The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Twelve

Bristeva was singing quietly and sewing assiduously when she caught a glimpse of the visitor through the window. She gave a little cry of excitement. Abandoning her chore at once, she set it aside and went scurrying out to greet Arnulf the Chaplain. He looked pained and fatigued but he managed a welcoming smile for her. She held the reins of his horse while he dismounted.

‘How are you, Bristeva?’ he said.

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Have you been practising that song I gave you?’

‘I was singing it to myself as I was at my sewing.’

‘Good.’ He glanced around. ‘Is your father here?’

‘In the lower field.’

‘I want to speak to him.’

‘Let me fetch him for you,’ she volunteered.

‘No need.’

‘I will run all the way.’

‘You stay here. I will find him myself.’ He looked at her for a moment and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Go back to your sewing and practise that song, Bristeva. It must be perfect. On Saturday, you will sing before a bishop.’

‘I know.’

‘Do not let me down.’

‘I would never do that, Father Arnulf.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘I give you my word of honour!’

He was touched by her earnest commitment. Waving a farewell, he started off on the long walk to the lower field. Bristeva ran back into the house and took up a position in the window from which she could keep him in view. Watching the man who had given a meaning to her life, she gathered up her sewing and sang with more pleasure than ever.

When the chaplain came up, Ordgar was supervising two of his men as they tried to repair a broken plough. Still in their yoke, the oxen bellowed mutinously. At the sight of Arnulf, the old man left the cottagers to struggle on alone with their work. He and his visitor walked a short distance away so that they could converse in privacy.

‘What brings you out here, Father Arnulf?’ said Ordgar.

‘Sorry news.’

‘Not about Bristeva, I hope?’

‘Indirectly.’

Ordgar was alarmed. ‘Her place at the banquet is not in jeopardy, is it? My daughter has set her heart on singing at the castle. It would destroy her if that chance were somehow snatched away from her.’

‘That is why I came to see you.’

‘What has happened?’

A considered pause. ‘Let us walk back to the house.’

They fell in beside each other and trudged up the field.

‘I came straight here from my lord Wymarc’s home,’ said Arnulf. ‘An appalling tragedy has befallen the family.’

‘Someone has died?’

‘It is worse than that, Ordgar.’

‘Worse? How can that be?’

‘His sister, Helene. Suicide.’

The old man was struck dumb. He had weathered many losses and ordeals in his long life, and witnessed much crime and brutality, but here was something quite outside his experience. The very notion of suicide made him shudder. The fact that it involved a girl, who was younger than his own daughter, gave the blow greater impact. He looked up at the distant house.

‘Have you told Bristeva?’

‘No.’

‘She liked Helene. They were friends.’

‘That is why she must not know yet, Ordgar,’ said Arnulf. ‘It would upset her too much. Bristeva would never be able to sing at the banquet with this on her mind. I came to beg you to keep this from her until afterwards.’

‘That will not be easy.’

‘But very necessary. You do see that?’

Ordgar thought it through. ‘Why, yes. You are right. Tell her now and she would be distraught. I am stunned myself in spite of all my years. A suicide? Dear God! By what means?’

‘Poison.’

‘What provoked such an act?’

‘We do not yet know.’

‘Did her brother have no explanation?’

‘My lord Wymarc is too distressed to talk about it. I offered what comfort I could in the household but there is a limit to what anyone can do.’

‘Taking her own life! This is dire news.’

‘It is all around the town by now and will soon spread out to the countryside. I wanted you to hear the truth from me and not some butchered account of it from the local gossips.’

‘That was very considerate.’

‘Bristeva must be protected from this.’

‘She will be, Father Arnulf. Trust me.’

‘I do. It is your son and your steward who worry me. Sooner or later, they will surely hear the rumours. I would hate to think of one of them blurting it out to Bristeva.’

‘They will not.’

‘Should I speak to them?’

‘It is my office. I’ll not shirk it.’ A long sigh escaped him. ‘There is no love lost between myself and my lord Wymarc but I do pity him.

And his wife. They have a terrible burden to bear from now on.’

‘The guilt will never leave them.’

‘Nor the ignominy. Suicide. It is against Nature.’

‘Helene must have been pushed to extremes.’

‘How? By whom?’

