The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Four

It was late afternoon before Arnulf the Chaplain was able to fulfil the promise he had given to Golde the previous night. They met at the castle gates.

‘I am sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It must have been very tedious for you to be cooped up here all day without amusement or female companionship.’

‘It was rather dull,’ she admitted, ‘but I cheered myself with thoughts of this walk through Oxford with you.’

‘What would you like to see, my lady?’

‘Everything.’

‘Then let us begin.’

He led her out of the castle then swung right towards the centre of the town. Golde felt an immediate sense of release. All that she had learned about Robert d’Oilly made her want to keep well away from him and she could, in any case, never be entirely comfortable in a Norman garrison. Pungent smells from assorted trades wafted into her nostrils but it was still refreshing for her to be mingling with the ordinary citizens in the street even if her fashionable apparel set her apart from the Saxon womenfolk and induced some hostile glances.

Oxford was a loud, lusty, bustling town with a population of over three and a half thousand, enlarged by those who streamed in from the outlying areas to its thriving market. Dogs barked, children cried, horses whinnied and carts rolled to add to the general pandemonium.

Arnulf had to raise his voice to be heard above the din of a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil.

‘What do you think of Oxford?’ he asked.

‘It is much bigger than I expected,’ said Golde. ‘It makes my own home town seem very small.’

‘Where is that?’

‘Hereford.’

‘How many inhabitants do you have?’

‘Barely a thousand.’

‘Only London, Winchester and York are substantially larger than us,’ he said with evident pride, ‘and we think that Oxford is prettier than all three. I was born and brought up in Falaise myself but I have been here long enough to take the town to my heart. In time, I trust, we will come to blend in more harmoniously.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Look around you, my lady. Most of these people still view us as an army of occupation rather than as a source of protection for the whole community. After all these years, they have the same suspicion and resentment. That is why I have tried so hard to reach outside the castle walls to the local people.’

‘In what way?’

‘Visiting them, talking to them, helping them with their problems, showing fellowship, even nursing them through injury and illness on occasion, for I have some skill as a doctor. In short, my lady, doing exactly what a parish priest should be doing for his flock. Then, of course, there is the church choir.’

‘Choir?’

‘Yes,’ he said, face aglow, ‘it is a labour of love. Choral singing is the true perfection of Christian worship. I have devoted much time and effort to it. And since the garrison can hardly provide me with my choristers, I have come out in search of them.’

‘Boys from the town?’

‘Boys and girls, my lady. The female voice is every bit as beautiful as that of the young male. I had to endure much criticism when I first introduced girls as choristers but they have won over all but the most narrow-minded.’

‘A mixed choir,’ said Golde, excited by the notion. ‘I wish I had been able to sing in church when I was a girl. I would have adored it.

But it was not considered proper in Hereford.’

‘Some of my young ladies sing like angels.’

She was drawn to him even more. Arnulf was a considerate man with natural charm. His easy companionship was the perfect antidote to her poisonous memories of Robert d’Oilly. The chaplain was the human face of Oxford Castle.

When they reached the crossroads, he guided her down the hill towards Grandpont, the stone bridge over which she had ridden on her arrival. Initiated by the sheriff, it was a solid structure which spanned the river at a critical point and provided a vital link with southern England. Traffic was crossing the bridge in both directions.

Golde admired the work of the stonemasons then lent over the parapet to watch the rippling waters of the Thames. A rowing boat went past beneath her. Fishermen were walking along the bank. Birds abounded.

‘A pretty place, indeed,’ she remarked.

‘And peaceful now, thank heaven! Oxford has had more than its share of bloodshed and suffering. All that is past.’

They went back up the hill and turned into the straggling High Street which ran eastwards down the slope. The crowd had thickened even more now and they had to dodge the jostling elbows with the same adroitness they showed in stepping over the occasional piles of refuse or excrement. Arnulf pointed out all the buildings of interest, especially the churches, but Golde was curious about those which were no longer there. Down each street and lane, she caught a glimpse of derelict houses and empty shops.

‘Why are so many houses in decay?’ she wondered.

‘The scars of war, alas!’

‘Here are some more,’ she noted as they passed a row of five abandoned dwellings in the High Street. ‘Did nobody think to rebuild these homes?’

