Ralph bristled. “That is what makes me angry! The ridicule! Snigger at us, will he? I’ll do more than tweak his Viking nose when I catch him.”
The three men were strolling around the bailey at the castle. Ralph and Tanchelm had just spoken to their respective men, giving them their orders for the morrow, when some of them would be needed in attendance. Aubrey was now showing them the finer points of his defences but their abiding interest was in the leader of the outlaws.
“Who exactly is this Olaf?” said Ralph.
Aubrey grimaced. “One more lordless man in a county that already has too many of them.”
“Are you certain that is all he is?” asked Tanchelm.
“What do you mean?”
“It is rumoured that the Danes are about to launch another attack.
That is one of the main reasons why King William set this whole Domesday Inquest in motion. So that he will have an accurate picture of the spread of wealth in England. In times of crisis, a king must know where his sources of strength and manpower are.”
“The Conqueror knows that by instinct,” said Aubrey.
“If an invasion did come, it would most probably start on the eastern coast not far from here.”
“So?”
“Could not Olaf Evil Child be playing a deeper game?” said Tanchelm thoughtfully. “You know the man, of course, and I do not, but … well, is it at all conceivable that he is in league with the Danes?”
“No, it is not.”
“Can you be certain?”
“Absolutely certain!” said Aubrey with emphasis.
“It does seem highly unlikely,” added Ralph. “If Olaf is planning to assist a Danish invasion, why is he preying on travellers and stealing their horses?”
“Who knows?” said Tanchelm. “To give them to a raiding party?
Perhaps he has stolen other horses and holds them in readiness.
Mounted warriors move much faster than long ships sailing upriver.
They have an element of surprise.” His brow furrowed, then he shook his head dismissively. “No, it is only a wild guess. Take no notice of it.
My reasoning is too simple. Because Olaf Evil Child is descended from the Danish Vikings, I wondered if he might be scouting for his friends from across the water.”
“He has no friends,” said Aubrey scornfully. “Except those who ride at his back. Olaf Evil Child is an outcast. He insists that he was dispossessed of land that was legally willed to him by his father. That is arrant nonsense. He has no legitimate claim. And he will never own a square inch of Yorkshire soil while I am here to stop him.”
“I am hopelessly wrong,” said Tanchelm, conceding his error with an apologetic shrug. “He is obviously no agent for the Danes. Olaf is merely a man with a grudge.”
“A hundred of them!”
“Some of which concern you, I fancy,” said Ralph.
“Quite a few.”
“I, too, can bear a grudge.”
“Not as well as Olaf,” said Aubrey. “He has been a thorn in my flesh for the best part of a year. I would not be in the least surprised if he attacked your party on the road because he knew that you would be my guests in York. It was yet another way of baiting Aubrey Maminot.” His lip curled. “Sooner or later, he will try it once too often and then he will be mine.”
“Leave a piece of him for me,” said Ralph.
“No, old friend,” warned the other. “Olaf Evil Child is already spoken for in this castle. If you catch him, he is yours. But if I snare him, he will be the next meal for Romulus and Remus.”
“They are remarkable pets, Aubrey.”
“England holds nothing else like them, Ralph.”
“Tell me this. How is it that two wild beasts, who can eat a man alive, are yet tame when you handle them? What sorcery do you prac-tice?”
“No sorcery,” said Aubrey with a chuckle. “Ludovico taught me the secret. Lions are like women. They need constant attention. Stroke them every day and they will purr like cats. Neglect them in any way and they will sharpen their claws in readiness to draw blood.”
“You want to see him?” asked the chaplain, aghast.
“Yes, please. If at all possible.”
“Have you any idea what state the body is in?”
“I know it was badly mauled.”
“That is too mild a description of what happened. The poor creature was literally torn limb from limb. I have looked on death in many weird forms but I have never seen anything as grotesque as this.”
Philip the Chaplain gave a shudder at the memory. “I could not eat for two days after.”
Gervase Bret was persistent. Once his curiosity was aroused, he was not easily deflected from satisfying it. While Ralph and the others were down in the bailey, he decided to call on the chaplain to see what further light could be cast on the incident that led to the grue-some death of an intruder. He was astonished to learn that the remains of the deceased were still in the tiny mortuary below the chapel.
“Why did you not bury the body?” he asked.
“In case somebody came forward to claim it. Not that my lord Aubrey would have released it, but he was anxious to know the man’s identity and his reason for entering the castle in such a headstrong way. Word was spread throughout the city.”
“No one came forward?”
“Not a soul.”
“For fear of suffering a similar fate?”
“Or of being forced to view a loved one in that pitiful condition,” said Philip. “Who can tell? The point is that decay has set in badly and the burial must take place first thing tomorrow or the mortuary will not hold in the stench.”
“You have odours enough to contend with here,” said Gervase. “The lions’ cage nearby is not exactly a perfumed arbour.”
“It will seem so after you have viewed the corpse.”
“Lead on.”
Philip the Chaplain was a short, podgy man of forty with a world-weary air. Whatever upsurge of faith had brought him into the priest-hood, it had long since spent itself and there was now a sense of duty rather than dedication about his manner. He was a caring man but he had forgotten exactly why he should care and what his mission in life properly ought to be.
Taking a lighted candle from beside the altar, he opened a door and led Gervase down a narrow circular staircase. The chapel was heavily impregnated with the aroma of burning incense and Gervase soon discovered why. Philip unlocked a heavy door and swung it slowly back on its hinges, averting his head as he did so. The stink came out to hit them like a punch and Gervase recoiled. He coughed uncontrol-lably for minutes.
“Do you still wish to go in?” said Philip.
“Please.”
“Let us be quick about our business.”
“We will be.”
“It is the body on the left.”
Gervase had not realised that the morgue had another occupant.
Two stone slabs stood side by side with a tenant lying on each one. As the candle was held up to throw its light more widely, Gervase had no trouble picking out the correct remains. The body on the right was that of an old servant who died peacefully in his sleep. The shroud clung tightly enough to describe a long angular frame with two large feet that pointed up towards heaven with the quiet certainty of a welcome.
On the other slab, the body did not lie so docilely at rest. It seemed to be half the size of its neighbour and was covered by a shroud that was soaked with blood. Herbs were strewn all around it but they could do little to sweeten its noisome reek. Hell itself might reject such a foul smell. Gervase looked up at the chaplain but the latter had seen all that he wished to of the mangled remains. Eyes closed, he was reciting the Lord’s Prayer to himself in an undertone.
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum: adveniat regnum tuum …”
Bracing himself for the worst, Gervase took the shroud between his fingers and peeled it slowly back. As he saw a face that was half eaten away, his stomach began to churn but he forced himself to go on.
Romulus and Remus had been voracious diners. One arm had been ripped off and both legs had been chewed down to the bone. Part of the torso had been bitten open and the chest was one huge, scarlet hole. It was a repulsive sight but Gervase kept looking as he tried to reconstruct, in his mind’s eye, something at least of the victim’s appearance.