‘Have you been here so long and learned so little?’ he mocked.
‘About what?’ said Ralph.
‘The lascivious lord Nicholas. The wonder is that he was out of a woman’s arms long enough to get himself killed. Three women fight over his property but it was promised to thirty or more in the bedchamber.’
‘Do not listen to him,’ said Baldwin indulgently.
‘Nicholas Picard was led by the pizzle,’ said Berold, performing an obscene mime with the sword. ‘His brains were in his balls.’
‘Peace!’ warned his master.
‘He fooled many a husband in Exeter.’
‘Enough, I say!’
‘He was better at fooling than I am.’
‘Berold!’
‘Look to the ladies! That is my counsel.’
‘Leave us!’
‘The secret lies between a woman’s thighs. Remember that.
Nicholas Picard kept his prick hard.’
Before the sheriff could cuff him into silence, Berold jumped back, thumbed his nose at him, sheathed his sword then cartwheeled round the courtyard. Baldwin watched him with amusement.
‘Berold pops up when you least expect him.’
‘Is it true about the lord Nicholas?’ asked Ralph. ‘Was he such an amorous friend to the ladies?’
‘He was a handsome man, Ralph. Many favours came his way.
Who would not take advantage of such bounty?’
‘Gervase would not. He is betrothed.’
‘Nicholas Picard was married. That did not restrain him.’
‘Did his wife tolerate his wanderings?’
‘I think she was grateful for them,’ said Baldwin darkly. ‘But ignore what Berold told you. He always exaggerates. It goes with his trade. If he did not make me laugh so much, I would have thrown him out years ago.’ He turned on his heel and marched off towards the keep.
‘What do you make of that, Gervase?’ asked Ralph.
‘I think that the fool speaks more wisdom than his master.’
‘So do I. Nicholas Picard loved a sport which probably cost him his life.’ He grinned broadly. ‘When the good Bishop Osbern delivered his eulogy at the funeral, did he make mention of any of this?’
‘No, Ralph.’
‘I wonder why.’ He guffawed loudly as they strolled across the courtyard.
By the light of the candle, Asa stared at the letter but saw only the man who had written it. She ran the parchment softly against her cheek to savour his memory. Her tears had stopped now to be replaced by a dry-eyed nostalgia that was in turn buttressed by a quiet determination. Her letter was not only a treasured memento. It was a weapon with which to fight for her rights. An heirloom.
Asa had not stirred from her bedchamber since she returned from the funeral. Food and drink lay untouched on a tray beside her. She was deaf to the entreaties of her servant. The service at the cathedral had been a trial, but she endured it willingly for his sake. In an almost exclusively Norman gathering, Asa was an obvious outsider, a Saxon interloper who was made to feel the lowliness of her position, hurt by remarks, wounded by glances, insulted by gestures, disdained by all. It was worth it.
The letter wiped away all memory of the slights she had suffered.
She kissed it softly then caressed his signature.
Footsteps ascended the stairs then there was a tap on the door.
‘Yes?’ she called.
Goda entered and shut the door behind her. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Can you not guess?’
Her heart sank. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘What shall I tell him?’
‘That you found me asleep.’
‘He will have heard our voices.’
‘Then tell him that I am unwell.’
‘Will you not even speak with him?’
‘No, Goda. Send him away.’
‘But he is anxious to see you.’
‘Another time.’
‘He will not be pleased.’
‘I will live with his displeasure,’ said Asa with sudden anger.
‘Who does he think he is? I am not at his beck and call any time of the day. Has he forgotten where I was this morning? At a funeral service. I wish to mourn in private, Goda. I need to be alone.’
‘Shall I tell him to come back?’
‘Simply get him out of my house.’
‘It is not wise to offend him,’ warned the servant. ‘He can be helpful.’
Asa pursed her lips and nodded. ‘That is true, alas. My whole life turns on men who can be helpful to me. Say that I am unable to see him now,’ she continued. ‘Give him my apologies.’
‘When is he to call again?’
A sense of power coursed through Asa and made her smile.
‘When I send for him,’ she said airily.
Chapter Seven
Bishop Osbern was a generous host, attentive to the needs of his guests and somehow finding time in a busy day to spend with them. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were invited to his lodging that evening. Dean Jerome was also in attendance. All four of them sat round an oak table and talked at leisure. The whole room was filled with a wonderful sense of Christian fellowship.
While Hubert basked in it, Simon positively glowed. They were happy to be on consecrated ground again.
‘It has been a testing day for you, I hear,’ said Osbern softly.
‘Yes, your Grace,’ sighed Hubert. ‘The debate was interminable.’
‘So I understand from Geoffrey, abbot of Tavistock. He, too, is a welcome guest here but I thought it more politic to keep you apart from him. If you are locked in legal argument with each other, it is perhaps best to confine your meetings to the shire hall.’
‘A sensible course of action.’
‘Yes,’ added Simon. ‘Thank you for yet another kindness, your Grace.’
‘My concern was not only for you,’ admitted Osbern. ‘A selfish motive was involved as well. Geoffrey has many fine qualities but he can be combative. And inordinately loud. Had we brought him face to face with you then the peace of this house would assuredly have been broken.’
‘Your decision was wise, your Grace,’ said Jerome from behind his lugubrious mask. ‘When Geoffrey raises his voice in Exeter, he is heard by his monks in Tavistock. But,’ he said, quick to absolve himself of the charge of prejudice against a guest, ‘there is no more effective abbot in the whole of Devon. His career has been an inspiration to others and we are delighted to have him beneath our roof once more.’
‘In other circumstances,’ said Hubert pompously, ‘I am sure that we would enjoy each other’s company, but I fear that my position as a royal commissioner makes that impossible at the moment.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed the bishop.
Osbern looked tired and frail. The network of blue veins seemed to be more prominent and there were deep, dark bags of skin beneath his eyes. Simon felt that they were imposing on the bishop when he was clearly exhausted, but Hubert paid no heed to the signs of fatigue. While he had the ear of the bishop, he was determined to make the most of it.
‘You were chaplain to King Edward,’ he recalled.
‘That is so, Canon Hubert.’
‘Was he as devout as report has it?’
‘More so,’ said the bishop fondly. ‘He was a zealous student of the Scriptures and could discuss them knowledgeably. It was a delight to be part of such a Christian household.’
‘Do you imply that King William’s household is not Christian?’
‘Heaven forfend! That would be a gross slander. The King is a devout man in his own way, less given to meditation than King Edward, perhaps, but no less dedicated to building a strong Church which can provide spiritual guidance to the nation.’ Osbern sat back in his chair. ‘I was honoured to be chosen as chaplain to two kings, a Saxon and a Norman.’
‘You are the only man alive who can say that, your Grace,’ said Jerome with a ghoulish smile. ‘You provide the bridge between the two reigns.’
‘Over the chasm that was Earl Harold,’ said Hubert.
‘King Harold,’ corrected Osbern.
‘We do not recognise him as an anointed king.’