The Elephants of Norwich (8 page)

Ralph Delchard was not a man for delay. Once a decision had been made, he liked to implement it at once. Shortly after his conversation with the sheriff, he was ready to go.
    ‘Three choices confront you, my lord,’ he said, putting a foot in his stirrup.
    ‘What are they?’ asked Eustace Coureton.
    ‘You can visit an abbey with me, call on a lady with Gervase or simply stay here and take your ease. You’re under no compulsion.’
    ‘I certainly can’t be idle. As for the abbey, I think that Brother Daniel would be a more useful companion for you. I’ll ride with Gervase,’ he said, turning to his young colleague. ‘If you have no objection, that is?’
    ‘None whatsoever, my lord,’ replied Gervase. ‘You’ll be most welcome.’
    ‘Then it’s settled.’
    ‘Where does this lady live?’ said Ralph, hauling himself up into the saddle. ‘It may be that we can all ride part of the way together.’
    Gervase shook his head. ‘No, Ralph. You ride north-eastwards while we strike due south into the Henstead hundred. That’s where we’ll find her.’
    ‘Remind me of her name.’
    ‘Olova.’
    ‘And you really think that she’s worth questioning?’
    ‘We won’t know until we get there.’
    ‘What do you know about this Olova?’
    ‘Very little beyond the fact that her land was annexed by the lord Richard. She spoke up well in the shire hall in front of our predecessors but the dispute could not be brought to a resolution.’ Gervase mounted his own horse. ‘Olova is clearly a lady who’s prepared to fight for her rights.’
    ‘To the extent of theft and murder?’ said Coureton.
    ‘I don’t know. It’s highly unlikely.’
    ‘Nothing is unlikely in Norfolk,’ complained Ralph. ‘Gold elephants that disappear, a steward who gets himself hacked to death, an uninvited guest who ruins a banquet at the castle, human hands that arrive in a wooden box. These seem to be normal events here. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Abbot Alfwold stole those two elephants in person, killed Hermer in the process, then threw Olova over his shoulder and carried her off to Holme to celebrate.’
    ‘That’s a blasphemous suggestion,’ said Daniel, suppressing a smile.
    Attended by their escort, the four men were in the bailey, making preparations for their departure. Gervase had been told about the discovery made by Ralph when he called on the goldsmith and he, in turn, had confided his suspicions about Olova. Two new lines of inquiry had suddenly opened up and both had to be explored.
    ‘Don’t forget Starculf,’ Coureton reminded them. ‘His name has rather slipped out of our minds, but when all’s said and done, he’s the man who swore to get revenge.’
    Ralph was sceptical. ‘I doubt if he’s still in the county.’
    ‘Yet he has to be our chief suspect.’
    ‘If the lord sheriff and his men can’t locate Starculf, how can we hope to do so?’
    ‘The same way that you and Gervase have discovered other things that have eluded the lord sheriff’s officers,’ said Coureton. ‘By instinct and vigilance.’
    ‘Ask after Starculf at the abbey,’ said Gervase.
    ‘Yes,’ agreed Brother Daniel. ‘It’s surprising how many missing persons are tracked down that way. An abbey is not just a place of worship and self-denial.’
    ‘Self-indulgence, more like!’ said Ralph. ‘I’ve seen the belly on Canon Hubert.’
    ‘It’s a refuge for travellers,’ continued Daniel, ignoring the goodhumoured interruption, ‘and, as such, a gathering-place for news. It’s amazing how much you get to hear if you stay in one place. That’s the case in Winchester and, I dare say, in Holme. We’ll make a point of mentioning Starculf’s name to Abbot Alfwold.’
    ‘We’ll do the same when we meet Olova,’ said Gervase. ‘Meanwhile, the lord sheriff can devote his time to keeping Richard de Fontenel and Mauger Livarot apart.’
    Coureton raised a finger. ‘Another name we mustn’t forget. The lord Mauger.’