‘It takes time, my lady,’ said Arnulf sadly. ‘But your husband will be in the best position to tell the full extent of the spoliation here.’

‘My husband?’

‘Written in the Domesday Book, as it has come to be known, are the sorry details of the town’s plight. There are almost a thousand houses in Oxford but you can see for yourself that a sizeable number are in such poor condition that no taxes can be levied upon them.’

‘Were they in this state when Robert d’Oilly first came?’

‘I was not myself here then,’ he said evasively.

‘Was he not responsible for some of this destruction?’

Arnulf became defensive. ‘My lord sheriff has done a great deal for Oxford. He built the castle, constructed Grandpont and set in motion a number of other important projects.’

‘Yet he allows these ruins to disfigure the town. What happened to all the people who once lived in these houses?’

‘They moved out.’

‘Or died in their homes,’ she concluded.

Golde was in a more solemn mood as they headed towards the church of St Peter’s-in-the-East. Oxford had clearly suffered greatly.

The chaplain sought to rekindle her good humour.

‘Your husband is a remarkable man,’ he observed.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Ralph is quite unique.’

‘How did you first meet?’

‘In the course of his visit to Hereford. He came to the town with the other commissioners to investigate some abuses that had come to light. Our paths crossed.’

‘A fortunate encounter. You are well matched.’

Golde smiled. ‘It did not seem so at first. I found him arrogant and uncaring beyond measure.’

‘And now, my lady?’

The smile broadened out into an unashamed grin.

‘I am married to the finest man in the world.’

Ralph Delchard enjoyed the ride to Woodstock. He and his two knights covered the seven miles at a steady pace, moving through open countryside that was dotted with small herds of sheep or cows. Men toiled in fields or tended animals or worked in watermills. Laden with salt, a cart trundled past them on its way to Oxford. After the mouldy atmosphere of the shire hall, Ralph found the keen air bracing.

When they were close to their destination, they left the road to cut across the fields and were soon accosted by four armed knights from Wymarc’s retinue, demanding to know why they were trespassing on private property. Ralph introduced himself and told them that he was staying with Robert d’Oilly in Oxford Castle. The sheriff’s name was a ready passport and the men became more amenable. At Ralph’s suggestion, one of them went to summon his master from his nearby manor house while the others obligingly conducted the strangers to the edge of the forest where the race had taken place.

Seizing on the unexpected opportunity to ingratiate himself with one of the commissioners, Wymarc spurred his horse into a gallop.

Ralph Delchard would preside over the property dispute in which Wymarc was involved and the latter was keen to gain any advantage over his rivals. He never stopped for a moment to question Ralph’s motives for wanting to examine the scene of the crime. When he greeted his visitor, his manner verged on the obsequious.

‘How may I help you, my lord?’ he asked, grinning helpfully. ‘I understand that you have taken an interest in the foul murder that was committed here yesterday.’

‘That is so,’ said Ralph.

‘How much do you know of what happened?’

‘Little beyond the bare facts and those were third-hand. The account came indirectly from Bertrand Gamberell and I would appreciate another version of events.’

Wymarc glowered. ‘Bertrand’s account is not to be trusted. He is too incensed to give you a calm and accurate description of what took place.’ The slavish grin resurfaced. ‘I will be glad to correct any false information from Bertrand.’

‘Please do,’ invited Ralph.

He settled back in the saddle to listen. Wymarc launched into his account of the race, introducing a lot of new details but departing very little from the basic facts of the case as they had already reached Ralph. What was plain was Wymarc’s deep hatred of Bertrand Gamberell. At no point did he express the slightest sympathy for the dead man and he took a grim satisfaction from the fact that Hyperion had not won the race.

‘Now you know the truth of it, my lord,’ said Wymarc.

‘You have given an exact chronicle of events,’ said Ralph with submerged irony, ‘and I am grateful to you. When the race was in progress, where exactly were you and the others?’

‘I will show you.’

Wymarc took them across to the hillock from which he, Gamberell and Milo Crispin had watched the race. The posts were still in place to designate the course.

‘You had an excellent view,’ noted Ralph.

‘We always chose this vantage point.’