‘That will emerge in time,’ said Arnulf. ‘My immediate concern is to safeguard Bristeva’s performance at the banquet. It may be a long time before another chance like this presents itself.’

‘I understand that.’

‘Keep her close, Ordgar. Tell her nothing. Bring her early to the castle tomorrow.’

‘I will.’

‘Bristeva will sleep there overnight,’ said Arnulf. ‘I will ensure that nothing of this tragedy disturbs her. She will be kept in ignorance.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Bristeva is almost a woman yet we must keep her a child. And children must be shielded from such horrors. When it is time to tell her, I will frame it as gently as I can.’

‘I would prefer that she heard it from you,’ said Ordgar. ‘My tongue would surely blunder. You would choose the right words and Bristeva has such great admiration for you.’

‘I will wait until the banquet is out of the way first. At least, she will not be robbed of that joy. Bristeva will stand in the hall where Helene last stood to sing for the company.’

The old man came to a sudden halt as a thought intruded.

‘I talked to Helene once.’

‘Did you?’

‘When I came to pick up Bristeva from a choir rehearsal. My daughter introduced me to her. Helene was a good girl. I remember how polite she was. Even to me.’

‘Helene always showed respect.’

‘She said how much she loved to sing,’ recalled Ordgar. ‘She was so grateful to you for making that possible. At home, she was enjoined to hold her peace and attend to her work, but in church she was allowed to be herself.’

‘It would have been a crime to suppress that talent.’

‘Yet that is what happened when she was forced to leave the choir by her brother. My lord Wymarc was the one who suppressed that wonderful voice of hers.’ He looked up questioningly. ‘Could that be her motive? Despair at being taken away from you and the choir?’

‘No, Ordgar. I think not.’

‘Helene was like Bristeva. She lived to sing.’

‘Leaving us no doubt hurt her,’ said Arnulf, wincing at the memory.

‘It certainly caused us pain. But that would not be enough to incite her to such a dreadful act. There are other reasons behind this and I suspect that they are nothing to do with the choir.’

The two men set off again, walking in step towards the house.

When they got close enough, they could see Bristeva waving enthusiastically to them from the window. Ordgar felt a pang of remorse when he saw her. Her joy depended wholly on her innocence. Arnulf nursed his own recriminations. He would have to hide an ugly truth from someone with a right to know it.

Unaware of the calamity which had struck down her predecessor, Bristeva was singing at the top of her voice.

Ralph Delchard was overcome by a deep sadness. For a while he was quite dazed. When his head cleared, he grabbed Gervase Bret by the shoulders and sought corroboration.

‘Is this true?’ he gasped.

‘Unhappily, it is.’

‘Suicide? An unborn child?’

‘This is what I have been told,’ said Gervase. ‘Arnulf went out to the house in answer to a summons. Before he left, he confirmed to me that Helene had taken her own life.’

‘But this other horror? The baby?’

‘I had it from our host. The doctor gave a full report to my lord sheriff. The facts are no longer in doubt.’

Ralph released him and walked away a few paces to grapple with the frightful intelligence. They were alone together in the hall. A meal was set out on the table and others would soon join them. Gervase had been keen to forewarn his friend about the news which would surely dominate the conversation. He was surprised by Ralph’s reaction.

Close acquaintance with the savagery of war had left Ralph largely impervious to the shocks and setbacks which troubled others. Since he usually treated the Church with a cheerful irreverence, he could hardly be expressing the disgust of a true Christian at the dreadful implications of the act of suicide.

Walking back to him, Ralph gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Forgive me, Gervase. This news unnerved me.’

‘But you did not know Helene.’

‘She is a girl,’ said Ralph quietly. ‘That is enough. A young girl and a mother-to-be. Two lives cut hideously short. There is no comparison with my situation, I know, but I was hurled back into it for a moment.

I thought of Elinor, my first wife, my first love. It was a happy marriage, Gervase, but it lacked the one thing which we both dreamed about.

Children. Time went past but Elinor simply would not conceive. The doctor told me that Nature might be showing kindness.’

‘Where is the kindness is keeping a woman barren?’

‘That is what I said to him. He pointed out that Elinor was not strong. She had a delicate constitution and was prone to minor ailments.

