“May I know your name?”
“Golde, my lord.”
“You live in the city?”
“At the west end of Castle Street,” she said. “It is the merest step away.”
“I wondered why the guards seemed to know you.”
“They have seen me here many times. I have business in the castle that makes me a frequent visitor, though I have come on a different errand this time.”
Ralph did not press her for details. They would come when they were away from public gaze. Instead, he chatted amiably about his first impressions of the city. Only when they reached the tower did his manner change. He opened the door of the solar and gestured for her to go in.
Golde met his eyes and saw the frank affection in them. He saw an answering flicker of interest that was replaced by a look of concern, but she signalled her trust by asking her companion to wait outside.
Ralph followed her into the room and closed the door behind him. He waved her to a chair, but she preferred to stand.
“May I call for some wine?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
“Can I offer you any other refreshment?”
“I have simply come in search of information.”
“About what?”
“There are rumours of a cruel murder.”
“Why do they arouse your interest?”
“Because the name I heard whispered was Warnod.”
“You know the man?”
“I know of him,” she said carefully. “And I would be glad to learn the truth of the matter. Marketplace gossip can often be misleading.
I hope to hear that Warnod may not have been the victim of this crime.”
Ralph heaved a gentle sigh. “Then your hope is likely to be dashed, I fear.”
“Can you be certain?”
“Warnod was killed last evening by unknown assassins.”
“How?”
“The details might distress you.”
“How? ” she insisted.
“He was barricaded into his house and burned alive.”
Golde winced but quickly regained her composure. Ralph was struck once again by the haunted beauty of her face. In his opinion, Saxon women did not usually compare with the ladies of Normandy, but here was a startling exception. Still in her twenties, she had the look of someone well acquainted with adversity yet able to meet it with a brave heart. Though apprehension had brought her to the castle, what Ralph now caught was a sense of her innate resilience.
Expecting bad news, she had adjusted to it with remarkable control.
“Are you sure you would not like something?” he asked.
“No, my lord.”
“The wine is tolerable.”
“I do not drink wine.”
“Neither do most people around here,” he complained in jocular tones. “They prefer the local ale. It is beyond belief. They could have the finest wine from Normandy yet they drink this disgusting English ale.” He saw a half-smile. “What is the joke? Have I said something comical?”
“No, my lord.”
“Do you despise our taste for wine?”
“It is not my place to do so.”
“Then why did you smile even now?”
“That comment about disgusting English ale.”
“It is flat, evil-smelling, and revolting to look at. I loathe it. But why should that amuse you?”
“Because I brew the ale for this castle.”
Ralph goggled. “You! ”
“For castle and cathedral,” she said proudly. “It is a worthy occupation and I have yet to receive a complaint. My husband was the most successful brewer in Hereford and I inherited his business when he died. Do not be amazed, my lord. Many of the best brewers in the city are women.”
“I do not doubt it,” he said, covering his embarrassment with a chuckle. “And I was not condemning your ale. It has a quality all of its own, I am sure, but I was raised amid the vineyards of Normandy.
Wine is nectar to me.”
Golde smiled to show that she was not offended by his remarks. In the brief moment when their eyes locked, he saw a vulnerability which had not been there before. It was as if their discussion of ale had thrown her off guard. He stepped in close to her to take advantage of the moment.
“What really brought you here this evening?” he said.
“I wished to make enquiry.”
“Is this Warnod related to you in some way?”
“No, my lord.”
“A friend, perhaps? A customer for your ale?”
“He is … known to me. That is all.”
“It would take more than that to fetch you in search of the sheriff,”
he suggested. “Warnod is known to many people, but they are not all queueing up at the castle gate to learn the details of his murder. I think you have a more serious reason. Confide in me and I will not betray you.”
She turned away. “I will take my leave.”
“Wait,” he said, touching her arm to stop her. “This is important to me. I am part of a commission sent to look into abuses that have come to light in this county. Warnod was to have been called before us. His evidence would have been crucial. His death is an inconvenience, to say the least. I wish to see if it is in any way linked to our arrival here, so anything-anything at all-that you may tell me about Warnod will be of value.” He took his hand from her arm. “Please, help me. If this man means something to you, help me to find his killers.”
Golde bit her lip and looked up at him, wrestling with her conscience and wondering how far she could trust him. Ralph met her gaze and waited until the words eventually slipped quietly from her lips.
“Warnod was a friend,” she confessed. “When he was riding back to Archenfield, he was on his way home from a visit to my house.”
Chapter Three
Richard Orbec rose before dawn and went straight to the tiny chapel. Its simplicity was striking. Four bare stone walls enclosed an area which could accommodate no more than a mere handful of worship-pers. The gold crucifix that stood on the little altar was the only concession to luxury. Wax candles burned on either side of it. There were no windows. It was more like a monastic cell than a chapel of a Norman lord.
Orbec knelt on the cold paving slab in an attitude of submission.
He remained alone in the dank chamber for the best part of an hour.
Nobody dared to interrupt him. Morning prayer was a solitary vigil that he never neglected. Members of his household had learned to stay well clear of their ascetic master during his devotions.
Breakfast was a hasty meal of bread and wine. Orbec then changed into his hauberk in readiness for the journey. He summoned Redwald, the manorial reeve.
“Is all ready?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You have the documents?”
“In my satchel,” said Redwald, patting the leather pouch that was slung from his shoulder. “I have brought everything that may be asked for, my lord, and much that may not. Nothing has been left to chance.”
“Good.”
Richard Orbec was a stocky man of medium height with dark hair and a swarthy complexion. Unlike most Normans, he kept his hair long and wore a beard. When driven to anger, his green eyes would blaze and his face would take on an almost satanic quality. Most of the time, however, he was placid and personable. Still in his thirties, he moved with an athletic grace.
“Who else is called before the king’s tribunal?” he asked.
“I do not know, my lord. But I can guess one name.”
“Damville?”
“You will be able to renew your dispute with him.”
“I would rather do that with a dagger than with a pile of documents,”
said Orbec, ruefully, “but this way may prove just as effective. We caught him on the hip when we appeared before the first commissioners. Let us do the same with this new tribunal.”
“It may not be quite so easy, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“Huegon is a wily steward and a persuasive advocate.”
Orbec smiled. “That is why I put you up against him.”