    ‘He’s not the killer,’ said Ralph, seriously. ‘Gervase and I were agreed on that.’
    ‘He could be involved in some other way.’
    ‘I know and we’re bearing that in mind, my lord. We rule nothing out.’
    ‘This case gets more complicated by the minute.’
    ‘That’s what makes it so interesting,’ said Gervase. ‘But I’m sorry that you have to endure such a distraction from our work, my lord. You were appointed as our fellow-commissioner. It’s unfair to entangle you in a murder inquiry.’
    ‘Not at all!’ said Coureton robustly. ‘I relish the challenge.’
    ‘Then let’s take it up!’ announced Ralph.
    He and Brother Daniel set off with half a dozen armed men as their escort. Accompanied by their own six soldiers, Gervase and Coureton followed them out through the castle gates. The two parties soon split to go their separate ways, Gervase pleased to be riding alongside the new commissioner. Eustace Coureton was turning out to be a more than adequate replacement for Canon Hubert. He brought an experience and sagacity that only old age could bestow yet it was allied to a youthful zest.
    ‘I never anticipated this much excitement,’ said Coureton, happily.
    ‘The real excitement will come if we manage to unmask the killer.’
    ‘We’ve already unmasked a thief, Gervase. The lord Richard himself.’
    ‘I can’t say that I’m surprised,’ observed the other. ‘Having read between the lines of the returns for this county, I suspect that Richard de Fontenel acquired very little by legal means. Why buy something when he could get away with theft? How he got the gold elephants from the abbey I don’t know, but I’m certain that he was behind the crime somehow. Ralph will tease out the truth, have no fear.’
    ‘I’ve every confidence in the lord Ralph but I have to admit that I prefer to be riding with you at the moment, Gervase.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘You’re more receptive to the wisdom of ancient Rome.’
    Gervase grinned. ‘Do you hear another whisper from Quintus Horatius Flaccus?’
    ‘I do, and it concerns the lord Richard.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘
Vis consili expers mole ruit sua.’
    ‘“Force, if unassisted by judgement, collapses under its own weight.”’
    ‘A good translation, Gervase.’
    ‘And an accurate comment on Richard de Fontenel.’

The burial service was so short that it was almost perfunctory. Like everyone else in the tiny church, the old priest was unnerved by the presence of Richard de Fontenel and gabbled the Latin at speed in a high, quavering voice. A mere handful of mourners had turned up, men from the household who came out of duty rather than out of any respect or affection for the dead man. Hermer had made few friends on the estate and none of them were there to see his remains laid in the bare earth. Conscious of the violent manner in which he died, the small congregation watched it all with a mixture of anxiety and trepidation. They shed no tears for the murdered steward. What worried them were the repercussions that might follow. In a space as confined as that of the church, they could feel the growing discontent of their master as if it were a fire slowly building up.
    Richard de Fontenel saw little and heard nothing of the service. What occupied his thoughts was the sight of the corpse inside the coffin, trussed up in a shroud with a severed hand resting each side of him. Uncertainty chafed him. He could not decide if Hermer was a loyal steward who died in his lord’s service or a traitor in the pay of a loathed rival. Whichever he was, the man had paid a fearsome price. When the coffin was taken out into the churchyard, the congregation formed a ragged circle around the grave. Mass was sung by the priest, then the mutilated body of Hermer the Steward was lowered into its final resting place. A fresh spasm of doubt seized de Fontenel. While he watched the earth drumming down on to the coffin, he wondered yet again if he was looking at a hapless victim or a man who had foolishly betrayed him.
    As his anger swelled, he decided that there was only one way to find out the truth and that was to confront the man he believed to be responsible for the crimes. Revenge was a matter of honour. The theft of the gold elephants and the loss of his steward were bitter blows to sustain. He simply had to strike back. No help could be expected from Roger Bigot or from the royal commissioners who were assisting him. They had all been taken in by Mauger Livarot. Unaware of his true character, they had accepted his lies as a convincing alibi. That, at least, was what de Fontenel thought. He knew the passion that his rival had conceived for the lady Adelaide, a feeling surpassed in intensity only by his own. Such passion drove a man to any limits. It was, he sensed, the impulse behind Livarot’s actions. It was time to respond. Brutality had to be met with brutality. A funeral that left everyone else numbed into immobility only served to provoke him into life.