Childbirth held danger for her.’ He bit his lip as the memory took a tighter hold. ‘Then, out of the blue, against all expectation, Elinor conceived our child. We were overjoyed, Gervase. What two people in our predicament would not be? We spurned the doctor’s warnings. God had blessed our union and that was paramount. You know the rest.’

‘Your wife and child did not survive the delivery.’

‘Elinor must have known,’ insisted Ralph. ‘In her heart, she must have known the appalling risk that she was taking. But she was so determined to give me the son I longed for that she bravely accepted that risk. Can you understand what I am saying?’

‘I think so, Ralph.’

‘Childbirth was a form of suicide for her.’

‘That is not true.’

‘It seemed so at the time.’

‘Then you must rid yourself of that thought,’ said Gervase seriously.

‘Elinor could not have foreseen what would happen. No woman woman would sacrifice her own life and leave her husband with a stillborn child. In any case, your experience is very different from the situation we find here. Your child was conceived with love within the bounds of holy wedlock. Helene’s was patently not.’

‘I know that, Gervase, and I am sorry to talk of my own sorrow when my sympathy should be given elsewhere. But the news caught me unawares. A mother and child lying dead. It brought back a vivid picture I have tried to wipe from my mind.’ He straightened his back.

‘No more of me. Let us think of the girl and what brought her to such an ignoble end.’

Gervase looked up as servants brought in more food and wine to set out on the table. He waited until they left.

‘There will be time enough to talk of this with the others,’ he said.

‘While we are still alone, I am anxious to hear your news. How did you find Milo Crispin?’

‘His blood is ice-cold, Gervase. When he makes water, it probably congeals in the air. I never met such a master of self-possession.’

‘What did you learn from him?’

‘A great deal,’ said Ralph. ‘He did not prevaricate.’

He gave his companion a brief account of all that had passed between him and Milo Crispin, adding salient details which his men had picked up while talking with members of the garrison at Wallingford Castle. Gervase was particularly interested in the news that Walter Payne had pursued Helene with lecherous intent. He was bound to wonder if the soldier might be the father of her child.

‘Milo did, indeed, give you straight answers.’

‘So I thought at the time,’ admitted Ralph. ‘But that was before I talked to Ordgar. He made me look at Milo from a slightly different angle. Some of those straight answers began to seem as crooked as the hind leg of a donkey.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The best way to divert attention from yourself is to accuse another.

That is why he pointed a finger at Wymarc. Walter Payne clearly pestered Helene in a way that angered her brother, but would that anger be enough to provoke Wymarc to such extreme action? No, Gervase. Perhaps we should go back to the race itself again and search for motives behind that.’

‘You think that Milo Crispin was involved in the murder?’

‘Examine the facts,’ said Ralph. ‘He knew and hated Walter Payne.

It must have been galling for him to see the man astride Hyperion as the stallion outpaced his own horses every time. Milo’s urge to win that race was overpowering.’

‘Then why disrupt it by instigating a murder?’

‘In order to weaken his rival. Bertrand Gamberell is not a man who can ignore a challenge. Milo would have set up another race with a larger purse. Hyperion is fast but every horse needs a good rider in the saddle.’

‘Walter Payne.’

‘Renowned for his horsemanship.’

‘Even without him, Hyperion might still win.’

‘Not if he came up against Cempan, the chestnut colt.’

‘That is Ordgar’s horse.’

‘Milo intends to buy it from him. By force.’

Gervase assimilated the new information very quickly.

‘My lord Milo is determined to win,’ he said. ‘By fair means or foul.

This contest is much more than a race between horses. It is a battle between deadly rivals.’

‘Milo expects to be the victor.’

‘Why?’

‘He is a more ruthless soldier. He takes no prisoners.’

The clash of steel reverberated around the courtyard of Wallingford Castle. Wearing helm and hauberk, Miles Crispin used both hands to wield his sword with vicious force. The savagery of the attack made his opponent back away, unable to do anything but parry the blows with his own weapon and wish that he had not been chosen to fight the duel. Intense pressure finally told. The man lost his footing and fell backwards to the ground. Milo was on him at once, standing astride his prey, his swordpoint aimed at the man’s throat.

‘Fight harder next time,’ he ordered.

