The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Eleven

Rumour swept through the castle like wildfire. What first reached the privileged ears of the sheriff was soon in the mouths of his underlings. Hardly a soldier or servant in the place had not picked up and passed on the sensational gossip. Even the guests caught wind of it. The story took on new shape and force each time it was told. A paucity of facts did not hamper its narrators in any way. It merely permitted greater invention. Endlessly embellished, the tale was soon vaulting over the high walls of the fortress into Oxford itself to be used as common coinage in the market before being dispersed breathlessly throughout the whole community.

It was Gervase Bret who gave the sad tidings to Brother Columbanus.

Shaken to the marrow, the monk crossed himself by reflex and offered up a silent prayer. The shining face was now a wrinkled map of concern.

‘This is dreadful intelligence!’ he wailed.

‘It has shocked everyone, Brother Columbanus.’

‘How certain are you of the facts?’

‘I had them from Arnulf the Chaplain,’ said Gervase. ‘He was sent for by the family because he knows the girl so well.’ He winced slightly before correcting himself. ‘Did know her.’

‘What age would this Helene be?’

‘But fourteen.’

‘God in heaven! A child! A mere child!’

‘Her life over before it had really started.’

‘By choice, Gervase,’ mourned the other. ‘Her life is over by choice.

That is the tragedy here. The girl chose to do this terrible thing. With a whole bright future stretching out in front of her, Helene went down this irrevocable path. Why?’

‘She did not see her future as altogether bright,’ said Gervase sadly.

‘If the rumours are to be believed, she had some cause for pessimism.’

‘What was it?’

‘She may have been with child.’

Columbanus goggled. ‘Spare her that, please!’ he gasped. ‘To take her own life is a black enough sin in itself. Do not let us hear that she also committed infanticide. The very thought unseats my brain, Gervase. To kill an innocent babe in the womb? Helene would have to be deranged to do that.’

‘Or driven to despair.’

‘Did the chaplain confirm this gruesome detail?’

‘He confided simply that suicide was confirmed,’ said Gervase. ‘The rest I have gathered from a dozen or more tongues and less credence can be placed in it. What is beyond dispute is that, some time yesterday, my lord Wymarc’s sister ended her days on this earth.’

‘With a virulent poison, you say?’

‘That is what I was told.’

Brother Columbanus took refuge once more in prayer. He had been returning to the church of St George’s-in-the-Castle when he was intercepted by Gervase. If anyone had to break such heart-rending news to him, he was glad that it had been his young friend. With a careful use of words, Gervase had softened the impact of his report.

Elsewhere in the town, the storytellers were doing the very opposite, garnishing the bare facts with spicy details to give them more flavour and pungency.

The monk reached into his memory for guidance.

‘I call to mind the words of St Augustine of Hippo,’ he said. ‘He rightly argues that Christians have no authority to commit suicide in any circumstances.’

‘I know, Brother Columbanus. I have read De Civitate Dei. ’

‘An inspiring text. Inscribed upon my soul.’

‘Canon Hubert often quoted it to us.’

‘Were he here now, he would doubtless remind us of St Augustine’s argument that it is significant that nowhere in any of the sacred canonical books can be found any injunction or permission to commit suicide either to attain immortality or to avoid or escape any evil.’ His eyebrows soared. ‘The sixth commandment is clear: “Thou shalt not kill.” We must not kill another person but, equally, we are forbidden to kill ourselves. That is God’s law.’ He gave a shudder. ‘And if the murder of an unborn child is involved here …’

‘We are not certain of that,’ Gervase reminded him, ‘and it might be safer not to speculate until we have more facts.’

‘Quite so.’

‘The poor girl deserves our utmost compassion.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Columbanus. ‘But if our worst fears are realised, we must not shrink from censuring Helene. Sin is sin and it must be proclaimed as such. Suicide is a brazen act of blasphemy.’

‘My sympathy goes out to my lord Wymarc and his wife.’

‘Is Arnulf with them now?’

‘Yes, Brother Columbanus.’

