Letting himself into the little room, he gazed sadly around it.
Built of stone, it was cool in summer but icy in winter; there was no source of heat. The ceiling was low, the floor sunken. All that the cell contained by way of furniture was a small table, a stool and a rough mattress. A crucifix stood on the table, its shadow magnified on the wall behind it by the shaft of light which came in through the little window. It was a bleak room but contained all that a monk would need. Frewine wondered if it might also contain something unsanctioned by the Benedictine Rule. Brother Nicholas would not be the first monk to harbour forbidden items in his private abode.
His search began on the ceiling then moved to the walls.
Frewine’s old fingers probed for loose masonry or chance crevices.
None could be found. Lowering himself to his knees, he began to grope around the floor of the cell, wishing that there was more light to assist him. What he could see was that the place had been only superficially swept. A thick layer of dust was largely untouched in some areas of the room. It was especially noticeable at the foot of the bed and he brushed it away with his hand to reveal something which had been invisible before. The floor was scored with parallel lines as if the mattress had been dragged out from the wall and replaced again many times.
Frewine’s curiosity was set alight. Grabbing the edge of the mattress, the Precentor eased it into the centre of the room then walked to the end which had been pressed against the wall.
Nothing unusual presented itself. The section of wall now uncovered was as bare and uneven as the rest. A spider was scurrying across it on long legs. It was only when Frewine began to explore with his fingers that he noticed something suspicious.
One of the stones in the wall was protruding slightly, allowing him to get a purchase on it. When he jiggled it to and fro, he got more and more movement until it suddenly popped away from the wall altogether. He was right. Brother Nicholas did have a hiding place after all.
Frewine set the stone down and reached inside the cavity until his hand closed on something soft and pliable. When he extracted it, the object was much heavier than it had felt at first. Holding it on one palm, he shook it slightly and heard the telltale chink.
He did not know whether to be pleased that his instinct had been sound or shocked by the nature of his discovery. It gave him something to think about as he hurried off to report to Abbot Serlo.
Chapter Six
‘Did you explain this to the first commissioners who visited the county?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was unfit to travel,’ said Querengar, indicating his wounded leg. ‘The accident happened only days before your predecessors arrived. I sent my reeve to the shire hall to represent me.’
‘Unsuccessfully.’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘Did you berate him?’ asked Ralph, remembering that Hamelin of Lisieux had seen fit to dismiss his own reeve for his inability to win ratification from the earlier commissioners. ‘Is he still in your employ?’
‘Of course.’
‘You bear him no ill will?’
‘Why should I? He did his best.’
‘Yet he failed.’
‘Not entirely,’ said the Breton. ‘My reeve must have made some impression or I would not be given this second chance to attest my claim. The fate of those hides in the Westbury Hundred remains in the balance.’
‘True.’
‘Until I persuade you who has the moral right to them.’
‘The moral right?’ echoed Canon Hubert.
‘Moral and legal,’ said Querengar, ‘though I’m sure that you will agree with me, Canon Hubert, that all law should have a moral basis.’
‘Quite so.’
‘I knew that you would appreciate that.’
He gave a little nod of gratitude. Querengar the Breton was an enigma. Unlike the two claimants already questioned, he said nothing to the detriment of his rivals. Where the testy Strang had fulminated and the urbane Hamelin had airily dismissed, Querengar made no mention of the others, preferring simply to state his own case to the commissioners and to rely on their estimation of its worth. He was a curiously modest man, one of the many Breton mercenaries who had fought at Hastings and been repaid with grants of land in England and, in his instance, in Wales. Yet there was nothing boastful or belligerent about him. He spoke with quiet authority.
Ralph Delchard looked down at the bandaged leg.
‘How serious was your wound?’ he asked.
‘Very serious, my lord. I all but lost my leg.’
‘Where did you come by it?’
‘A hunting accident.’
‘Were you hunting your lost hides, by any chance?’
‘No,’ said Querengar. ‘Wild boar. I have limited hunting privileges in the forest and try to make the most of them. My horse was startled by something and threw me. I fell awkwardly.’
‘You are not the only person to appear before us with a wound.
Strang the Dane stripped his sleeve to show us a battle scar from a visit to the Westbury Hundred. According to him, it was inflicted by men in the service of Hamelin of Lisieux.’
‘They were not involved in my accident, my lord.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Unless they lay in the bushes to frighten my horse.’
‘Strang thought your claim worthless,’ said Gervase, trying to gauge his opinion of the Dane. ‘He shrugged it off completely.’
‘He is entitled to do so.’
‘It does not annoy you?’
‘No, Master Bret. Nor does it goad me into angry words about him. I am conscious that Strang did have a legitimate right to those hides at one time. What he forgot to tell you was that they were subsequently taken from him and granted to me.’
‘Hamelin of Lisieux makes an identical claim.’
‘Have you no abuse to unload on him?’ said Ralph.
Querengar smiled wryly. ‘None that could compare with what Strang will already have offered. He has a sharper tongue and a hotter temper than me. Let them rail at each other. I refuse to engage in a war of words with either of them.’
‘What about Abraham the Priest?’ asked Gervase.
A long pause. ‘Is he involved here?’
‘Did you not realise that?’
‘No, Master Bret.’
‘Hamelin of Lisieux did.’
‘He has friends in high places. Nigel the Reeve is one of them.’
‘You seem surprised to hear the archdeacon’s name.’
‘I am.’
‘Could he have a genuine claim to the land?’
‘Only he can tell you that.’
‘But you are sceptical?’
‘The only claim which concerns me is my own, Master Bret. As for the Archdeacon of Gwent,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘he will certainly fight tooth and nail for what he believes may be his.’
‘Not another bellicose Welshman!’ groaned Ralph.
‘A civilised fellow. You will like him, my lord.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘What of you?’ said Gervase. ‘Do you like Abraham the Priest?’
The wry smile. ‘It is difficult not to, Master Bret. Even when you lose an argument with him, and I have lost a few in my time.
He is a gentle soul with a gift for persuasion. It is impossible to take offence against the man.’
‘Wait until I meet him!’ warned Ralph.
‘We are straying from the point,’ said Hubert, examining the charter which the Breton had brought for their perusal. ‘This document is similar to the one offered by Hamelin of Lisieux yet they cannot both be authentic. Which takes priority? Before we can decide that, we will need to study both charters in detail.
Each bears the royal signature.’ He sighed. ‘It is a pity that the King is not here himself to tell us why he gave away the same land twice.’