‘So did the abbot of Tavistock,’ Hubert reminded him.
‘And so did everyone else south of Bristol!’ said Ralph with sarcasm. ‘The next person who will assert his right to those holdings will be Berold the Jester! This dispute trembles on the edge of absurdity.’
‘It is a major case,’ said Gervase calmly, ‘and should be heard sooner rather than later. Many different interests are involved here. If we settle this dispute with firm authority at the start of our sojourn here, it will act as a salutary warning to those involved in later cases. It will set the standard for all else that follows.’
‘I could not agree more, Gervase,’ said Ralph.
‘Nor I support you less,’ added Hubert. ‘There are questions of taste and delicacy here. We must not be seen to incite an argument over the bones of a man who has not yet been buried.’
‘I side with Canon Hubert,’ said Simon loyally.
‘And I incline to his view as well,’ confessed de Marigny. ‘Can the widow of the lord Nicholas really wish us to proceed so soon?’
‘According to Saewin,’ said Ralph. ‘He received a personal visit from her steward, urging that there be no delay. This same steward, Tetbald, is to represent the widow before us. He has full authority to act in her stead so the case will proceed.’
‘Against my better judgement,’ noted Hubert.
Ralph beamed. ‘As usual.’
‘I find this very perplexing,’ said de Marigny, scratching his head. ‘If I was brutally murdered, I am certain that my wife would not wish to continue any litigation in which I was involved until a decent interval had elapsed for mourning. Can this lady be so heartless that she does not need to weep over her husband’s tomb? Or is there another reason why she wishes to hurry this matter through?’
‘The explanation has already been given, my lord,’ said Gervase.
‘This dispute hangs over his widow like a black cloud. Until it is dispelled, she is not able properly to mourn the deceased. And is it so surprising that a wife should fight for something which she believes is part of her rightful inheritance?’
‘Golde would do so in the same position,’ said Ralph.
‘I doubt that,’ returned de Marigny.
‘So do I,’ supported Hubert.
‘You forget that the lord Nicholas’s widow will not be here in person,’ said Gervase, keen to terminate the debate. ‘While she grieves in private, her steward can speak for her in public. If he can report to her that we find in her favour, I am sure that it will be a balm to her troubled mind.’
‘No more argument,’ announced Ralph. ‘It is agreed.’
Canon Hubert grumbled, Brother Simon rolled his eyes in despair and Hervey de Marigny still had reservations, but all three accepted his decision. As they left the shire hall, Ralph fell in beside Gervase.
‘Thank you for backing me, Gervase.’
‘I thought it important to settle this dispute while it is still within our power to do so,’ said the other. ‘It was tangled enough before we arrived but it has grown infinitely more complicated since we have been here. If we delay a judgement, we may find that its intricacies only multiply and that it takes an eternity to resolve.’
‘With you stuck in Devon while Alys pines in Winchester.’
‘That thought was at the back of my mind.’
‘So it should be, Gervase,’ said Ralph jovially. ‘Our work is of the highest importance but we must not let it keep you away from the altar. I share your fears that this case could increase in size and complexity until it dominates all the rest and ensnares us for weeks. On the other hand, it may soon be simplified for us.’
‘Simplified?’
‘Yes. Remember what Baldwin told us. Arrests are imminent.
When we know why Nicholas Picard was killed, we will have a much clearer idea of what this dispute is all about.’
‘The lord sheriff said that he was murdered by robbers.’
‘I know,’ said Ralph. ‘But who hired them?’
It was the smoke which gave them away. Breaking their journey for refreshment, they lit a fire to roast one of the chickens they had stolen from a farm. It made a tasty meal and they ate it between long gulps of ale. Their fortunes were improving. As they counted out their takings once more, they realised that they could afford to buy what had hitherto only been within reach by theft. The two of them sniggered complacently.
The posse comprised a dozen men, veteran soldiers who knew how to work together. They trailed the robbers all the way from Crediton until they reached the copse where the couple were hiding. A slow curl of smoke rose above the trees. It was all the encouragement they needed. Under the guidance of their captain, the soldiers separated to surround the copse. When the signal was given, they moved slowly in.
The robbers were dozing beside the fire when they heard the crack of a twig beneath a hoof. It brought them awake at once and both reached for their daggers. They were far too late. The clearing was suddenly boiling with the sheriff’s officers. The robbers were knocked to the ground by lances, disarmed and pinioned. Dismounting from his horse, the captain searched their purses and found them bulging with money. He also found some gold rings which had once adorned the fingers of Nicholas Picard.
When the men tried to protest, he beat each of them into silence with a mailed first.
‘Tie them to their horses!’ he ordered. ‘The lord sheriff wants them taken back to Exeter to face his wrath.’
Asa sat beside the window in her bedchamber and stared sadly out through the shutters. Perched on a low hill, the house gave her a clear view over the thatched roofs of the city to the twin peaks of castle and cathedral, but she was impervious to both.
Though her eyes looked out, her gaze was turned inward.
Memories surged through her mind in a confusing mix of nostalgia and remorse. She was a short, slender young woman in fine apparel more suited to a Norman lady than to a Saxon. Her chemise and gown were of white linen, her girdle a long silken rope with tasselled ends. Coiled at the back, her long black hair fell in curls at the front. Her face had a quiet loveliness in repose and a vivacity that was captivating when she was animated, but there was no sign of it now. As her mind dwelt on the past, a deep frown bit its way into her brow.
The knock on her door brought her out of her daze.
‘Yes?’ she called. Her servant entered. ‘What is it, girl?’
‘The town reeve has sent word.’
‘What is the message?’
‘You are to appear at the shire hall tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘That is what I have been told.’
‘But the funeral is tomorrow. I must attend that.’
‘I am only passing on the message I was given.’
‘Why did you not call me to hear it in person?’
‘You warned me not to disturb you.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes,’ said the servant softly. ‘You told me to turn away any visitors.’
‘Why, so I did,’ remembered Asa, trying to gather her thoughts.
‘You were right, Goda. Had you tried to call me downstairs, you would have been given a flea in you ear for your pains. I am sorry to be so vague. My mind is elsewhere today.’
‘I understand.’
Goda was a plump woman in her thirties with bright green eyes and a large nose which turned a pleasant face into an unattractive one. As she studied her mistress, her expression bordered on maternal concern.
‘Is there anything that I can fetch you?’ she offered.
‘No, Goda.’
‘Some food perhaps? You must eat.’
‘I am not hungry.’
‘You have touched almost nothing for days.’
‘I will eat when I wish to and not before.’
‘Yes,’ said the other deferentially.
‘But I thank you for worrying about me.’
Goda gave a wan smile and turned to leave the room. Asa fell back into her reverie. Stirring herself out of it once more, she walked to the stairs and descended to the kitchen. Goda was about to fill a cooking pot with water from a wooden pail. She looked up inquisitively.