‘He is a sound man.’

‘And a good friend to Helene.’

‘He will be as shocked by this as her family,’ said the monk sorrowfully. ‘But he will cope with this awful blow. Arnulf is an ordained priest. Trained to bear the weight of other people’s grief and help them through their tribulation.’ And no tribulation could be worse than this.’ He nodded confidently. ‘Arnulf will know what to do.’

The house was in turmoil. When Arnulf arrived, that turmoil seemed to converge on him from all directions until he felt like an axle at the centre of a wheel that was spinning helplessly out of control. It took him over an hour to slow down the wheel and to impose a degree of calm on the abode. Wymarc made the chief claim on his attention, shifting between a morbid fear and a whining self-pity, hoping that somehow the chaplain could exonerate him from any blame whatsoever.

‘It was not my fault, Arnulf.’

‘We must all take some share of the responsibility.’

‘But I was guiltless with Helene. You saw that.’

The chaplain nodded. ‘You always did your best.’

‘What will happen to me?’

‘My thoughts lie with Helene at this moment, my lord.’

‘Mine, too,’ he said quickly. ‘She dominates my mind.’

There was a long pause. Arnulf sounded tentative.

‘Did she say anything to you before this tragedy?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘She gave no hint of the distress she was in?’

‘None.’

‘There must have been some small clue, my lord.’

‘She would not speak to us at all,’ said Wymarc. ‘She locked herself away in her room and refused even to eat. Now we realise why. If only I had known!’

Arnulf nodded sadly. ‘Try to rest,’ he counselled.

‘How can I?’

‘It has been a night of terror for you. No man could live through that ordeal without a heavy toll being taken on his mind and body.’ He eased him back in his chair. ‘Rest, my lord. Close your eyes and yield yourself up. Replenish your strength for the difficult time that lies ahead. I am here now. I will take care of everything. Share your load.’

Having placated Wymarc to the point where the latter drifted harmlessly off to sleep, Arnulf set to work on the rest of the household.

The arrival of the chaplain had allowed the wife to be seized by the fit of hysteria she had kept at bay while her husband was in need of her support. Now that Wymarc had been reassured, she made her bid for consolation, weeping copiously and wringing her hands, giving full vent to her emotions.

Arnulf combined sympathy with firm action. Taking the woman by the wrists, he shook her hard until she was jerked out of her lachrymose display and stared at him open-mouthed.

‘This is no way to behave, my lady,’ he said.

‘Helene is dead and by her own hand!’

‘Then it is for the living to show her some respect.’

‘She will go down into the deepest pit of Hell.’

‘Put such thoughts aside.’

‘Helene killed herself,’ wailed the other. ‘And lost all hope of entering into the Kingdom of Heaven. That is the Church’s teaching, is it not? Suicide is a sure road to damnation.’

‘God will take pity on Helene.’

‘After what she has done?’

‘Have faith, my lady. Do not despair.’

The chaplain spent even more time with her than with her husband, but she was eventually calmed enough to be left alone while he moved among the servants. Faces blank with horror, they snatched at every crumb of comfort he offered them. A suicide was not a merely personal calamity. It touched everyone in the household with its clammy fingers. Arnulf probed the servants to see if any of them had guessed at Helene’s plight and foreseen the catastrophe. No suspicions of any kind had existed. The servants had been taken completely by surprise.

Helene had confided in nobody. She kept sorrow penned up inside her until it burst out uncontrollably.

When a grisly tranquillity settled on the house, Arnulf found a moment to steal quietly upstairs to her bedchamber. He let himself in and recoiled at once from the nauseous smell that was easily winning the battle against the sweet herbs strewn around the floor. Helene lay on the bed beneath a shroud. The sheets were still stained by the posthumous effusions from her body.

Arnulf moved up to the side of the bed and lifted the shroud to take a look at her face. His stomach turned. What he remembered was the beautiful young girl with soft skin, who looked and sang like an angel in his choir at the church. Helene was no angel now. Rigor mortis had set in, freezing her expression of agony and robbing her of all grace and charm. It was a cruel transformation.

