’
‘No!’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yes. I’ve told you all I can.’
‘Have you?’ she said, taking him by the shoulder to spin him round. ‘When you came back home, you were in a terrible state.
You could hardly get the words out. What really happened out here in the forest?’
‘I told you,’ he bleated. ‘I lost them.’
‘You would never do that.’
‘I did, Gytha. I swear it.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not, I tell you.’
‘Why?’ she said, grabbing him by the arms to shake him.
‘Let go of me.’
‘Why, Beollan?’
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Tell me the truth.’
‘I already have.’
‘We must find them.’
‘Stop shaking me.’
She released her hold and he rubbed his arms to ease the pain inflicted by her strong grip. Head down, Beollan avoided his sister’s blazing eyes. Gytha’s interrogation continued.
‘Where did you last see them?’ she pressed.
‘Somewhere in this part of the forest.’
‘Be more exact.’
‘I wish I could.’
‘Why did you lose touch with them?’
‘I wandered off.’
‘They would never let you do that.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘Stop deceiving me,’ she said. ‘I am sick with worry. I need all the help that I can get. Not lies and deception.’
‘There’s nothing else I can tell you.’
‘Are you quite certain?’
‘Yes, Gytha.’
She looked around with heightened anxiety. ‘You have places where you hide any game you kill. Take me to the nearest one.’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Take me, Beollan.’
‘No.’
‘It’s important.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Take me,’ she demanded. ‘We might find some clues.’
‘I don’t know where the nearest hiding place is.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘You’ve forgotten far too much.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know full well what I mean,’ she said, confronting him again. ‘You’ve been holding something back ever since we started to search for them. And I want to know what it is. Now,’ she added, hands on hips, ‘are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?’
Torn between guilt and apprehension, the boy began to tremble visibly. Then he burst into tears. Before she could stop him, he turned tail and scampered off wildly into the undergrowth. Gytha raced after him but he was far too quick and elusive for her. His knowledge of the forest gave him a thousand places in which to hide. She would never find him until he was ready to come out of his own accord. Gasping for breath, she abandoned the chase and rested against an elm. When she had recovered, she retraced her steps to the clearing.
Then she resumed the feverish search on her own.
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were conducted to their respective apartments high up in the keep of Chester Castle.
Both had a clear view of the city itself, a sizeable place with a population of some fifteen hundred or so. Winchester was considerably larger, as befitted the nation’s capital, but Chester was easily the biggest community in the north-west. Like the former, it had its castle, cathedral, churches, civic buildings and higgledy-piggledy arrangement of houses. Each also had a resident king. All that Earl Hugh’s authority lacked was a formal coronation.
As Ralph and Gervase gazed down from their windows, the market clamour rose up from below and the pungent smells of town life drifted up to their nostrils. Beyond the city, they could see the long road which twisted its way towards Wales before disappearing among some foothills. The winding track had been trampled flat by the feet of warriors over many centuries. It was only a matter of time before it would echo once more to the march of armies.
Hugh d’Avranches was justifiably proud of his fortress. As soon as he had changed out of his Benedictine cowl, he sent for his guests and escorted them on a tour of his home. Ralph was duly impressed with the fortifications. The battlements were high, solid and patrolled by alert guards. On the southern and western sides, the River Dee was itself an additional defence and the earl explained how the wooden bridge across it could be closed — or even destroyed — to hamper any attack.
‘Yes,’ he growled. ‘Sooner than let an enemy use it to cross the river, I’d burn it to the ground.’
‘Are you ever likely to be in that situation?’ said Ralph.
‘Never.’
‘How can you be so confident?’
‘I have taken steps to keep everything under strict control here on the border. Anyone who has dared to raise a sword against me has been savagely dealt with, Ralph. I am a great believer in the value of scapegoats. Brutality is the only language that the Welsh understand.’