‘You were too strong for me, my lord.’

‘That is why we practise. To build your strength.’

‘I will work more diligently in future.’

Milo offered a hand to pull him up. The defeated soldier was glad that his humiliation was over. Milo kept his own skills in good repair and few in the garrison could provide a real test for his swordplay. A dozen or more soldiers had watched the display. Milo was about to address them when a call from the guard on the rampart made him turn.

A lone rider was approaching the castle. When he heard who it was, Milo ordered the gate to be opened. It was not long before Bertrand Gamberell brought his horse into the courtyard at a canter. He reined the animal in. Milo saw that the horse was lathered up and its rider was panting for breath. Handing his sword and helm to a servant, he went to greet his eager visitor.

‘You seem in a great hurry to get here, Bertrand.’

‘I was.’

‘How far have you ridden?’

‘From Oxford.’

‘Alone?’

‘I wanted no company.’

‘Why not?’

‘I will tell you in a more private place, Milo.’

The castellan nodded and led him towards the keep. He was already speculating on the possible reasons that had brought his visitor there in such haste. Bertrand Gamberell had more cause to stay away from Wallingford Castle than to come to it. Milo conducted him to the hall and poured him a glass of wine. When he had taken a long sip, Gamberell began to regain a touch of his more usual nonchalance.

‘I was minded to call upon you, Milo,’ he said.

‘You have never felt that need before.’

‘We are rivals, I know, and we are in dispute over those hides of land, but that does not mean we have to stand apart and glower at each other.’

‘This show of friendship is very alarming.’

‘Do not be so cynical.’

‘What has happened?’

‘I have come to see you, that is all.’

‘Like a man running from the devil,’ noted Milo coldly. ‘What are you afraid of, Bertrand? Who is after you?’

Gamberell took a longer sip of his wine before speaking. The swaggering confidence was now tempered with prudence.

‘In the heat of the moment, all of us can be guilty of rash action.

There are times when it is sensible to keep out of the reach of such reckless behaviour until tempers cool and wiser counsels prevail.’

‘Can this be Bertrand Gamberell I am hearing?’

‘Do not mock me.’

‘All I am doing is to marvel at the transformation,’ said Milo with light sarcasm. ‘You are the last man in the world entitled to preach a sermon against impetuous action. Who has been more reckless than you? By heaven, you will turn pacifist next and tell me that soldiering is a sinful trade.’ He fixed his visitor with a glare. ‘Get to the truth, man.’

‘Wymarc’s young sister is dead.’

‘Helene?’

‘By her own hand.’

‘Can this be so?’ asked the other, shocked. ‘Suicide?’

‘I heard it from a most reliable source.’

‘Then it is grim news and will cause Wymarc untold pain and damage. He was Helene’s guardian. This is bound to reflect adversely on him.’ His voice hardened. ‘But you did not gallop all the way here simply to bring these tidings to me. There is more, I think. Tell me.’

Gamberell drained the cup before setting it on the table.

‘Helene was with child.’

‘So that is it. The father wants a place to hide.’

‘No, Milo!’

‘We all saw you, chasing after that girl.’

‘Helene was merely a friend.’

‘Like all the others.’

‘You are jumping to the wrong conclusion.’

‘Am I?’ said Milo levelly. ‘Helene would not be the first pretty girl you have led astray. Wymarc only took her away from the choir because of the interest you showed in her. Evidently, he acted too late.’

‘That is not how it stands, Milo.’

‘Now I see why rode here with such speed. To escape the wrath of a vengeful brother. This is the one place where Wymarc would never think to find you. Wallingford Castle is to be your church, is it?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You have come in search of sanctuary.’

The commotion in the bailey was so loud and unrelenting that Robert d’Oilly was forced to leave his guests at the table while he went to investigate. When the sheriff came striding angrily down from the keep, Wymarc was still circling the bailey on his destrier with a dozen men-at-arms, waving his sword in the air, yelling at the guards who tried to stop him, then making his cry ring around the whole castle.

‘Bertrand Gamberell! Where are you?’

‘He is not here!’ boomed the sheriff.

‘Where are you hiding him?’

‘Nowhere.’

Wymarc brought his horse to a halt in front of d’Oilly.

