Damville reined in his horse and swung its head round to view the devastated target. When he glanced across at the slaves, they went straight back to their work of unloading the stone slabs from the cart so that they could be hoisted up to reinforce the wall around the bailey. Damville was a hard taskmaster but they had to obey him. He was a law unto himself on that stretch of the Welsh border. They felt deeply grateful that one of them had not been lashed to the post in place of the straw soldier.
Dismounting with a grunt, Damville tossed the reins to a servant and beckoned his steward across. Huegon was a much older man with greying hair and a lined face. He had been standing near the main gate with a stranger. Damville removed a gauntlet and flicked a thumb at the newcomer.
“What does he want?”
“He brings a message from Hereford,” said Huegon.
“Who does he serve?”
“Corbin the Reeve.”
Damville gave a derisive snort. “Send him on his way with a dusty answer. I read no letters from that fat-gutted fool.”
“Corbin has his faults,” said the other, “but he is certainly no fool.”
“No,” admitted his master. “Perhaps he is not. Any man who can feather his nest the way that the greedy reeve has done must have some intelligence. Or native guile. I would not trust the fellow to tell me what day of the week it was. That big, oily face of his is a map of deceit.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Despatch the message unread.
That is all the reply that Corbin deserves.”
“But the letter is a summons.”
“A summons!” Damville was insulted. “For me!”
“Sent on behalf of royal commissioners,” said the steward. “What its nature is, I do not know, and neither does the fellow who brought it here post haste. All he can tell me is that it is a matter of urgency.
I think you should know what this letter betokens. Read it.”
“I am too busy.”
“Then let me glance through it on your behalf.”
Damville scowled, but he soon saw the wisdom of the advice. To spurn a letter from a despised reeve was one thing; to ignore a summons from officials on the king’s business was quite another. He gave a curt nod and Huegon collected the message and brought it across to him. Tearing it open, Damville read swiftly through its contents with growing irritation.
“I am called before them tomorrow!” he growled.
“For what purpose?”
“They do not tell me. That is what enrages me most.”
“Why have they come to Hereford?”
“In connection with this royal survey.”
“The Domesday Book?”
Damville was furious. “Call it what you will, I’ll have no more dealings with it. When the first commissioners came to the county, I went before them and gave all the evidence that was asked of me.
What more do they want?”
“There is only one way to find out.”
“I will not be sent for in this manner, Huegon.”
“If they are here by royal warrant-”
Maurice Damville turned away with an imperious gesture. The last thing he needed at that point in time was to be questioned before a tribunal in Hereford. It would be a blow to his pride and take him away from more pressing matters. Pacing up and down, he weighed his anger against the more moderate response of his steward. Huegon was a wily man whose advice was invariably sage, but Damville was minded to disregard him on this occasion. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, snatched off his helm, and glared at the messenger through black eyes. His question was hurled like a spear.
“Did you see these commissioners arrive?”
“Yes, my lord,” said the man, nervously.
“How many did they number?”
“Four.”
“With men-at-arms at their back?”
“Eight, my lord.”
Damville was contemptuous. “Only eight swords to enforce this demand! They’ll need ten times that number to get me to Hereford tomorrow.” He took a menacing step towards the now trembling messenger. “Nobody can command my presence at such short notice. Tell them that I am in no mood to oblige them. Away with you!”
“Not so fast, sir!” interceded Huegon, catching the man by the arm as he tried to scurry away. “Wait for a proper answer. This was but spoken in jest.”
Anxious to quit the place, the messenger agreed to stay while further discussion was held, but it would not take place in the bailey. Damville was already striding purposefully towards the motte, mounting the rough stone steps that led up to the tower and sweeping in through the door. Huegon went after him but waited until they were in the hall before he spoke. Maurice Damville was easier to handle in private.
A gaping audience such as he had in the bailey always brought out the worst in him.
The old man closed the door of the hall behind him.
“Your reply was ill-considered,” he said quietly.
“So was their summons.”
‘They have been sent by the king.”
“That is my main objection to their presence. I will not have every inch of my land poked at and pried into by King William. I endured it once, but not again. These royal commissioners will hear nothing from me.”
“Do you not wish to hear anything from them?”
“Why should I?”
“Because they come from Winchester.”
Damville’s expression changed visibly. His temper slowly subsided to be replaced by a calculating curiosity. He ran a hand across the lower part of his lean face.
“What can they tell us?”
“Whatever you wish to get out of them. They come from court. Their news is fresh.” He lowered his voice to a persuasive whisper. “Take me with you and let us meet their enquiries with a show of obedience.
They will the sooner be sent on their way. As long as they are in Hereford their presence is a hindrance and may advantage your foe.”
“Orbec?”
“If you are summoned, the likelihood is that he will have to bear witness as well. Richard Orbec disputes your land. Will you let him put his case to these commissioners while you stay sulking here?”
Damville crossed to the fireplace and spat into the flames. He brooded for several minutes before turning to face the steward. Mastering his rage, he nodded.
“I will go.”
“It is politic.”
“Orbec will only tell them more lies.”
“That would not be the end of it,” said the old man. “If he attended their tribunal and you did not, they would wish to know the reason why. They would come looking for you here and that is to be avoided at all cost.”
Maurice Damville allowed a sly smile to lighten his features. In repose, his face had a kind of brutal charm. Fair hair swept back from a high forehead and the cleanshaven chin was square and strong. He reached out to slap his companion on the shoulder.
“Where would I be without you, Huegon?”
“Still toiling in Normandy.”
“You always give good counsel.”
“But you do not always pay heed to it.”
“True,” said Damville, accepting the mild rebuke. “This time, I will.
Let us satisfy these commissioners and pack them off to Winchester.
But not before we have used them to strike a blow at Orbec. That would content me most.” He walked the steward back to the door. “Send word that I will present myself at the shire hall at noon tomorrow. When my business is finished, I will return here with all speed.”
“Unless you have a reason to linger in Hereford.”
“What?” Damville saw the twinkle in the old man’s eye and grinned.
“I had almost forgotten that.”
“Would you rather I had not reminded you?”
Maurice Damville’s laughter echoed through the hall.
Gervase Bret knelt at the altar rail and offered up his prayers. Work on the cathedral had stopped for the day. Alone in the building, he was able to commune with his Maker in silence. Gervase was a devout but sometimes erratic Christian. Educated in a monastery, he had been imbued with a love of study and prayer, and was on the point of taking the cowl himself when more worldly concerns pressed in upon him. Something of those concerns threaded their way into the words that he was now sending up to heaven.