“You talked of a legacy.”
“Warnod had a legitimate claim to the land that is part of Richard Orbec’s holdings. If that claim is upheld-and it lies within our power to make that judgment-then the property passes to Warnod’s heir.”
“He has no heir.”
“How do you know?”
“He lived alone. Without kith or kin.”
“That is so,” conceded Hubert, “but property may be willed to close friends just as easily as to family.”
“And it may be willed to the Church,” noted Simon.
Ilbert Malvoisin bided his time before he spoke. He had underesti-mated the two men. They were shrewd and persistent. Canon Hubert was the chief inquisitor, but Brother Simon would throw in a remark from time to time to show that he had missed nothing. The sheriff looked around for a way to disentangle himself from the dialogue.
They had strolled to the edge of the village. The sad vestiges of Warnod’s habitation could be seen in the distance. They could even pick out the mound of loose earth that had been shovelled over the red dragon.
“Did Warnod make a will?” asked Ilbert.
“Most assuredly,” said Hubert.
“How can you be so certain?”
“We spoke to the priest here. He advised Warnod how the document should be drawn up. Warnod was illiterate.”
“Apart from the priest, has anyone see this will?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it not likely to have been consumed in the fire?”
“Warnod’s claim to the land was not.”
“We have that charter in our possession,” said Simon.
Ilbert winced slightly. “That makes no difference,” he said, recovering quickly. “The charter is useless without will, and the will is invalid without a beneficiary to urge his claim.”
“The beneficiary may not be aware of his good fortune.”
“That situation may remain.”
Canon Hubert swatted an errant fly from his sleeve and changed the angle of attack. His tone was quite artless.
“Warnod’s father was a farsighted man,” he observed.
“His father?”
“A Saxon noble with several manors in this county. He did not trust Normans. He had experience of us long before the Conquest.
King Edward invited many of our countrymen to this particular part of his kingdom.”
“I am well aware of that, Canon Hubert.”
“Warnod’s father was forearmed,” said the other. “When the inva-sion came, he knew what to expect-confiscation of his lands and a reduction of his prestige.”
“The normal consequences of defeat.”
“He fought to circumvent them. Rather than have his holdings taken by the state, he granted them to the Church with the proviso that he-or his heirs-might one day regain possession of them again.”
“He hid his property under the skirts of religion,” added Simon.
“He was not alone in using this device.”
“Why do you tell me all this?” grunted Ilbert.
“Because some of that land appears to have attached itself to your own holdings, my lord sheriff,” said Hubert. “A few carucates here, a virgate or two there. It mounts up. Your Christian duty is to give to the Church, not to take from it. We see a hand in the offertory box.”
“That is a monstrous accusation!”
“But not unjust.”
“I made sworn statements before the first commissioners and showed them every document that was required. There was no impropriety.”
His voice boomed even louder. “May I remind you that I am the sheriff here, the king’s own representative in this county? Do you seriously believe that a person of my eminence would stoop to the crimes that you allege?”
Hubert was bland. “I do, indeed, believe it.”
“Calumny!”
“I know it to be true.”
“God’s blood, man!” roared Ilbert. “I am the sheriff!”
“Roger of Breteuil was the Earl of Hereford,” reminded Hubert, unperturbed by the outburst. “Until he was unwise enough to join in revolt against the king. If an earl is capable of high treason in this county then its sheriff is more than capable of some astute land-grabbing.”
“I was vindicated by the first commissioners.”
“They did not have the full information before them.”
“What information?”
“It is largely contained in Warnod’s charter.”
“That relates to Orbec’s land,” argued the sheriff with vehemence.
“You said so even now. Why do you link me with this charter?”
“Tell him, Brother Simon.”
The monk cleared his throat to pronounce the sentence.
“Your name was written across the top of it.”
A long morning in the saddle had produced no satisfactory results.
Ralph Delchard and his eight men-at-arms had combed the north of Archenfield with the utmost care. They rode along and around the disputed holdings of Richard Orbec in the firm belief that he himself would have had his own land searched for any signs of an intruder.
Gervase Bret was nowhere to be seen. Though they questioned everyone they passed on their way, they learned nothing of value.
They crossed the Golden Valley and headed towards Ewyas. It was conceivable that Gervase had strayed as far as Maurice Damville’s land, and Ralph was keen to explore every possibility. His men fanned out across an area of a hundred yards or so, peering into ditches, searching behind bushes, and even using their swords to fish around in the water of a shallow stream. Gervase still did not appear.
Ralph tugged his horse over to the captain of his men.
“Where can he be?”
“I doubt that he came this far, my lord.”
“He would hardly have gone back to Hereford,” said Ralph. “That leaves only south and west. The curiosity that took him to Richard Orbec’s land may have brought him onto Maurice Damville’s estate.”
“Either way he was running a risk, my lord.”
“Gervase had his wits about him.”
“He was still a lone man in unknown territory.” He stopped his horse and gazed ahead. “The castle cannot be too far distant. We must look to receive the same welcome there that we did from Richard Orbec.”
“That will not deter me,” asserted Ralph. “I’ll go to Damville’s castle and on into Wales itself if it is the only way to track down Gervase.”
A shout from one of the men directed their attention off to the left.
Columns of smoke were rising steadily into the air on the far side of a wooded slope. Muffled yells could be heard. Ralph reacted quickly.
Signalling his men to follow, he set off at a gallop, skirting the wood and riding down to a wide plain.
Harvesting had begun in the cornfields and the sheaves stood in rows across the fields. Five or six of the sheaves had been set alight and were blazing away. A handful of peasants were scampering around trying to move the other sheaves out of the way so that they could not be ignited by flying sparks. A few armoured knights were urging them on.
Ralph recognised Maurice Damville at once. Not content with giving orders, he had dropped from his saddle and was trying vainly to stamp out the flames that were eating one of the sheaves. Riding across to him, Ralph threw a glance at the devastation.
“Who did this?” he asked.
“Murdering Welshmen!”
“You came in time to save the bulk of the crop.”
“But not to catch those devils,” said Damville, turning to glare up at Ralph. “Look what they did.”
“It could have been much worse.”
“Yes. They might have butchered the rest of my sheep.”
“Sheep?”
Damville pointed. “Ride over to the ditch.”
Ralph and his men went in the direction indicated and found a ditch that bisected the fields. Lying on its bank was a ewe with its throat cut and its belly ripped wide open. Another animal then made a grisly appearance. Carved into the ground on the other side of the ditch, a few inches deep and three or four yards long, was a crude but unmistakeable shape. The sheep’s blood had been poured into the mould and it was still lying in thick patches on the surface of the bare earth.