The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Nine

With four of his knights at his heels, Wymarc rode north-west out of Oxford towards his manor. He had much to occupy his mind on the seven miles home. Ralph Delchard’s sudden arrival in the courtroom had been at once annoying and pleasing to Wymarc. He was irritated that the trial had been extended beyond the short time he had expected it to last, but he was gratified at the way in which Ralph had allowed him to secure a momentary advantage over Bertrand Gamberell by indicating that Wymarc had assisted the commissioner during the latter’s visit to Woodstock. In his long battle of attrition with Gamberell, every successful blow which Wymarc landed on his enemy was to be relished.

Their rivalry had long roots. It grew partly out of Wymarc’s envy of someone who seemed to enjoy an effortless superiority in almost every area of life. Where Wymarc had to sweat and struggle to achieve his aims, Gamberell did so with a studied nonchalance. Close in age, they were far apart in appearance and ability. All the advantages undoubtedly lay with Gamberell and, as a handsome bachelor, he could explore myriad pleasures that were for ever beyond the reach of an ugly married man like Wymarc.

It was when Bertrand Gamberell turned his plausible charm on Helene that her brother’s hatred of him reached new depths. The girl was young and immature but that did not deter a seasoned voluptuary.

When he learned that Helene was in the church choir, he took to lurking around the castle when she was due to leave, seizing a few minutes with her to flirt and entice and ensnare. Wymarc had broken up their conversations a number of times but no amount of dire warnings from him had held his sister back from further association with Gamberell. After singing the praises of God in church, she went out to play with the devil. Wymarc’s only remedy was to take her out of the choir altogether.

The sky was slowly darkening as they neared the end of their journey and they kicked more speed out of their horses for the final mile. The house eventually came into sight and Wymarc envisioned a warm welcome from his wife and a hot meal prepared by his cook, compensatory comforts after a long day away from home.

Disappointment awaited him. In place of the warm welcome, he rode into a scene of fear and tension. His wife and two of the servants were waiting outside the house to waylay him with their anxieties.

‘Thank heaven you are come!’ exclaimed his wife.

‘Why?’

‘It is Helene.’

‘What is wrong with her?’

‘She has barricaded herself into her room.’

‘Not more tantrums!’ he sighed.

‘Helene refuses even to speak,’ said his wife, taking his arm as he dropped from the saddle and hustling him towards the front door.

‘She has not said a word for hours.’

‘Is her door locked?’

‘Locked and bolted. And the shutters are also closed.’

‘Leave her to me.’

‘She has not eaten all day.’

‘This has got to stop!’ insisted Wymarc, heading for the stairs. ‘I’ll stand no more of it.’

As he pounded up the steps, his wife, a short, thin-faced woman with a febrile prettiness, trotted behind him with the servants bringing up the rear. All four were soon standing outside Helene’s bedchamber.

Wymarc gave the door a hard and uncompromising kick.

‘Helene!’ he ordered. ‘Come out at once!’

There was no sound from within. He kicked out again.

‘Open this door or I’ll force my way in. Do you hear?’

He interpreted the silence as deliberate insolence.

‘This is your last chance, Helene!’

When there was still no reply, Wymarc’s patience snapped and he put his shoulder to the door. The lock held at first but it could not withstand the repeated assaults of his beefy frame as he hurled himself against the timber. There was a splintering noise as the door finally surrendered its position but it retreated only a couple of inches.

Something heavy was jammed up against it on the inside. Wymarc used the combined strength of himself and the two servants to dislodge it with a concerted shove.

The chest slid back, the door flew open and the hideous truth was at last revealed to them. Helene was lying spreadeagled on the bed, her limbs contorted, her face paler than ever, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and her mouth wide open to utter a cry of agony that nobody would ever hear.

‘Helene!’ yelled Wymarc.

His wife screamed, the servants gasped and everyone else in the house came running to see what had happened. Wymarc cradled his sister in his arms and tried in vain to revive her with profuse kisses and redundant words of love. He was so shaken by fear and afflicted with guilt that it was minutes before he even noticed the tiny stone bottle beside her.

In the capacious kitchen Edith was taking an inventory of their stock.

Game of all kinds hung from hooks in abundance. Golde was amazed by the number of geese, chickens and other birds waiting to be plucked and she had never seen so many dead rabbits before.

‘Twenty years ago, they were unknown,’ she observed.

