“No,” she said. “He is you.”
“In what sense?”
“You are my real lion!”
Aubrey laughed and embraced her with renewed ardour.
CHAPTER NINE
Brother Simon was the first to admit it. He was spiritually and constitutionally unsuited to the rigours of the workaday world. A simple journey through the streets of York was an assault on his sensibilities.
The pungent smells made him swoon and the swirling activity all around him unsettled his stomach. The swooping birds frightened him and the packs of roaming dogs seem to elect him for special perse-cution. But it was the sight and sound of countless females that really edged him towards hysteria. Fishwives screeched, washerwomen cackled, ancient dames traded gossip and every mother in the city seemed to be engaged in haggling aloud in the market.
With the supportive bulk of Canon Hubert beside him, he might have withstood it all had there not been the horrendous event in the shire hall. Tanchelm of Ghent had been murdered not ten feet from where Simon had earlier sat at the table. The monk felt the hand of death brush the side of his face. It reduced him to gibbering incoherence.
York was a crucible of evil. He fled from its tumult into the minster.
Canon Hubert was more resilient. While his companion yearned only for solitude, he was ready to brave the turmoil of the streets in the interests of justice. Tanchelm had been a friend and a colleague. Hubert wanted to do all he could to assist the hunt for his killer. Having spent more time with the victim than most people, he felt that he knew him better and might therefore contribute details that would elude anyone else. An hour exploring a pile of documents convinced him that he had pertinent information to offer. Mounting his donkey, he wobbled off to the castle once more.
Ralph Delchard was less than ecstatic to see him.
“This is no place for you, Canon Hubert.”
“But we must have conference.”
“Our business here is postponed until we have tracked down a murderer. He occupies all our attention.”
“I have come to help you to that end.”
“It is soldier’s work.”
“My lord …”
“Leave it to us.”
They were in the courtyard. Ralph had just returned to the castle when Hubert arrived at a bouncing trot. The canon was an unnecessary distraction. Ralph was pursuing enquiries independent of the investigation led by the deputy sheriff and he needed time alone to think and to plan. With a blunt farewell, he turned on his heel but Hubert would not be shaken off so easily. His bulbous heels took the donkey scurrying in a circle to obstruct Ralph’s path.
“Hear me out, my lord,” he said. “I beg you!”
“Move aside.”
“I am as desperate as you to catch the murderer.”
“Then return to the minster and pray for our success. We will need all the assistance we can coax from above.”
“But I have a name for you.”
“A name?” Ralph was checked. “Of the killer?”
“I would not go that far without further proof,” said Hubert, “but one name might lead to another. It is at least worth considering.”
“As you wish,” said Ralph impatiently.
“May we not go somewhere more private?”
“The courtyard will do.”
“But someone may overhear us.”
“Only your donkey. Now, what is this name you brandish?”
Hubert dismounted and moved in closer to him.
“Yesterday,” he said in a confidential whisper, “you asked what disputes we were about to consider. One of them, you thought, might have a bearing on my lord Tanchelm’s death.”
“That was Gervase’s belief. He no longer holds it.”
“Why not?”
“That is immaterial.”
“Is there some fresh evidence about which I should hear?”
“No,” said Ralph, anxious to detach himself. “You know all. Now, what is this name?”
“The man has holdings in the wapentake of Burghshire. Several of them once belonged to Sweinn Redbeard.”
“I remember. The father of Olaf Evil Child.”
“The competing claims did not come before our predecessors here because neither Olaf nor his rival was able to appear before the commission.”
“The contest is void,” said Ralph. “Olaf cannot come to York this time either. If he dares to show his face in the city, he will be arrested as an outlaw.”
“My lord Tanchelm felt otherwise.”
“On what grounds?”
“That Olaf Evil Child had a strong case to offer.”
“A horse thief given the benefits of law?”
“I protested strongly on that account.”
“What was the answer?”
“My lord Tanchelm felt that Olaf at least had the right to be heard and that his other crimes came not within our purview.”
“This is madness!”
“So I represented to him.”
“He’d never get Olaf Evil Child near the shire hall.”
“My lord Tanchelm swore that he would.”
“How?” wondered Ralph. “How could he succeed where Aubrey Maminot and a hundred men have failed? They have been searching for Olaf for months. Did Tanchelm really believe he could entice the rogue here?”
“Yes, my lord. You forget something.”
“What is that?”
“He had a Danish wife.”
“So?”
“Olaf has Danish forbears.”
Ralph fell silent. Rash dismissal of Tanchelm’s intentions might prove to be folly. The man worked in strange and subtle ways. If he was going to such lengths to lure Olaf Evil Child to the city, it might be for reasons unconnected with the disputed property. Ralph was glad he had been forced to listen to Canon Hubert. His perennial adversary might have stumbled on some valuable intelligence.
“You have still not told me the name.”
“No, my lord,” said Hubert. “I felt I had to acquaint you with the circumstances before I did so.”
“That was wise.”
“Olaf’s claim is that he was ousted from his land.”
“By whom?”
“Robert Brossard.”
Ralph shrugged. “I have never heard the name before.”
“Nor I. It was my lord Tanchelm who discovered the coincidence. He said that you and Gervase mentioned him several times when you discussed a case of your own.”
“Mentioned whom?”
“The half-brother of Robert Brossard.”
“And who might that be?”
“Nigel Arbarbonel.”
Whooping with delight, Nigel Arbarbonel rode his horse at a gallop towards the hill with his men-at-arms behind him like a giant swal-lowtail. He had left York with a feeling of exhilaration that never abated. Everything had worked out to his satisfaction. His estates had been preserved, his enemies routed and the tribunal confounded. His position in the county would henceforth be invincible. He was once more a law unto himself.
When he reached the crest of the hill, he reined in his mount and looked down at the vale ahead. Sitting at its heart was a large house with a thatched roof. A cluster of outbuildings stood nearby. The place looked deserted but it had a solidity and sense of purpose that gave it a lustre.
Nigel Arbarbonel spoke to the man beside him.
“The house of Thorbrand,” he sneered.
“Well-placed and well-built, my lord.”
“It offends my eye.”
“You thought to live there yourself at one time.”
“No,” corrected Nigel with a smirk. “I thought to stay there for a night or two when the fancy took me. But the lady would not have me as her lodger so I drove her and her mother out to meaner habitation.
The house disgusts me now.”
“What will you do with it, my lord?”
“Destroy it!”
“Why?”
“Because it reminds them,” he said. “It brings back memories of the time when Thorbrand owned and farmed this whole vale. Those days are gone for good and they must be taught that. As long as that house stands, they will hope.” He gestured to some of his men. “Burn it!”
Four of them immediately cantered down into the vale. Nigel Arbarbonel watched with malignant pleasure as the first plume of smoke began to rise.