    His departure was abrupt. Richard de Fontenel did not even linger to spare a word of gratitude to the priest. Stalking out of the churchyard, he mounted the waiting horse and cantered off with the two men-atarms who had come with him. It was not a long ride. As soon as he reached his house, he dropped to the ground and summoned one of his companions into the parlour.
    ‘Huegon?’
    ‘Yes, my lord?’
    ‘How long would it take you to round up my knights?’
    ‘That depends how many you want, my lord?’
    ‘All of them!’
    Huegon was astonished. ‘That may take a while, my lord.’
    ‘Then make a start now.’
    ‘What do I tell them?’ asked the other.
    ‘That I need them immediately.’
    ‘They are bound to ask why, my lord.’
    ‘Say that we’re going to teach someone a lesson he’ll never forget.’
    ‘Who might that be?’
    ‘The lord Mauger.’
    ‘You want
all
your men summoned to pay a visit to the lord Mauger?’
    ‘We’ll be doing much more than simply paying a visit,’ said de Fontenel. ‘We’re going to exact revenge. Now hurry, man! There’s no time to lose.’

In spite of his age, Eustace Coureton was an accomplished horseman. Long years spent moving from one battlefield to the next had given him a natural affinity with his destrier. No matter how hard they rode, he never seemed to tire even though he was wearing a hauberk beneath his tunic. It was Gervase Bret, in much lighter apparel, who showed the first signs of strain. Sweat glistened on his brow and his breathing was laboured.
    ‘How do you manage to do it, my lord?’ he asked, gulping in air.
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Ride so fast yet remain so calm.’
    Coureton chuckled. ‘You’re looking at a centaur, Gervase. I was half man and half horse for over thirty years. War leaves its mark.’
    ‘That’s what Ralph always says.’
    ‘The lord Ralph is a soldier still at heart. So am I.’
    ‘Yet you’ve renounced that world,’ noted Gervase. ‘You turned to scholarship.’
    ‘Yes,’ said the other with a philosophical smile. ‘I wanted something to occupy my mind while I was riding a horse.’
    They had slowed to a steady trot to rest the animals and to make conversation a little easier. Their journey had taken them due south of Norwich over flat countryside with an abundance of sheep grazing on it. Woodland slowed them down and put them on the alert against a possible ambush but they emerged unscathed into the sunlight again.
    Gervase had got his breath back. He studied the horizon ahead. ‘It shouldn’t be too far now,’ he said.
    ‘And what do you expect to find when we get there?’
    ‘A lady with good reason to hate Richard de Fontenel.’
    ‘Hatred doesn’t always drive someone to murder,’ said Coureton, ‘or there’d be homicides by the hundred every day of the week. I can think of a few victims that I might have added to the list.’
    ‘You don’t strike me as a man capable of deep hatred, my lord.’
    ‘I’m only human, Gervase. When I’ve been hurt, I want to return that pain. In my position, you’d feel the same, I dare say.’
    ‘Would I?’
    ‘You’ve a beautiful young wife who dotes on you. But supposing that some injury was inflicted upon her. An assault that left her badly wounded, for instance. Or a rape.’ He saw Gervase tense. ‘Yes, my friend. You, too, would feel hatred burning inside you then, but I doubt very much if it would drive you to kill. You’re a lawyer. You’d use the might of the law to bring the miscreant to heel.’     ‘Prevention would be my first duty,’ said Gervase, ruffled at the thought of any harm befalling his wife. ‘I’d make sure that Alys was never in a position to suffer harm.’
    ‘That’s why you’re such a good husband.’
    ‘I try my best.’