‘Rabbits were brought over from Normandy as a delicacy. They breed quickly so they soon spread. We will certainly serve rabbit at the banquet. And venison,’ Edith added as she looked around. ‘We will need more. Far more. It is as well that Robert has hunting privileges in the forests.’

‘How many are you expecting on Saturday?’ asked Golde.

‘Fifty at least. Probably twice that number.’

‘A hundred guests!’

‘We had even more the last time the bishop stayed at Oxford Castle.

Geoffrey has a large entourage. He likes to do things in style.’

‘So I can see.’

‘He is a power in the realm, Golde.’

‘I know that.’

‘Robert wants me to spare no expense. Everything must be in perfect readiness. We have only a few days.’

As the two women walked between the tables and ducked under the swinging carcasses, the cooks and their assistants watched in obedient silence. A banquet would involve an immense amount of work for them but they did not complain. It brought Edith down to the kitchen and that was always a source of delight. She consulted them, directed them, cajoled them and generally made them feel that they were performing a vital service to the inhabitants of the castle. Under her careful supervision, any banquet would be a feast to remember.

‘Is there anything I have forgotten, Golde?’

‘Ale.’

Edith laughed. ‘I will leave that in your hands.’

‘The bishop will assuredly prefer French wine.’

‘He drinks nothing else.’

‘A moderate amount of English ale, then.’

‘At your discretion.’

Golde’s friendship with her hostess had been enriched even more.

Edith put her so completely at ease that she felt they had known each other for years instead of merely a matter of days. Edith ran a discerning eye over some sides of pork and nodded in approval. They moved on to a table laden with fruit and cheese. Edith examined it with the utmost care.

Golde stood beside her and inhaled the various aromas.

‘I am sorry we are an extra burden, my lady,’ she said.

‘Burden?’

‘Ralph led me to believe that the work of the tribunal would be completed by the weekend. We should have ridden out of Oxford on Saturday and left you in peace to cope with your other guests. But the commission has had to suspend its work until Canon Hubert arrives.’

‘I am delighted that you are able to stay, Golde.’

‘The delay has been forced upon us.’

‘So I understand.’ She probed gently. ‘Why did my lord Maurice quit the town so abruptly?’

‘He and my husband had some sort of disagreement.’

‘Do you know its exact nature?’

‘Ralph does not confide in me, my lady,’ Golde lied.

‘No more does Robert in me and rightly so. Well,’ she said with a smile, ‘let us leave the affairs of the world to our husbands and concentrate simply on feeding them properly. This is where real power resides, Golde. In the kitchen. Important decisions can only be made on a full stomach.’

Golde laughed and followed her across to the serried ranks of fish, shimmering monsters laid out on stone slabs for their perusal and giving off the most arresting odours. Golde held her breath and took a couple of steps back.

‘You made mention of entertainment,’ she recalled.

‘It would be a dull banquet without it, Golde.’

‘What form will it take?’

‘The details have yet to be finalised by our steward,’ said Edith, prodding at a salmon. ‘But we will certainly have music, dancers, tumblers and clowns. Minstrels will be hired and Arnulf has promised us a girl from his choir.’

‘The celebrated Helene?’

‘Alas, no. She is lost.’

‘Who has taken her place?’

‘A young Saxon girl.’

Golde grinned. ‘I am all in favour of that.’

‘Arnulf says she has considerable promise.’

‘He is the best judge.’

‘The girl will be sparingly used at the banquet but it will be a valuable experience for her.’

‘And a pleasing one for us.’

‘I am certain of that, Golde.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Bristeva.’

She arrived not long after dawn and he was there to greet her and to thank Ordgar for bringing her so early. Arnulf the Chaplain helped the girl down from her pony then tethered it to a rail outside the stables. When they had waved her father off, Bristeva followed her teacher eagerly into the church of St George’s-in-the-Castle.

He could see that she was brimming with excitement.

‘Your father has obviously told you.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what was your reaction, Bristeva?’

‘At first, I was overcome with fright.’

‘Why?’

‘I have never sung in front of so many people before.’

‘You will soon get used to that,’ said Arnulf with an avuncular hand on her shoulder. ‘Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances loves choral singing and he will almost certainly wish to attend a service here to listen to you. As an additional treat, I want him to hear my best pupil at the banquet.’

Bristeva was diffident. ‘Am I really the best?’

‘Easily.’

‘I do not feel it, Father Arnulf.’

‘You are getting better all the time.’

‘Helene had a far more beautiful voice.’

‘Forget Helene,’ he said with uncharacteristic sharpness, taking his hand away. ‘She is gone, you are here. Helene let us all down, you will not. Will you, Bristeva?’