‘Always? Horses have raced over this course before?’

‘Yes, my lord. When Bertrand first challenged us, I claimed the right to designate a course on my land.’

‘He did not object?’

‘Not in the slightest. He was so confident of Hyperion’s ability to win over any course that he was happy to leave the task to me. And so it proved,’ he said with a frown. ‘That black stallion was unbeatable the first three times we put our horses against him.’

‘So yesterday was the fourth race over this course?’

‘It was.’

‘And the other three passed off without incident?’

‘Completely.’

‘When was the first race?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘The horses ran through that same copse?’

‘Into it and out of it, my lord, on each occasion.’

‘Who competed in the earlier races?’

‘All three of us.’

‘What about Ordgar?’

‘No,’ said Wymarc with contempt. ‘We did not bother to invite him.

We only let him run yesterday because he begged us to include his colt. Somehow he found enough for the wager so he was allowed into the race. Against my wishes, I may say.’

‘Why?’

‘I do not like the fellow.’

‘Because he is a Saxon?’

‘There are many other reasons.’

‘Did you fear that his colt might defeat your horses?’

‘Of course not!’ declared Wymarc unconvincingly.

Ralph took another long look at the course below him.

‘Where was Ordgar when the race took place?’ he said.

‘Near the finishing line, my lord.’

‘Not beside you?’

‘We did not indulge him to that extent.’

‘So he would not have had the same view of Hyperion as you did when the horse was ridden into the trees?’ Wymarc shook his head.

‘Show me where you found the murder victim.’

‘Follow me.’

Wymarc led them down the incline but Ralph asked him to dismount when they reached the edge of the copse. The two of them went on foot into the trees. Wymarc had no difficulty locating the exact spot where the body was found. On soft ground that was liberally marked with hoofprints there was a long smooth patch that came to an end in some tufted grass. Wymarc pointed to the dried blood still visible on the turf.

‘That is where he lay, my lord.’

‘But that is not where he was struck by the dagger,’ said Ralph, looking over his shoulder. ‘I think that he was back there when he was attacked, fell from his horse where we see that shallow dip in the ground and rolled along until he reached this point.’ He knelt to inspect the bloodstains. ‘You searched thoroughly for the assassin?’

‘Behind every tree and under every bush.’

‘No sign of him at all?’

‘None, my lord,’ said Wymarc. ‘Hours later, they found him in the forest. He obviously fled there after commiting the deed.’

‘Which way did he flee?’

He stood up to walk with his guide towards the rear of the copse.

They came into an open field that was a hundred yards at least from the forest of Woodstock. Ralph assessed how long it would have taken the man to run from the cover of the trees to the safety of the forest.

Doubts quickly formed.

‘Why did nobody mark his escape?’ he wondered aloud.

‘We were unsighted. From our position on the hillock, we could not see this side of the copse at all.’

‘You could not, but Ordgar might have.’

‘Ordgar?’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph, pointing to the finishing posts. ‘If he was standing there, he would have had a clear view of anyone dashing across to the forest.’

‘That is true,’ conceded the other.

‘How then did he miss seeing the villain run away?’

‘He was distracted, my lord. His colt had won the race. He did not look this way at all. We taxed him about that.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That his mind was filled with the joy of his win.’

‘But there were others at the finishing line. They were not distracted. Why did none of them descry a man scurrying across this field?’

‘I do not know.’

Ralph looked in every direction to check the sightlines. Between the copse and the forest itself, there was no means of concealment.He scratched his head in bewilderment.

‘However did the assassin avoid being seen?’

‘We will find that out from the rogue himself,’ vowed Wymarc. ‘My lord sheriff will squeeze the truth out of Ebbi. It pains me that this crime took place on my land, but I am not entirely surprised that Ebbi is the culprit.’

‘You know the fellow?’

‘He is a slave on one of my holdings. A surly creature, according to my reeve. Lazy and embittered. Quick to show his temper. We will be well rid of such a man.’

‘What quarrel did he have with Bertrand Gamberell?’

‘None that I know of, my lord.’

‘Why, then, single out his rider for the dagger?’

‘I am as anxious to learn that as you,’ said Wymarc. ‘It will lift the shadow of suspicion that hangs over me.’

