More torches came to illumine the whole stable area. Knocked unconscious, the second of Ralph’s guards lay face down in the straw.
When they turned him over, they saw no apparent wounds on him.
Ralph was relieved to find both men still alive. Gervase Bret, armed with a sword, pushed his way through the crowd to get to his friend.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Robbers.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Six or seven,” said Ralph. “It was impossible to be certain. They overpowered my men and made off with some of the horses. And our supplies,” he added with a fresh surge of rage as he noted the empty stall where their packs had been stored. “Hell’s teeth! I’ll run every last one of them to the ground and hack them into small pieces!”
The tumult was slowly fading. The horses were calmed, the chickens settled down, the dog was silenced by a kick from its master and the donkey stopped braying when a providential carrot was thrust into its mouth by the resourceful Canon Hubert. Everyone was waiting for a decision from Ralph Delchard. He was no penitent now, reflecting with sadness on the harrying of the North. The outrage turned him into a stern and implacable warrior who met every reverse with a swift counter-attack.
“Saddle up!” he yelled. “We ride after them!”
The soldiers responded until another voice intervened.
“Stay!” shouted Tanchelm, holding up a hand. “Do not be so hasty.
This needs more thought.”
Ralph was peremptory. “I lead here,” he asserted. “I will not have my orders countermanded.”
“That is not what I am doing.”
“Then stand aside and hinder us no longer.”
“I merely counsel a moment’s consideration.”
“The more we talk, the further away the rogues will ride. Stay here with your own men, my lord. I have swords enough to deal with this villainy. Nobody steals from me with impunity!”
Before Tanchelm could protest, Ralph barked a command to the captain of his men-at-arms, then ran into the house to put on his hauberk and to apprise Golde of what had taken place. His horse was tacked up and waiting by the time he reappeared, and he swung himself up into the saddle. With ten men at his back, some of them bearing torches, he rode off into the night at a canter.
Golde came out to tend the wounded man, stemming the blood and bathing his temple with a piece of cloth dipped in a bowl of water. The victim was soon able to give them a hazy account of what had transpired during the scuffle. His companion, whose bare head had been struck from behind with a wooden stake, would take much longer to recover. Gervase made sure that both men were being looked after before he moved across to join Tanchelm of Ghent. The latter was still staring after the posse.
“They are wasting their time,” he sighed.
“My lord Ralph is a cunning hunter,” said Gervase.
“He would need the eyes of an owl and the speed of an eagle to catch this prey. It is futile. The thieves will know how to shake off pursuit and where they may hide without any chance of being found. This is their territory. They hold all the advantages.”
“Ralph would never forgive himself if he did not at least try to recover what was stolen. He will see the theft as a personal insult that must be answered.”
“I admire his bravado,” said Tanchelm, “but I fear that it is tinged with madness. He did not even pause long enough to see what exactly was taken.”
“Our men were attacked, our property stolen. That is surely grounds enough for leading a posse, is it not?”
Tanchelm shook his head. “Two guards were attacked, I grant you, but they were only knocked senseless when they might just as easily have been killed. Does not that tell you something about our nocturnal visitors?”
Gervase shrugged. “Only that they were thieves rather than mindless butchers.”
“Most outlaws in this part of England are both.”
“Are you suggesting that they showed a degree of mercy? That does not lessen the severity of their crime, my lord. They stole our horses.”
“But not at random.”
“What do you mean?”
“They knew precisely what they wanted and took only that.” He pointed to the stables. “Did you go inside and see what we lost? Have you reckoned up the cost? Five sumpter-horses and the remainder of our provisions. That was their chosen target.”
“How did they know what was here?” said Gervase.
“They watched us. Hostile eyes have been upon us since we came into this county. They watched and they waited for their moment.
Their strike was decisive.”
“That is certainly true. But why pick on us, my lord? We ride with a large escort. Others travel in smaller groups as more inviting quarry.
Why did they select us?”
Tanchelm stroked his chin. “I can think of two explanations. The first is that our purpose in coming to Yorkshire was known and our identity recognised. What happened tonight was merely a warning to us.”
“A warning?”
“Administered by someone who stands to lose heavily by our presence here. You have seen the cases we have to look into, Master Bret.
Some involve sizeable amounts of land. If our judgement goes against them, a number of people could be far poorer as a result of our visit.
They are trying to intimidate us in advance.”
“Then their plan has foundered,” said Gervase sharply. “We would never bend to that kind of pressure. It will take much more than a raid on our horses to frighten us. But you said there were two explanations.”
“Yes,” said Tanchelm with a smile. “The second one is much simpler. On balance, I must admit that I favour it.”
“And what might it be, my lord?”
“They stole our food for a very obvious reason.”
“Go on.”
“They were hungry.”
The brooch was strikingly beautiful. Craftsmanship of a high order had gone into its design and execution. Two inches long at most, it was made of decorated gold so subtly worked into the shape of a lion that the creature seemed almost to be alive. The tiny diamond eye glinted with ferocity and the claws reached out with savage intent, yet the animal remained somehow tame and unthreatening. It was truly the king of the beasts in miniature and the man who had commissioned it was overjoyed with the result. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he stared down at it with open-mouthed awe.
Hunched obsequiously, the jeweller watched him closely.
“Are you pleased, my lord?” he asked nervously.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.”
“I followed your instructions to the letter.”
“That is evident.”
“It was a privilege to create such a piece.”
“Exquisite,” said the customer, turning the brooch over to examine the rear. “A work of art.”
“Thank you, my lord. That pin, as you see, is exceedingly delicate so that it can pierce any material without causing damage. Your lion will scratch but never tear.”
Aubrey Maminot chuckled. He was so taken with the brooch that he was even prepared to tolerate the jeweller’s feeble sense of humour.
They were standing in a shop on Hornpot Lane, a busy little thorough-fare that wound its way down from Petergate and that had once been largely the preserve of craftsmen who worked in horn, antler, ivory and animal bone. Jewellers now developed their skills with gold, silver, amber, jet and semi-precious stones. Norman overlords were the bane of York but they had money to spend.
“Will you take it with you, my lord?” said the jeweller.
“Of course.”
“I can deliver it by hand to the castle, if you prefer.”
“It will be safer in my keeping.”
“Yes, my lord. As you wish.”