‘No, Father Arnulf.’

‘Do as I say and you will have nothing to worry about.’

She nodded dutifully and walked down the nave beside him.

Bristeva had been in a state of exhilaration from the moment she set out from home. Amalric had mocked her and Edric the Cripple had been cynical about the choir, but their comments had not dimmed her pleasure, and she was encouraged when her father upbraided both of them sharply for trying to upset her. On the ride to Oxford, he told her how proud he was of his daughter and how hard she must be prepared to work to meet the chaplain’s high standards. In performing at the banquet, she would be representing her whole family.

When they stopped at the altar rail, she realised that she had never been alone in the church with him for a private rehearsal. Bristeva had always been one member of a choir before. Now she had been singled out and that filled her with the most unspeakable joy. Arnulf, too, seemed pleased to have a new soloist to whom he could impart his love of singing.

‘I want you to be happy, Bristeva.’

‘I am, I am.’

‘Singing is an expression of joy.’

‘I know, Father Arnulf.’

‘You have that joy bubbling inside you and it is my task to draw it out. But I cannot do that without your help. We must share that joy together, Bristeva.’

‘We will.’

He gave her a smile then indicated that she should kneel.

‘Before we begin, let us pray together.’

‘Yes, Father Arnulf.’

‘We will ask for God’s blessing on our endeavours.’

Bristeva knelt at the rail with her hands gently closed together.

With his back to the altar, the chaplain stood facing her and enclosed her hands between his palms. She was deeply comforted. When Arnulf began to chant the prayer in a soft, caressing voice, Bristeva felt that she was almost listening to the voice of God Himself.

It was well past midnight by the time the doctor finally arrived.

Wymarc’s man had ridden several miles to summon him, only to find him absent on another call. A long wait ensued. When the two of them eventually reached the house in the pitch dark, Wymarc berated the doctor for keeping them waiting then rushed him upstairs to his sister’s bedchamber. By the light of the candles, the weary doctor examined Helene. As soon as he realised what had happened, he cleared the room so that he could work in private.

Time trickled past. Wymarc began to wonder if the man had fallen asleep through fatigue. He himself had difficulty in staying awake.

His wife had taken to her bed and the servants had been packed off to their rooms. Wymarc kept a lonely vigil in his parlour, hoping ridiculously that Helene could somehow be brought back to life yet knowing such a miracle was well beyond any doctor’s skill. What hurt him most was the ranting discourtesy he had shown at the end.

Helene lay dead and all that her brother could do was yell at her before smashing his way into her chamber. It was a kind of defilement.

Exhaustion finally claimed him. Wymarc fell into a deep and troubled sleep. When he was awakened at cockcrow, he saw that the doctor was sitting opposite him. Wymarc sat up with a start and rubbed his palms into his eyes.

‘How long was I asleep?’ he said.

‘An hour or two.’

‘Have you been here all this time?’

‘For most of it.’

‘Why on earth did you not rouse me?’

‘You needed the sleep, my lord,’ said the doctor quietly. ‘You will get precious little of it when you hear what I have found out about your poor sister.’

Wymarc was on his feet. ‘Was there no hope at all?’

‘None, my lord.’

‘If only you had got here earlier.’

‘It would have been no use, my lord. Helene was dead long before you burst into the chamber. I know the signs. Her body is very eloquent.’

Baldwin the Doctor was a small, wizened, inoffensive man with an almost permanent smile of apology on his lips. A skilled physician, he was also kind and tactful when it came to passing on bad news about a patient to family members. The present situation, however, would tax even his discretion and he had been glad to find Wymarc asleep. The delay gave him time to come to terms with the tragedy and to frame the explanation he would have to give.

‘Well?’ said Wymarc.

‘Helene died from a fatal dose of poison. Until a proper postmortem examination is carried out, it is impossible to say what type of poison it was though the rash on her skin would incline me to think that belladonna was a constituent element.’

‘Would she have died in pain?’

‘I fear so, my lord.’ He saw the other wince. ‘The position of the limbs suggests she had some kind of spasm.’

Wymarc was stunned. ‘Helene? Poison? I cannot believe it, Baldwin.

I will not believe it.’

‘The evidence is unmistakable.’

‘But who could have given her such a hideous concoction? Who could have tricked her into taking it?’ He became furious. ‘There’s villainy at work here. I’ll hunt down the culprit, no matter how long it takes. Helene has been murdered!’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Someone has poisoned my sister!’

