“Normans.”
“I’ve never known such a stench.” He surveyed the keep for a full minute. “I’ll go first. Wait until I’m inside before you leave the rampart.”
“God go with you!”
“Amen!”
He checked to see that nobody was looking, then hurried down the wooden steps into the courtyard. Moving towards the rear of the keep, he chose a part of the palisade that was largely obscured from the bailey. It was lower than the wall they had already scaled and his rope found its target on his first throw. Within a second, he was up and over the initial line of defence.
The older man was about to follow when a great roar went up from beyond the palisade. The noise was so loud and so savage that it seemed to fill the whole castle. His friend cried out in terror but his voice was drowned beneath a second blood-curdling roar. Guards came running, lights appeared at windows in the keep, animals in the courtyard were restive. Wanting to rescue his companion, the figure on the rampart was frozen by fear.
He caught one last glimpse of his friend. The younger man clambered up the inside of the palisade and tried to climb over it but something caught him from behind with a triumphant roar and began to drag him back down. As the courtyard filled with soldiers, the older man looked to his own safety. His accomplice was beyond salvation.
Impaled on the sharp stakes, he was howling in agony as unseen tormentors attacked him from below.
The man on the rampart took to his heels. With the roaring still in his ears, he flung himself unceremoniously over the palisade and dropped through the darkness into the filth of the ditch. Bruised by the fall, he yet had enough strength to drag himself to his feet and limp off in the direction of the river. His mind was ablaze and he was further impeded by the weight of the terrible news that he bore.
The lions of York were still dining noisily behind him.
CHAPTER ONE
“Who is he?” demanded Canon Hubert with frank disdain.
“Tanchelm of Ghent,” said Gervase.
“I know his name and his country of origin. But what of his character, his rank, his fitness for this important work? In short, what manner of man is this Tanchelm of Ghent and why is he being allowed to interfere in our affairs?”
“He is coming to aid and to advise us, Canon Hubert.”
“We need no aid,” argued the other vehemently. “We require no advice.
Did we not discharge our duties ably enough in the Savernake Forest?
Were we not decisive in our handling of irregularities in the Blackwater Estuary? Have we not earned praise for our success in Archenfield?”
“We have, indeed.”
“All that was achieved on our own, Gervase.”
“True enough.”
“Then answer me this. If we can manage perfectly well without him in Wiltshire, in Essex and in Herefordshire, why are we saddled with Tanchelm of Ghent when we ride to that heathen wasteland known as Yorkshire?”
“It is the King’s express wish.”
“We do not want another commissioner.”
“Royal command overrides our own inclinations.”
Canon Hubert sulked in silence. He was sitting astride his donkey close to the half-built cathedral up on the hill. It was shortly after dawn and the city of Lincoln was already bursting into life below them.
Gervase Bret, also mounted, hid his amusement behind an expression of studied neutrality. The young Chancery clerk remembered only too well how long and how vociferously Hubert had resisted the summons to take up his present role, contending, with righteous indignation, that he had been called to serve God in Winchester rather than to oblige the Conqueror by journeying to inhospitable corners of his kingdom. Yet this same reluctant canon was now boasting about their earlier triumphs and strongly resisting the addition of a new member to their commission. Canon Hubert did not want to share any of their glory with a stranger.
He came out of his silence to repeat his question.
“Who is Tanchelm of Ghent?”
“I do not know,” admitted Gervase. “All I can tell you is that he has substantial holdings in this county.”
“Then why does he not stay to look after them instead of obstructing our deliberations?”
“He has been sent to assist us, Canon Hubert.”
“Unnecessarily.”
“I disagree. We have a large number of cases to examine, some of them so tangled that we may be grateful for an extra pair of hands to help to unravel them. This is by far our most onerous assignment. We must look to spend at least a fortnight in the North Riding alone.”
Hubert emitted a groan of despair and rolled his eyes towards heaven in supplication. The adipose canon was not enjoying the journey to Yorkshire. He was a poor traveller at the best of times and they had been on the road for over a week already. Lincoln seemed like a beacon of hope after the interminable ride from Winchester and he expected to be welcomed and soothed by Bishop Remigius himself. Instead, since the bishop was absent from the city, Hubert had spent the night at the home of one of the secular canons. Having arrived in Lincoln too late to see anything of the place, they were now leaving too early to permit any but the most cursory exploration. It was galling.
There was another reason for Hubert’s deep frustration. It came out through the gate of the nearby castle. Ralph Delchard rode at the head of a troop of fifteen men-at-arms from his personal retinue but it was not the sight of the Norman lord that offended Hubert. He was accustomed to the mocking joviality of his fellow commissioner by now.
What he could not get used to-still less, approve of-was the presence at Ralph’s side of an attractive and gracious woman.
Golde had drifted into their lives during their stay in Hereford and she would assuredly have drifted out again if circumstance had not thrown her and Ralph Delchard together. She was now his constant companion. Gervase was very fond of her but Hubert regarded the Saxon woman as an irritating encumbrance and a symbol of moral decay.
“Good morrow!” called Ralph.
Golde offered a warm smile by way of greeting.
Gervase gave them a cheery wave but Hubert merely grunted in acknowledgement. Brother Simon, faithful scribe to the commission, could not even manage a grunt. He lurked in the shadows a short distance away and watched Golde with mute disquiet. Women of all kinds unsettled him and he had taken the cowl partly as a means of isolating himself from the terror of their tenderness. What scandalised him was that Golde had such a close and candid relationship with a man to whom she was not married. In Simon’s codex, she was anathema.
He was being forced to travel alongside someone who deserved excommunication.
“Where is our new colleague?” asked Ralph, reining in his horse.
“He should have been here at first light.”
“Let us ride on without him,” urged Hubert.
“We have orders to wait.”
“Our embassy will brook no delay.”
“He will not be long,” said Gervase. “Tanchelm dwells nearby. And it would be foolish to continue without the additional escort that he will surely bring.”
“Wise words,” agreed Ralph. “The road to York is a long one and many bands of outlaws haunt it in search of easy prey. We will need all the swords that we can muster in order to ensure our safe passage.”
He beamed at Golde. “And to guarantee the lady complete protection.”
“I fear nothing when I am at your side, my lord,” she said softly. A spluttering noise drew her attention to the figure in the shadows. “I did not see you there, Brother Simon. Good day to you!”
To be in Golde’s company was ordeal enough for him: To be addressed directly by her was like a sudden descent into purgatory with no intervening stops. Brother Simon shut his eyes tight, crossed himself and began to pray vigorously. Ralph came across to tease him but the clatter of hooves diverted his attention away from the Benedictine monk.