Falling to his knees beside her, Arnulf prayed with his hands clasped tight together. When he rose, he bent over the corpse to make the sign of the cross on her forehead as if baptising her afresh. He pulled the shroud over her face again and went out. As he descended the stairs in a daze, he could hear the haunting sound of a fourteen-year-old girl singing joyously in an empty church.

On the journey back to Oxford, they made a detour in order to pay a second unheralded visit. Ordgar was in the house when he heard Ralph Delchard and his men ride up. The old man came out to give them a wary greeting. Over by the stables, Amalric reached instinctively for a wooden hayfork, fearing that the soldiers had come to take possession of his colt, but he put the improvised weapon aside when he realised that they were not Milo Crispin’s men.

Ralph dismounted to be taken into the house by Ordgar. It was a typical Saxon dwelling, long and low in design, divided into a series of bays and with a sunken floor that was covered with rushes. The thatched roof harboured spiders, mice and other denizens. Light was frugal. After the timbered splendour of Wallingford Castle, the place seemed small and dismal. Ralph did not care for the faint smell of damp. He lowered himself on to the stool to which he was politely waved.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord. I was at the castle when you walked into the courtroom and stopped the trial. You saved a man’s life.’

‘Ebbi was innocent.’

‘But unable to prove his innocence without your help.’

‘I am glad I got there in time,’ said Ralph. ‘We went to a lot of trouble to establish that he could not possibly have been the assassin. We wanted our evidence heard. The poor man was arrested and charged on insufficient grounds.’

‘My lord sheriff felt he had grounds enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know the law as well as I,’ said Ordgar without bitterness.

‘When a Norman soldier is slain, the murderer is always presumed to be a Saxon. If he is not caught or turned in, the district surrounding the place where the crime occurred is amerced for a substantial fine.

We have lived with that law for a long time now.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘My lord sheriff wanted a Saxon killer. His soldiers found one.’

‘It was not as simple as that,’ said Ralph. ‘The law of which you speak was brought in as a protective measure after the Conquest.

England was not easily subdued.’

‘Did you expect it to be, my lord?’

‘Not at all. People are entitled to defend what they believe is theirs.

Until it is taken away from them. That is when it is time to sue for peace.’

‘Peace without honour.’

‘Peace with land to work. Peace with food in your belly.’

‘Imposed from above.’ He gave a philosophical smile. ‘But you are right, my lord. Peace is better than war. Even a lesser existence is better than death. I accept that.’

‘Many did not, Ordgar,’ said Ralph. ‘Rebellions, ambushes, brutal assassinations. On and on they went. The law was enacted to protect us from those Saxons who still thought they ruled this island. And they do not,’ he reminded his host. ‘The killing which has brought me here today is of a very different order.’

‘Is it, my lord?’

‘Walter Payne was murdered to pay off an old grudge.’

‘By whom?’

‘I do not know yet.’

‘Supposing that you never find out?’ asked Ordgar. ‘If my lord sheriff also fails to track down the assassin, he will invoke the law of which we just talked. A Saxon hand will be presumed to have thrown that dagger. A murder fine will be levied on those who dwell near Woodstock.’

‘It will not come to that. I’ll catch the villain.’

‘How?’

‘With your help, Ordgar.’

The old man gave a weary smile and sat on the bench opposite him.

Ralph studied him in the gloom. His assessment of Ordgar was favourable. The latter had a quiet pride which even the indignities forced upon him had not extinguished. He showed respect but not fear. There was a pleasing absence of rancour in him.

‘Let us talk about the race,’ suggested Ralph.

‘If you wish, my lord.’

‘I have spoken with Wymarc, Milo Crispin and Bertrand Gamberell.

They gave me varying accounts of what took place at Woodstock that day. I wanted to hear your version.’

‘I doubt that I will have anything new to add.’

‘Describe the race.’