‘She took her life with her own hand.’

‘Who could do such a thing to her?’

‘Nobody else was involved.’

‘This must be reported to the sheriff at once.’

‘My lord,’ said Baldwin, rising wearily from his seat. ‘I am sorry to be the one to break the sad tidings to you but the truth must be faced.

Helene committed suicide.’

‘Never!’ yelled Wymarc, seizing him by the arms. ‘That is a hideous charge to make against my sister. Take it back at once. I will not listen to such calumny. Take it back!’

‘If only I could.’

‘Helene would never kill herself.’

‘She did, my lord. Send for another doctor, if you do not believe me.

Every physician in the land will tell you the same thing. Helene deliberately swallowed the contents of that bottle.’

‘She was forced to drink the poison.’

‘By whom?’

‘The villain who procured it.’

‘But there was nobody else in the bedchamber with her. It was locked from the inside.’ Baldwin grimaced. ‘Please let me go, my lord.

You are hurting me.’

Wymarc relaxed his grip and the doctor stepped back a precautionary yard, rubbing his arms to relieve the pain. He waited as Wymarc slowly came to accept the grim diagnosis. It was a long and harrowing process. As the full implications began to dawn on Wymarc, he staggered to a bench and lowered himself on to it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to bury his throbbing head in his hands.

‘Think of the shame,’ he murmured. ‘The dreadful shame.’

‘You have my deepest sympathy.’

‘Helene! Of all people!’

‘There will have to be an inquest, I fear.’

‘Everyone will know. Everyone will remember. The whole county will point me out hereafter as the man whose sister took her own life. They will blame me. ’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Tongues will wag. Fingers will point.’

‘This is not the time to think of yourself,’ suggested the doctor softly. ‘Save your pity for Helene. She died in fearful circumstances.

What made her choose such a painful exit from life? How did such a lovely young girl, with every advantage, come to lose the will to live?’

Wymarc shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

‘Helene had not been ill, to my knowledge.’

‘She was fit and healthy.’

‘What of her mind?’

‘There was nothing wrong with her mind,’ said Wymarc defensively.

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Was the girl troubled? Racked by anxiety?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Had something upset her recently?’

‘Helene was very happy,’ insisted her brother. ‘My wife will tell you the same. Helene was part of a loving family here. She had no cause to be troubled or upset.’

‘No broken friendship, perhaps?’ said Baldwin, fishing with a delicate line. ‘Helene was beautiful. She must have had many admirers.

Was there a special friend among them? Someone with whom she may have been involved in a romance?’

‘There is no question of that.’

‘Are you quite sure, my lord?’

‘Completely. I would have known about it.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘She was my sister, Baldwin,’ the other reminded him. ‘She lived under my roof. I know everything that Helene did and said. There was no romance with anyone. I would have forbidden such a thing.

She would not have dared even to consider it.’

‘I fear that you are mistaken.’

‘That is impossible.’

Baldwin took a deep breath and steeled himself.

‘You will have to know it sooner or later, my lord.’

‘Know what?’

‘Helene deceived you.’

‘My sister was an obedient girl. She would never do that.’

‘The proof is undeniable.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘There was a romance of some sort, my lord. I examined her with great care. There is no room for doubt.’ He gulped in some more air before delivering the blow. ‘Helene was with child. When she swallowed that poison, she did not just take her own life. Mother and baby quit this world together.’

During the brief exchange with him in the courtroom, Ralph Delchard had taken an immediate dislike to Bertrand Gamberell and the man did not improve on acquaintance. When he cornered Ralph in the bailey of Oxford Castle the following morning, Gamberell was almost aggressive.

‘What did you say to Robert d’Oilly?’ he demanded.

‘That is none of your business.’

‘I wish to know.’

‘You are wasting your breath by even asking,’ said Ralph. ‘The sheriff and I had a private conversation yesterday. We felt no obligation to include you in it.’

‘I am deeply involved here.’

‘From what I hear, Bertrand Gamberell is deeply involved with himself. Do not flaunt your vanity in my face for I’ll not endure it.’

Ralph had been on his way to the stables when he was accosted by Gamberell. The latter’s debonair appearance was at odds with his belligerent manner but he was nothing if not flexible. Realising that he could not harass Ralph to any effect, he tried another approach, producing the dazzling smile which had won him so many friends and conquests among the ladies of the county. Hands on hips, he appraised his companion.

‘I like you, my lord,’ he decided.