‘You?’

‘Ebbi is one of my slaves. Bertrand has accused me of hiring him to commit this murder in order to prevent Hyperion from winning the race. It is a preposterous charge but that will not deter Bertrand from making it. That is why I am so relieved that Ebbi is now in the sheriff’s hands.’ He gave a grim chuckle. ‘Robert d’Oilly will get at the truth if he has to cut it out of the man’s heart.’

Ralph was still puzzled. Walking back into the copse, he tried to decide the most likely spot from which the fatal dagger was thrown.

He took up a number of positions and imagined the six horses thundering past him. The killer would have only a second to discharge his weapon. He would need a hiding place from which he could emerge unencumbered in an instant. Searching through the undergrowth, Ralph did his best to put himself into the mind of the assassin.

‘What are you looking for, my lord?’ asked Wymarc.

‘Clues.’

‘But we already have the man in captivity.’

Ralph ignored the remark and moved slowly on. The copse consisted largely of hazel, cherry, maple and wych elm but it was beside an ash that he eventually paused. A man concealed behind it would have a good view of the horses from the start of the race to the moment they plunged into the copse. Ralph stepped behind the tree into the shadow of its overhanging boughs. He felt certain that he had the right place.

As he glanced down, he noticed some strange marks on the ground.

He was still wondering how they had got there when Wymarc’s podgy face came round the tree.

‘What have you found, my lord?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘We have been over every inch of the copse.’

‘Then I will waste no more of my time here.’

Ralph led the way back to the horses. He was glad that he had responded to the impulse to ride out to Woodstock. The visit had yielded far more than he had dared to hope.

Gervase Bret was given a chance to meet the prisoner much sooner than he expected. An hour after his return from the shire hall, he was summoned by a message from Arnulf and hurried down to the bailey to meet the chaplain. The latter was carrying a leather satchel over his shoulder.

‘I have been asked to visit Ebbi again,’ he explained. ‘To tend his wounds.’

‘Wounds?’

‘My lord sheriff has been interrogating him.’

Gervase winced but made no comment. He could imagine what form the interrogation had taken. Arnulf touched the satchel.

‘I have water to bathe and linen to bandage him.’

‘What do you have to medicine his mind?’

‘The mercy of God.’

Gervase doubted if it would be an adequate remedy. Ebbi was in a state of abject terror. Assurances from the chaplain would not calm his fears. He needed more practical help.

‘Did you ask that I should go with you?’ said Gervase.

Arnulf nodded. ‘My lord sheriff opposed the idea at first but I represented how useful you might be to me and to him.’

‘To him?’

‘Yes, Gervase. Though I am an ordained priest, Ebbi will never fully trust me. In his eyes, I am a servant of Robert d’Oilly. You are not. If you win his confidence, you may be able to unearth facts which even my lord sheriff’s close examination of the prisoner could not.’

Gervase contained his anger. The last thing he intended to do was to carry out an interrogation of the prisoner by more subtle means in order to assist Robert d’Oilly, but he knew how foolish it would be to make that declaration. Access to the prisoner had been granted. That was all that mattered.

Arnulf led the way to the dungeons.

‘Did you have a profitable day at the shire court?’

‘Interesting rather than profitable,’ said Gervase.

‘How did Brother Columbanus acquit himself?’

‘Extremely well.’

‘Still writhing with self-disgust?’

‘He has shaken off his sense of guilt and returned to his more usual joviality. But he did spurn the jug of ale that was set out for us.’

They traded a quiet smile then descended the stone steps that led to the dungeons. The passageway at the bottom was lighted by a series of torches set in iron holders and an acrid stink pervaded the whole area. A guard rose from behind a rough table and took them across to the first of the cells. Opening the door with a key, he ushered them into the cell before locking them in with the prisoner.

The first thing which hit Gervase was the appalling stench. Thick straw covered the ground and it was clotted with the accumulated filth of previous occupants. No fresh air and no natural light reached the dungeon. Incarceration down there was like being buried alive.