Ordgar collected his thoughts then gave his version of events. He spoke slowly, honestly and with a pervading regret. When the old man stopped, Ralph had the first question ready.

‘How did your colt win the race?’

‘Fairly, my lord.’

‘Hyperion lost his rider.’

‘Even with a man in the saddle, he would have lost.’

‘Why?’

‘Cempan is better.’

‘Better bred? Better trained? Better ridden?’

‘All three.’

‘Who deserves the credit for that?’

‘Edric the Cripple and my son,’ explained the other. ‘Edric is my steward but his knowledge of horses is second to none. He raised and trained Cempan. He also taught my son how to ride him properly.’

‘A cripple riding a horse?’

‘He was not always disabled. Edric was once a warrior, a housecarl in the service of King Edward. He lost his leg in combat. I gave him a place here.’

‘He must be grateful to you, Ordgar. Not many men would employ a crippled soldier to oversee their land.’

‘Edric has repaid me a thousandfold.’

‘How did you prepare for the race?’

‘Prepare?’

‘Cempan did not win by chance,’ decided Ralph. ‘You were up against the fastest horse in the county and Hyperion had already raced on that course three times. You were at a complete disadvantage.’

A sly grin. ‘Not quite, my lord.’

‘Let me guess. You took the colt to Woodstock beforehand. You let him get the feel of the course.’

‘We did more than that,’ admitted the other. ‘Edric and I watched an earlier race. We saw how Hyperion ran and how his rider handled him. That taught us much.’

‘Sensible preparations.’

‘My son, Amalric, then rode Cempan over the course. It has many undulations. They are deceptive and can knock a horse out of his stride. Edric showed him how to take a line that would miss the worst of the slopes and dips. They trained for hours in the twilight.’

A full smile came. ‘We borrowed money from many people, my lord.

We had to be sure to win.’

‘Your victory was obviously deserved.’

‘But not upheld.’

‘Something puzzles me,’ said Ralph. ‘Edric the Cripple had an important role in your success yet you never mentioned him during your account of the race.’

‘He was not there.’

‘Not there? After all that effort he put in, he was not there to see the results?’

‘Edric was invited to the wedding of his kinsman. He was away in Warwick for three or four days. He offered to miss the wedding in order to watch the race but I urged him to go.’

‘Would not his presence have helped your son?’

‘Yes, my lord. But there was another consideration.’

‘What was that?’

Ordgar became uneasy. ‘Edric finds it hard to accept the changes that have come about. You talked earlier of those who refused to surrender. Edric is one of them. Something of the warrior still burns inside him.’ He blurted out the truth. ‘To be candid, I was glad that he was not at the race because he might have said something out of turn.’

‘A Saxon hothead upsetting a trio of Norman lords.’

‘There are times when the loss of his leg rankles. It makes him lash out wildly and not always wisely. Besides,’ said Ordgar, ‘we won the race without him. If not the prize.’

‘Was your stake returned?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Held over until the race is run again?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then what is the situation?’

‘I do not wish to speak ill of my lord Milo,’ began the other cautiously,

‘but he has been vindictive. He is very eager to win the race against Hyperion. Because our colt is the only horse likely to do that, he wants to buy him from us.’

‘You would be mad to sell him.’

‘We may be given no choice in the matter.’

‘Milo would force you to sell?’

‘He offered to exchange our stake money for Cempan.’

Ralph was shocked. ‘I thought better of him.’

‘Needless to say, I refused such a corrupt bargain but I fear that he will come for Cempan one day.’

‘Only when the race is run again and that cannot happen until Hyperion is found. Bertrand Gamberell has shed more tears over that animal than over Walter Payne. You would think that it was Hyperion who was killed at Woodstock.’

‘His reputation was, my lord. By us.’

Ralph tried to catch him unawares with a blunt question.

‘Who murdered Walter Payne?’

‘I do not know, my lord.’

‘Would you tell me, if you did?’

Ordgar took much longer to find an answer this time.

‘Perhaps.’