    Another mile brought them within sight of their destination. The woman they sought lived in a modest house on the remains of an estate that had dwindled almost to nothing over the previous twenty years. Of the seven timber huts that stood in a rough circle, only three were still occupied by the people who built them. The others were either derelict or inhabited by chickens or pigs. Brushwood fences surrounded the little encampment, which was situated beside a stream and in the shadow of a wooded hill. When the visitors rode into the middle of the dwellings, there was no sign of anyone at first. A sturdy young peasant then emerged from one of the huts and looked resentfully up at the Norman soldiers. Gervase nudged his horse forward so that he could speak to the man in his native language.
    ‘Good day, my friend. We’re looking for someone by the name of Olova.’
    ‘Why?’ grunted the other.
    ‘That’s our business.’
    ‘Have you come to take even more land from her?’
    ‘No,’ said Gervase, taking no offence at the man’s gruff hostility. ‘My name is Gervase Bret and my colleague here is the lord Eustace of Marden. We’re royal commissioners who’ve come to settle property disputes in this county and we are more likely to restore land to Olova than to take it away. Not that I can promise that,’ he stressed, quickly, ‘because I would never prejudge a case. But nothing here is under threat. That I can assure you.’
    The other remained tense. ‘Is that your business with Olova?’
    ‘No, my friend. We come on a more urgent matter.’
    ‘Nothing is more urgent than getting our land back,’ the youth declared.
    ‘
Our
land?’ repeated Gervase. ‘You’re related to Olova, then?’
    ‘Yes,’ said a loud voice behind him. ‘Skalp is my grandson.’
    Gervase turned to take his first look at Olova. Standing in the doorway of the largest hut, she surveyed the newcomers with a blend of dislike and disdain. Olova was a proud woman, declined in years but lacking none of the spirit she had possessed when she was the wife of a Saxon thegn of considerable standing in the county. The estates that she inherited on his death had been steadily whittled away by her Norman overlords and it had transformed a handsome face into a mask of bitterness. Gervase dismounted and walked across to her. Eustace Coureton followed his example. The old woman was surprised by the courtesy they were showing.
    ‘What do you want?’ she asked, eyeing them both.
    ‘To ask you a few questions,’ said Gervase. ‘We’ve ridden from Norwich to speak to you. You know a man called Hermer, I believe.’
    ‘More’s the pity!’
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘He’s the man who helped to rob me of my estates,’ she said. ‘Hermer is steward to the lord Richard. Two such black-hearted men never existed before.’
    ‘When did you last see Hermer?’
    ‘Not for several months.’
    ‘Is that the truth?’ he pressed.
    ‘Why should I lie?’
    ‘Have you been into Taverham hundred recently?’
    ‘I’ve no cause to do so. What land I once owned there was taken from me.’
    ‘What about your grandson? Has he been there?’
    ‘Skalp looks after me. He rarely stirs from here.’
    ‘Do other members of the family live with you?’
    Olova was irascible. ‘Why are you pestering me?’ she said, flaring up. ‘Isn’t it enough that you strip me of land that’s rightfully mine? Have you come to gloat?’
    ‘No,’ said Gervase. ‘We mean you no harm.’
    ‘Then ride on your way. I haven’t seen Hermer the Steward for months and neither has anyone here. We keep well away from that evil rogue.’
    Gervase exchanged a look with Coureton. Even though he could not understand all she said, the latter got a clear impression of the woman’s honesty. Olova clearly had no idea that the man she hated had been killed. Convinced that she was not involved in the crime, Gervase turned back to her. ‘You’ll have no more trouble from the lord Richard’s steward,’ he said.
    ‘If only that were true!’
    ‘It is true,’ he announced. ‘Hermer was murdered two days ago.’
    Olova was stunned. The change in her manner was dramatic. All the anger seemed to drain out of her face and the cold eyes lit up with sudden hope. Tears began to stream down her cheeks as she clutched her hands to her breast.
    ‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed, looking upward. ‘Our prayers have been answered.’