Arnulf was less troubled by the noisome atmosphere. Two small candles flickered in the cell and he set them either side of the prisoner so that he could examine the man’s wounds. Gervase recoiled when he saw the extent of the injuries. Ebbi lay motionless in the straw, hardly breathing. Blood streamed from his nose, his mouth and a gash on his temple. One cheek was hideously swollen. Dark bruises were a vivid reminder of his earlier beating by Robert d’Oilly.

The chaplain worked gently but firmly, bathing the wounds with a piece of linen which he soaked with water from the flagon in his satchel. It took time to stem the bleeding and to bind the wounds.

Flinching from the pain, Ebbi rolled frightened eyes at them. Arnulf offered comforting words as he worked away but the prisoner did not even seem to hear them. It was only when the chaplain finished that Ebbi found the strength to murmur his thanks.

Arnulf introduced Gervase and the latter crouched down beside the figure in the straw. Ebbi eyed the newcomer with frank apprehension, like a desperate animal caught in a trap and at the mercy of his hunters.

‘How do you feel now?’ asked Gervase softly.

The man was surprised to hear his own language spoken so well but it did not diminish his suspicion of Gervase. He feared that this soft-spoken man was only a more cunning interrogator.

‘I would like to help you, if I may.’

Studied silence. Ebbi’s suspicion became a sullen glare.

‘This may be your last chance to say what really happened in Woodstock,’ continued Gervase. ‘We would like to hear your side of the story.’

The prisoner closed his eyes and pretended to doze off.

‘He will say nothing in front of me,’ whispered Arnulf. ‘I am the sheriff’s man. That makes me tainted. Let me contrive to leave you alone with him awhile.’

‘Thank you.’

Arnulf called through the grille in the oak door. The guard let him out and talked with him for a minute before agreeing to lock Gervase in alone with the prisoner. There was an air of finality about the thud of the door and Gervase had to remind himself that he would soon be released again. That was not the case for Ebbi. His situation seemed hopeless.

Gervase wasted no time. Kneeling beside the prisoner, he put out a friendly hand to touch the other’s arm. The man drew back and opened his eyes once more.

‘Leave me alone!’ he hissed.

‘I have come to help you.’

‘Go away!’

‘You need me, Ebbi,’ said Gervase quietly. ‘I am on your side. I do not believe that you committed this crime.’

Ebbi was unpersuaded. ‘You are trying to trick me.’

‘Why should I do that?’

‘The sheriff has set you on me.’

‘I answer to the King and not to Robert d’Oilly. I am here of my own accord, I do assure you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am a lawyer by training. I value justice.’

A low grunt. ‘What kind of justice will I get?’

‘That will depend on what you tell me.’ He leaned in closer to the prisoner. ‘Did you kill that man in Woodstock?’

‘What is it to you?’

‘I would not see an innocent man condemned.’

‘Fine words!’ sneered the other.

‘I must know the true facts, Ebbi.’

‘That is what the sheriff said.’

‘Why did he beat you?’

‘Because I did not tell him what he wanted to hear.’

‘Then you must be a brave man,’ said Gervase. ‘To hold out against my lord sheriff took great courage. And it confirms me in my opinion.

You are not the assassin, are you?’

‘Do not pester me so.’

‘Are you?’

‘No,’ said Ebbi with rancour, ‘but I begin to wish that I had been. I wish I had killed all the Norman knights who plague our countryside!’

The outburst taxed his strength. It was a minute before he could speak again. ‘I am not the assassin. I would swear it on the Holy Bible.’

Gervase believed him but there were unresolved issues.

‘Why did you run from those who searched the forest?’

‘I thought they would accuse me of poaching. Do you know the penalty which that carries, Master Bret? Poachers either have their eyes put out or they are castrated. Of course I ran from them. Would not you?’

‘What were you doing in the forest?’

‘I was not poaching. I give you my word.’

‘Something must have taken you there, Ebbi.’

A shake of the head. ‘I am not able to tell you.’

‘If you wish to come out of this alive, you must.’

The key was heard in the lock. Their conference was over.

‘Tell me,’ urged Gervase. ‘It is your last hope.’

Panic descended on Ebbi and nudged him into a quick decision.

Raising himself up on his arm, he whispered into his visitor’s ear.

Gervase heard all that was necessary before he was hustled out by the guard.