Edric the Cripple was riding across the fields towards the house when he saw them depart. As their horses cantered back to Oxford, they left a cloud of dust in their wake. Edric went straight to the stables and dismounted. He found the boy lifting a saddle on to Cempan and gave a sigh of relief.

‘I thought they had come to take him away,’ he said.

‘So did I,’ confided Amalric. ‘But they only wished to talk to father.

They were complete strangers to me. I will have to ask him who they were.’

‘What mood were they in when they left?’

‘Friendly.’

‘Normans are never friendly. Unless they are trying to trick something out of you. What were they after?’

‘I do not know, Edric. Only one of them went into the house with father. When they came out together, they were smiling.’

‘Ordgar is too easily taken in.’

‘You know what he always says,’ the other reminded him as he tightened the girth. ‘Better to work with them than against them.’

‘Look where it got him with Milo Crispin!’

The chestnut colt whinnied. Cempan was keen to be ridden out.

Edric patted the animal’s neck affectionately. Amalric adjusted the stirrups. The boy seemed relaxed and happy. The steward decided to broach an important topic with him.

‘We need to talk about Bristeva,’ he began.

‘Why?’

‘I think we have both been unkind to her, Amalric’

‘What does it matter? She is only a girl.’

‘She’s your sister. You should love her.’

‘I do,’ said the other defensively. ‘But she can be very silly at times and I’ve no patience with her. Neither have you, Edric. You’re sharper with Bristeva than I am.’

‘It was wrong of me.’

‘Wrong?’

‘To speak so harshly about this choir of hers.’

‘She talks about nothing else. It vexes me.’

‘You talk about nothing but Cempan,’ the other pointed out, ‘and Bristeva must be equally vexed, but does she rail at you? Does she mock the horse the way you mock her choir?’

Amalric was surprised by the steward’s change of tone.

‘Has father been speaking to you about me?’ he guessed.

‘We exchanged words.’

‘Did he order you to keep me on the bit?’

‘No!’ said Edric hotly. ‘He would never order me to do anything. I am my own man. You should know that.’ He took a moment to calm down.

‘I offered to sound you out in order to save you from being excluded.’

‘From what?’

‘The banquet at the castle. Ordgar is afraid to take you. He fears that you will somehow prevent Bristeva from singing.’

‘I will!’

‘Why?’

‘You are the last person who should need to ask that,’ said the boy with feeling. ‘Think of the people she would be entertaining at the banquet. Robert d’Oilly. Milo Crispin. Bertrand Gamberell. And many others.’

‘Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances among them,’ said Edric.

‘Him, especially. Look who those men are. Remember what they have done to us. I’m not going to let my sister perform in that hall for their benefit. Just imagine, Edric. She will be singing to please Milo Crispin — the man who is trying to steal Cempan from us! I have to stop her.’

‘No, Amalric.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I say so.’

The dark menace in his eyes made the boy’s anger dissolve at once.

Amalric was suddenly afraid and confused. Edric the Cripple had always encouraged him to resent and to subvert. Now he was insisting on Amalric’s good behaviour and backing up that insistence with a naked threat. The boy was unsettled.

Edric chuckled and punched him playfully on the arm.

‘Let us stay friends, Amalric.’

‘Yes. We will.’

‘Forget your sister,’ advised the other. ‘Her ambition is clear. Tell me this. What would you most like to do?’

‘Win a second race against Hyperion.’

‘Are you sure that Cempan will beat him?’

‘Certain!’

‘Then you will have your wish.’

‘How can that be?’ asked Amalric. ‘Milo Crispin will take him from us so that Cempan runs for him. I will not be allowed to ride in that race at all.’

‘Then we must arrange another one.’

‘Another?’

‘Two horses. Head to head. Cempan against Hyperion.’

‘But that is impossible!’

‘Is it?’

Edric grinned and the truth slowly dawned on the boy. The two of them were soon shaking with a silent laughter that bonded them together.

