‘King William!’
‘He has come late.’
‘By design.’
‘And with a sizeable entourage.’
‘I’ll be interested to see who rides with him.’
‘And will you tell me when you find out?’ she teased.
‘Immediately.’
Ralph’s smile congealed as soon as it was formed. Something had aroused his suspicion. When the last of the horsemen had ridden through the castle gate, a tall figure emerged from the shadows and strode swiftly across the Bearland. The man had been watching the arrival of the royal party. Ralph only saw the man in silhouette but his gait and bearing were distinctive. He had witnessed both at the shire hall.
Golde noticed that he now sat bolt upright in the saddle.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’ve gone tense, Ralph.’
‘It was that man who walked in front of the castle.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I think so.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Abraham the Priest.’
The long tables were bedecked with dishes of all kinds and wine flowed freely in the light of a hundred candles. A magnificent repast awaited the visitors. Though he had complained about the royal visit, Durand the Sheriff was also pleased by it because it was an indication of his own status in the King’s counsels. Sitting with his guests, the sheriff was at his most affable and his wife at her most charming. The long wait had left the hosts themselves feeling the pangs of hunger and they could now allay them in the best possible way. Yet there was no air of celebration in the hall. The delicious fare was consumed with thanks rather than with any jollity. The King was there on serious business. It showed.
Durand waited until the end of the meal before he broached the topic which had occupied his mind since he first heard of the possibility of a royal visit. He leaned respectfully across to his guest of honour.
‘Is there anything else you require, my liege?’
‘A soft bed and a quiet night.’
‘We all need those.’
‘Not all of us, Durand,’ said William, casting an eye over some of the members of his entourage. ‘There are a few here who would prefer a warm woman in that soft bed, then the night would be far from quiet.’
‘Hot blood runs in young veins.’
‘I should know. I have spilled it often enough.’
William the Conqueror, King of England and Duke of Normandy, spoke with gruff regret. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with extremely long arms. The aura of majesty was unmistakable but so was the fatigue of warfare. He was approaching his sixtieth year now and the cares of office showed in the craggy face, already lined by the succession of betrayals, reversals and disappointments he had suffered, and scored most deeply by the death of his wife, Matilda, a tiny woman for such a portly warrior but a true queen in every sense. William was a bundle of contradictions, peremptory yet pious, uncultured yet intelligent, harsh yet capable of great gentleness, a belligerent man who desired nothing more than the peace which constantly eluded him.
‘You have not told me the purpose of this visit,’ said Durand.
‘Do I need a purpose before I can come to Gloucester?’
‘Of course not, my liege.’
‘Is friendship not excuse enough, Durand?’
‘More than enough. But I am bound to observe that two members of your Council have arrived with you, and Bishop Wulfstan was already here at your request. May we expect others to join us?’
‘No,’ said William, sitting back in his chair. ‘With your own good self, I have four sage counsellors around me. That will suffice.’
‘To discuss what?’
‘Whatever we choose.’
‘I will press you no more on the matter,’ said Durand, backing off at the sign of evasion. ‘I just felt that I should point out that another of your erstwhile counsellors is in Gloucester at this time.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Hamelin of Lisieux.’
‘His opinion will not be sought,’ said William sharply. ‘I heard that he spends most of his time in Normandy with that pretty wife of his. What brings him here?’
‘A dispute over his holdings, my liege.’
‘But of course. I was forgetting that the second commissioners were sent to the county. Are they still here?’
‘Under this very roof. Except for Canon Hubert and their scribe.
They prefer to lodge at the abbey.’
‘A fortuitous decision,’ said Wulfstan, sitting on the other side of the King and easing himself into the conversation. ‘A foul murder was recently committed there. They have been able to assist in tracking down the fiend responsible.’
Durand crackled. ‘Their help is quite unnecessary.’
‘But Canon Hubert has such a quick mind.’
‘Too quick, Bishop Wulfstan.’
‘I have met the man,’ said William thoughtfully. ‘And I know Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret even better. All three are very able or I would not have given them such high office. Make use of them while they are here, Durand. You could not ask for more efficient deputies.’
‘I do not ask for any deputies at all.’
‘The crime must be solved swiftly,’ urged Wulfstan. ‘You should be grateful that these men are taking the trouble to help you.’
‘I am grateful,’ lied Durand.
‘So you should be,’ said William firmly. ‘Seek assistance from those best suited to give it to you. That is what I always do. I ask, I discuss, I consult. As a result, my decisions are the sounder and I do not feel that my authority has in any way been undermined. Is that your fear?’ he asked shrewdly. ‘A loss of control?’
‘Only a sheriff can investigate a homicide.’
‘Not when he is sitting in council with his king. We will spend a lot of time in this hall over the next day or two, Durand, because we have much to discuss. My needs have priority over those of the abbey. Even the bishop will acknowledge that.’
‘Freely, my liege,’ said Wulfstan.
‘I am sure that you have capable officers but they will lack the perseverance of Ralph Delchard and the others. Put your trust in them,’ he said, resting a hand on the sheriff’s arm. ‘They are not untried in such matters. If anyone can apprehend the killer, it is them.’
Durand’s food was organising an armed rebellion in his stomach.
Kenelm was in a quandary. Too tired to stay awake, he was too afraid to sleep lest it render him vulnerable to more of the hideous nightmares that afflicted him. As he lay on his mattress in the dormitory, he inhabited a kind of limbo between the two, dozing off, shaking himself instantly awake, then feeling the drowsiness creep over him once again. He had jerked himself out of his slumber for the third time when he heard the sound. Someone was moving stealthily across the floor. The creak of a board caused them to stop and wait before inching their way forward again. At first Kenelm thought it might be Elaf, but his friend was still on the mattress next to him, sleeping soundly, impervious to all around him. Who, then, was creeping out of the dormitory?
Raising himself on his elbows, Kenelm saw the figure flit through the doorway. He was bewildered. Owen was the last novice he expected to sneak out in the middle of the night. He was the most timid and well-behaved boy in the abbey, and nocturnal wandering was strictly forbidden. Kenelm wondered what could possibly make Owen court a beating from the Master of the Novices. He had to find out. Rising to his feet, he made for the door with greater speed than Owen, cleverly negotiating the floorboards which creaked. Kenelm caught up with him near the cloister garth. The other boy was patently frightened, darting nervously from one hiding place to another, but something impelled him to go on.