Bristeva knew that something was seriously amiss and she was hurt that they would not tell her what it was. Her father soothed her with gentle lies and her brother refused to answer any of her questions.

Ordgar and Amalric were determined to keep the truth from her for some reason and she wished that she knew what it was. Since the death of her mother, Bristeva had become the lady of the house and that brought many responsibilities with it. She believed that it also entitled her to know everything that was going on.

The sound of an approaching horse took her to the window. Through the open shutters, she watched until a familiar face came into view.

Edric the Cripple, steward to her father’s depleted estate, had returned from his travels. Ordgar and Amalric went out to greet him warmly.

All three were soon deep in animated conversation. Seeing her opportunity, Bristeva crept out of the house and ran to the rear of the stables. She inched along the wall until she came within earshot.

‘We expected you back yesterday,’ Ordgar was saying.

‘I was held up in Warwick,’ said Edric.

‘We are so glad that you are home again.’

‘Yes,’ said Amalric. ‘We need you, Edric.’

‘Why? What has been happening while I was away?’

Edric the Cripple dropped from the saddle and balanced on one leg while he sought to untie the crutch which had been lashed behind the saddle. He was a tall, wiry man of middle years with a weathered face. Even with one leg cut off below the knee, he retained something of the swagger of a soldier. Edric was a capable and experienced steward, unswervingly loyal and with an instinct for making correct decisions. Both Ordgar and his son placed great faith in him.

With the crutch tucked under his arm, Edric was ready.

‘Tell me all,’ he encouraged.

Ordgar told the bulk of the tale but Amalric added frequent comments and embellishments. Hearing the story for the first time, Bristeva was shocked that they should keep something as important as this from her. When she learned of her father’s excruciating night on the cold stairs at Wallingford Castle, she suffered his humiliation with him.

Edric listened in stony silence. He heard much which distressed him but little which actually surprised him. He scratched at a straggly beard before making any observation.

‘There is one consolation,’ he said at length.

‘What is that?’ asked Ordgar.

‘Cempan won the race. Our belief in the colt was not misplaced. He was obviously the best horse on the day.’

‘And I was the best rider,’ reminded Amalric.

‘Indeed you were. But your success was your undoing. Milo Crispin has seen that this famous Hyperion can actually be beaten. That matters a great deal to him.’

‘I know!’ said Ordgar ruefully.

‘He wants Cempan for his own stable.’

‘Never!’ insisted Amalric. ‘We will not part with him.’

‘Suppose my lord Milo comes to take him?’ asked his father. ‘He will bring a troop of men to enforce his purpose. What then?’ He turned to Edric. ‘What then, old friend?’

Edric the Cripple hobbled to the water trough and perched on the edge of it. He thought long and hard. Unable to see the steward from her hiding place, Bristeva wondered what was going on. She mastered the urge to burst in on the discussion and claim her right to offer an opinion. More could be learned by staying where she was and listening.

‘Well, Edric?’ prompted Ordgar. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think we have one less Norman knight in Woodstock and that is a certain gain. Whoever killed the man is our benefactor.’ He scratched his beard again. ‘Unfortunately, he also landed us with a worrying possibility. The loss of Cempan. Stolen from us by Milo Crispin.’

‘Is there no remedy?’ said Amalric.

‘I spy only one.’ He turned to Ordgar. ‘Has the time for the next race been set?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Then we must delay it as long as possible.’

‘Delay it?’

‘Until the race is run, they will not need Cempan. We may be able to hold on to our colt a little longer.’

‘But my lord Milo wants another contest soon.’

‘So will Bertrand Gamberell,’ said Amalric. ‘His pride has been sorely wounded. He cursed me for winning a race that he thought belonged to Hyperion. He will want revenge.’

‘In another race.’

‘Yes, Edric.’

‘Then there is our remedy.’

‘Delay the race?’

‘Make sure that it never happens.’

Ordgar and Amalric were completely baffled. They looked across at Cempan, grazing in the nearby field, then turned to look at each other. Both shook their heads in puzzlement. When they faced Edric again, they saw him chuckling to himself.

‘Stop the race altogether?’ asked Ordgar.

‘That is my advice.’

‘But how do we do that, Edric?’

The steward hoisted himself back up on his crutch.

‘Leave it to me.’