Robert d’Oilly was in a bad temper and even the presence of his wife did not calm him down this time. Edith and Golde were in the hall at the castle, making a provisional seating plan for the banquet, when the sheriff stormed in through the door. His steward and two of his soldiers were close behind him and their grim expressions showed that they had already felt the lash of their master’s tongue.

Edith’s greeting died on her lips as she saw his face.

‘What ails you, my lord?’ she asked.

‘Everything!’

‘Has something happened?’

‘It never stops happening, Edith!’ he complained. ‘There are times when the office of sheriff is too great a burden for any one man. I am the agent of the Crown in Oxfordshire. I collect taxes. I administer justice. I raise and lead any militia that is needed. In short, I receive the King’s writ in this county and execute his instructions.’

‘And you do so with great efficiency,’ agreed Edith.

‘When I am not troubled by other matters.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This week has been a nightmare for me, Edith,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Gamberell’s man is murdered. The wrong suspect is arrested and tried. When we search afresh for the killer, the trail has gone cold. A black stallion is stolen and we find no trace of that either. Wymarc’s sister commits suicide. I have another crisis on my hands. What else will descend out of the skies to plague me?’

Edith traded a worried glance with Golde before speaking.

‘This may not be the ideal moment to mention the banquet,’ she said sweetly, ‘but it may provide the rest that you so surely deserve.’

‘It only increases my problems.’

‘How so, my lord?’ asked Golde.

‘We will take care of all the arrangements,’ added Edith.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you cannot take care of the murder, the theft of Gamberell’s horse and this turmoil in Wymarc’s family. How can I enjoy a banquet when all this is hanging over me? What opinion will the Bishop of Coutances form of me if he sees me so fretful and oppressed?’

‘The bishop knows your qualities well enough.’

‘I need to impress him, Edith.’

‘You will, my lord. No question of that.’

‘The banquet will be sumptuous,’ promised Golde. ‘Your wife will see to that. It will be fit for the King himself.’

‘But what about Oxford itself?’ he growled, beyond all reassurance.

‘When the bishop rides in with his entourage, he will expect a town that is firmly under control. Instead of that, he will find himself in a madhouse that is buzzing with tales of murder, theft and suicide. I wanted everything in its place when he arrived here. That is why I brought the trial of the prisoner forward. I wanted to clear some of the stink out of the way so that it would not offend the bishop’s nostrils.

But now,’ he said, ‘he will hardly be able to breathe for the stench.’

Edith let her husband rant on for a few more minutes before signalling discreetly to Golde. The.two women slipped out of the hall. When they closed the door behind them, they could still hear the sheriff in full flow.

‘Take no notice of that,’ said Edith smoothly. ‘Robert sometimes has to let his feelings show through. He is a most able sheriff and keeps a firm grip on the shire.’

‘I have seen that for myself, my lady.’

‘Oxford is fortunate to have such a man.’

‘And he is fortunate to have such a wife,’ said Golde with admiration.

‘I do not know how you preserved your calm in there. If Ralph rounded on me like that, I could never be as poised and supportive as you were.’

‘How would you respond, Golde?’

‘I’m not sure. I’d be tempted to box his ears, I expect.’

Edith laughed. ‘That might be the best remedy of all.’

They moved out of earshot of the continued protests.

‘I did feel a twinge of guilt, though,’ said Golde.

‘Guilt?’

‘Your husband is overburdened. We are part of his load.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘The strain would be eased if we were not here.’

‘The opposite is true,’ said Edith with a smile. ‘You have helped to ease the strain on us. It has been a joy to have such interesting guests at the castle. You have reminded us how to relax and enjoy good company again. There has been a separate blessing for me. The preparations for the banquet have been half the trouble with you beside me.’

‘I have been glad to help.’

‘Then no more of this foolish talk about being a burden.’

Golde nodded and was about to go off for a walk in the bailey in search of fresh air. Listening to the sheriff’s moans had left her jangled. Then she remembered something.

‘My lady?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is it true what they say? About this poor girl?’

‘Helene?’

‘Yes. Was she with child?’

Edith sighed. ‘I believe so!’