‘You have a strange way of showing your affection.’

‘Forgive my rash conduct,’ said Gamberell easily. ‘I have been sorely tried these past few days. First, one of my knights is slain at Woodstock, then my finest horse is stolen.’

‘I committed neither of these crimes.’

‘That is very true. Indeed, you have gone out of your way to help us solve one of them. That calls for thanks rather than condemnation.’

He touched Ralph familiarly on the arm. ‘Let us be friends, my lord. I have a strong feeling that we are cut from the same cloth.’

Ralph had an equally strong feeling that they had very little in common but he said nothing. Gamberell was a key figure in the murder inquiry. It would be foolish to spurn his help when he was in a mood to co-operate. Ralph offered him a non-committal smile which the other was quick to misinterpret.

‘That is better,’ said Gamberell happily. ‘We both want the arrest and conviction of this assassin so we may as well work together. All I wish to know is why Ebbi was released.’

‘Did you put that question to my lord sheriff?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That your evidence had been very persuasive.’

‘Then there is an end to it.’

‘But I do not know exactly what that evidence was.’

‘Suffice it to say that it proved Ebbi’s innocence beyond any shadow of doubt. Did you really believe that a skinny old man like that could plot and carry out so cunning a murder?’

‘Well, no, my lord,’ lied Gamberell. ‘To be candid, I always had grave reservations. Ebbi was totally unknown to me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was the target of that attack. Whoever killed Walter Payne was really striking at me. Ebbi had no motive to do that. I thought at first he might have been hired by someone who had a grudge against me but such a person would surely engage a more reliable assassin.’

‘Someone able to kill then elude arrest.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And to show some ingenuity in the process.’

‘Ingenuity?’

Ralph told him about the hiding place in the copse which he and Gervase had discovered at Woodstock. Gamberell was duly astonished and impressed. He was also puzzled.

‘Why have you become embroiled in this?’ he said. ‘You are here simply to decide who owns what land and how much tax should be paid on it. Tiresome work that should keep you immured in the shire hall. Why ride all the way to Woodstock to look into a crime that can surely hold no personal interest for you?’

‘But it does, my friend.’

‘How?’

‘The major dispute which we have come to Oxford to settle concerns, as you well know, three claimants to the same property.’

‘Milo, Wymarc and myself.’

‘Is it not strange that exactly the same men are involved in a horse race during which a murder is committed? That is too much of a coincidence to ignore.’

‘There was a fourth party involved, my lord. Ordgar.’

‘His name only thickens the stew. Much of the land which Milo Crispin now holds was once in Ordgar’s possession. You, too, have appropriated some of Ordgar’s former manors. Can you see now why I am so curious about this whole matter?’ said Ralph, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘Four people engaged in a tenurial battle also take part in another kind of race.’

‘And I was the loser!’ sighed Gamberell.

‘Suspicion must therefore fall on your three rivals.’

I accused them to their faces.’

‘And how did they respond?’

‘Milo was a block of ice and denied the charge. Wymarc screamed his innocence and swore he’d take out an action for slander against me. Needless to say, he did not. Wymarc is all bark and no bite.’

‘What of Ordgar?’

‘He has neither bark nor bite,’ sneered Gamberell. ‘And none of the guile needed to plan such a crime. Besides, he expected his colt to win. Why set up a murder which is bound to render the contest void?’

‘Apart from these three, do you have any other enemies?’

‘Several, my lord.’

Ralph grinned. ‘Vengeful husbands, perhaps?’

‘Who knows? My concern is that the man is apprehended quickly.

He has already killed one of my men and stolen my horse. The next outrage may be a direct attack on me.’

‘I think that unlikely.’

‘Why?’

‘To begin with, you have no proof that the assassin and the horse thief are one and the same man.’

‘He feels like the same man.’

‘Not to me.’

‘He is hell-bent on hurting me, my lord.’

‘Then ask yourself this,’ said Ralph, watching a horse as it was led out of the stables. ‘Would someone who is ready to kill your man in broad daylight be content merely to take your stallion? He would be much more likely to slaughter the animal and send him back to you in pieces.’

Gamberell saw the logic in his argument and nodded. But the new perspective on the crimes brought him no comfort.

‘It seems that I now have two enemies instead of one.’

Ralph shook his head. ‘I am not entirely persuaded that you have any who would go to such lengths.’

‘I must have. An assassin killed my man.’

‘Then we should be looking at Walter Payne’s enemies. It will be a blow to your self-esteem but you may have to accept the fact that Bertrand Gamberell is in no way involved in this murder.’

‘I am bound to be. Walter was one of my knights.’

‘He was the intended victim.’

‘As a means of getting at me.’

‘No,’ said Ralph, feeling his way through the argument. ‘As a means of getting at Walter Payne. The race was seen by the killer as both an opportunity and a decoy.’

‘Decoy?’

‘It made you look in the wrong direction. Our assassin is more guileful than I thought. He has led you by the nose. All this time, you have wondered who is striving to get at Bertrand Gamberell instead of asking yourself who had a motive to kill Walter Payne.’

‘Nobody.’

‘We all have enemies of some sort.’

Gamberell was perplexed. He was so convinced that he had been the indirect target of the murder that he could not easily accommodate a theory about the crime which relegated him to a peripheral role. He felt obscurely cheated.

Ralph pursued his new line of thought relentlessly.

‘Your stallion, I hear, was previously invincible.’

‘Hyperion won all three races.’

‘And who was in the saddle each time?’

‘Walter Payne.’

‘So he was your preferred rider?’

‘My best horseman. And the only person, apart from myself, who could handle such a fiery animal as Hyperion.’

‘The assassin knew that he would be in the race that day,’ said Ralph. ‘All that careful planning would not be wasted.’

‘Everyone liked Walter.’

‘Everyone but the killer.’

‘Walter Payne was a good man. Loyal to a fault.’

‘Had he always been in your service?’

‘No,’ said Gamberell. ‘He came to me a couple of years ago. Before that, he was in the employ of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances. Walter fought under the bishop’s banner many a time and talked fondly of those years. That is why his death is such a tragedy. Walter was looking forward to the banquet with real excitement.’

‘Banquet? Here at the castle?’

‘Yes, my lord. On Saturday. The honoured guest is none other than Bishop Geoffrey himself. I promised to take Walter along with me as my guest so that he could be reunited with his old master. Fate can be so treacherous.’

Ralph said nothing. His mind was racing with Hyperion.

Having come to church to pray, Gervase Bret stayed to listen to the choir rehearsal. He sat at the rear of the nave as their voices soared up to heaven under the direction of Arnulf the Chaplain. The eight members of the choir looked vaguely incongruous when they first arrived but their voices blended perfectly. Gervase was enchanted.

He found himself singing the Kyrie eleison with them.

The door opened and a figure slipped quietly into the church. Gervase guessed who he was. When Bristeva sang her solo, the newcomer’s face was a study in pride and pleasure. Gervase waited until the rehearsal was over before intruding on the old man’s joy.

‘You are Bristeva’s father, I believe,’ he said.

‘That is so. My name is Ordgar.’

‘The chaplain talked about you. He has a high opinion of your daughter. Having heard her sing, I share that opinion.’

‘Thank you.’

Gervase introduced himself and the two fell easily into conversation.

The old man watched his daughter with a smile but there was a wealth of sadness in his eyes.

‘Bristeva has a gift,’ observed Gervase.

‘It comes from her mother. She, too, could sing.’

‘But not in any church choir, I suspect.’

‘No, sir. That would have been out of the question.’

‘Arnulf has wrought many changes here.’

‘He is a good man,’ said Ordgar readily. ‘We did not have to come to him. He went out into the town and beyond, looking for choristers and making no distinctions. He would take anyone who was willing to learn.’

‘It was a wise policy. Bristeva is proof of that.’

‘I refused to let her come at first,’ admitted Ordgar. ‘This is a garrison.

I know how crude soldiers can be. I did not want my daughter exposed to ribald comments and worse.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘Arnulf the Chaplain. He promised me faithfully that no harm would come to the girl and none has. Arnulf has shielded her from any unpleasantness. Here in the church, she and the others are perfectly safe.’

‘It has been a delight to listen to them,’ said Gervase. ‘And I look to hear more of Bristeva when she sings at the banquet on Saturday.’

‘If indeed she does so.’

‘But it is all arranged. The chaplain has already chosen the two songs which she is to sing. You have heard her, Ordgar. Your daughter is more than ready for such a test.’

‘It is not my daughter who is the problem, sir,’ sighed the old man.

‘It is my son, Amalric.’

‘Your son?’

‘I have tried to overrule him but he is too headstrong. Amalric hates the idea of his sister performing in front of revellers at a banquet in a Norman castle. He has sworn to me that somehow or other he will stop Bristeva from singing here on Saturday night.’