‘Then the situation is more terrible than I imagined.’

‘It does not bear thinking about.’

‘What on earth could drive someone to that pitch of desperation?’

Edith shook her head. ‘You knew the girl, I believe. Was there anything in her character which could have given the slightest hint of this?’

‘Nothing,’ said the other. ‘Nothing whatsoever. Helene was a charming creature. She sang both in the choir and during any banquets we held here. I spoke with her often and found her honest, respectful and conscientious. She was the last person in the world I would have expected to take her own life.’

‘The decision was forced upon her, my lady.’

‘So it appears.’

‘Someone’s attentions may have been forced upon her as well,’ said Golde. ‘Most people will rush to condemn the girl but there is another culprit.’

‘The father.’

‘Yes, my lady. Who is he?’

Bertrand Gamberell took his horse at a brisk trot through the crowd in the High Street, buffeting anyone who got in his way and treating anyone who dared to complain to a burst of vituperation. The six knights who trailed behind him in single file were equally inconsiderate. A long, hard, fruitless day in the saddle had deprived them all of even the most basic courtesies. Several bruised shoulders and outraged faces were left behind them. They did not care.

When he led his men through the castle gates, Gamberell was in determined mood. Dismounting in the bailey, he marched towards the keep and was gratified to see that Robert d’Oilly was in residence.

The sheriff was standing with Gervase Bret on the flight of stone steps that were set in the mound. The fact that they were engaged in private conversation did not hold back the impetuous Gamberell. He barged straight in.

‘I demand more assistance, my lord sheriff!’ he said.

Robert d’Oilly turned a jaundiced eye upon the interloper.

‘I never respond to demands,’ he said.

‘We have been searching for Hyperion all day.’

‘Without success, by the look of you.’

‘It is your duty to help me.’

‘A troop of men has been combing the countryside.’

‘I need more.’

‘You have all that I can spare,’ said the sheriff. ‘Now, please excuse me. Master Bret and I have a more important topic to discuss.’

‘Nothing is more important to me than Hyperion,’ returned Gamberell.

‘You do not seem to appreciate what a remarkable animal he is. He has been stolen. That is a crime.’

‘I have sent men out in search of the criminal.’

‘Not enough of them.’

‘The theft of a horse is not a priority, Bertrand.’

‘It is for me.’

‘Have you forgotten the murder of your knight?’ scolded d’Oilly.

‘The killer is my main target. I would much rather catch an assassin than a mere horse thief. That is where I have assigned most of my men. To the murder hunt.’

‘I want Hyperion back!’

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ said Gervase, intervening to prevent the violent row that was about to break out. ‘You have clearly not heard the sad tidings. My lord sheriff and I were talking about the tragedy when you stole upon us.’

‘The only tragedy I know is the theft of my horse.’

‘And the murder of Walter Payne,’ said the sheriff.

‘Yes. That, too, of course.’

‘Let me add a third misfortune,’ said Gervase politely. ‘You are, I am sure, familiar with my lord Wymarc’s family.’

‘I have met his cold fish of a wife, if that is what you mean. Mean, maggoty, thin-faced lady who twitches all over you. What about her?’

‘I am referring to his sister.’

‘Helene?’ A confiding chuckle. ‘Now she is a different proposition altogether. A truly gorgeous young creature. I have waited outside the church for her more than once, I can tell you. Helene is a girl to be cultivated.’

‘Not any more, my lord.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Helene is dead.’

Gamberell gaped at him then turned to the sheriff. The latter gave a nod of confirmation. Gamberell reeled.

‘Dead? Helene? She was so full of life.’

‘It was not a natural death, my lord.’

A gasp of incredulity. ‘Someone killed her?’

‘Helene took her own life,’ said Gervase softly, ‘and that of the child she was carrying.’

Bertrand Gamberell was rocked. He looked from Gervase to the sheriff and back again. Then, without another word, he ran down the steps and across the bailey. He was soon spurring his horse out through the gates of the castle as if the hounds of hell were on his tail.