‘How dare you ride in here like this with your men at your back!’

demanded the sheriff, pulsing with fury. ‘If I did not know the cause of your high temper, I would have you thrown into my dungeons for disturbing the peace.’

‘I did not mean to offend you, my lord sheriff.’

‘Well, you have done so. Be warned. Any more of this riotous behaviour and you will spend the night in chains. You and every man with you.’

Wymarc glanced around. Half the soldiers in the garrison now surrounded him and his knights. Hopelessly outnumbered, he needed to show a less aggressive attitude.

‘I received word that Gamberell was here,’ he explained.

‘He came and went.’

‘And where did he go?’

‘That is irrelevant.’

‘To his manor, I think. We’ll seize him there.’

‘You’ll not lay a hand upon him!’ decreed the other. ‘I uphold the law in this county. I’ll have no bloodshed. You will leave Bertrand Gamberell alone.’

‘I demand revenge.’

‘You will get it by legal means.’

‘Did he entice my sister by legal means?’ howled Wymarc. ‘I’ll not wait for any inquest. I know what I must do. Avenge my sister and make sure that Gamberell will never do this to another woman.’

The sheriff gave a signal and the ring of soldiers closed in on the mounted knights. Two of the castle guard grabbed Wymarc and pulled him firmly from the saddle to stand before Robert d’Oilly.

‘Do I have to teach you respect?’ said the sheriff.

‘You know my situation,’ pleaded Wymarc. ‘My sister lies dead.

Poisoned by her own hand. Show some understanding.’

‘That is what I am doing. I deeply regret what has happened. It is a tragedy. But it does not entitle you to elect yourself Sheriff of Oxfordshire and claim the power of life and death over another man.

Calm down, man. Instead of charging around my courtyard here, you should be comforting your wife at home.’

‘What comfort can either of us have until that foul seducer pays for his crime?’

‘Find proof of his guilt before you condemn him.’

‘Helene is the proof, my lord sheriff,’ wailed the other. ‘Her corpse is an indictment of Bertrand Gamberell.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He pursued her. I saw him.’

‘And did you also see him take his pleasure with her?’

‘I would have killed him if I had!’

‘Then you would have been accountable to me.’ His tone softened and he put a hand on Wymarc’s shoulder. ‘Your blood is too hot, man.

Let it cool. It may be — who knows? — that Bertrand Gamberell is involved here.’

‘I feel it in my bones!’

‘He still has the right to defend himself. And I will ensure that he enjoys that right. Do you hear me?’

Wymarc nodded, his ire slowly ebbing away. The sheriff saw Arnulf walking towards them in concern. The chaplain did not need to be told what had brought Wymarc there. He was keen to add soothing words to a tense situation.

‘Come, my lord,’ he said, taking Wymarc by the elbow. ‘Come with me into church. Let us talk. Let us pray. That is where consolation lies and not with the sword. Come.’

Wymarc allowed himself to be led meekly away.

Relieved when the tumult in the bailey ceased, the guests sat over their meal and quietly discussed the issue which had produced such clamour down below. Ralph, Gervase and Golde were enjoying the company of Edith once more. Brother Columbanus had joined them to offer his strong views on the topic which preoccupied them. Refusing to touch the ale, he instead permitted himself a cup of wine and it deepened the glow in his cheeks at once.

‘I come back to St Augustine of Hippo.’

‘Again!’ murmured Ralph.

‘Yes, my lord. Are you familiar with De Civitate Dei?’

‘I read from it daily,’ said the other with light irony.

‘Then you will recall what St Augustine says.’

‘That is why I do not need you to remind me.’

Others may be less familiar with the work,’ said the monk, distributing a smile around the table. ‘St Augustine talks at length about suicide being caused by fear of punishment or disgrace. One passage is lodged in my mind.’

‘Let it stay there!’ said Ralph solemnly.

‘It concerns Judas. Listen to the argument. “We rightly abominate the act of Judas, and the judgement of truth is that when he hanged himself he did not atone for the guilt of his detestable betrayal, but rather increased it, since he despaired of God’s mercy and in a fit of self-destructive remorse left himself no chance of saving repentance.”

I translate freely here, of course. St Augustine’s prose has greater resonance.’

Ralph rolled his eyes at Golde. ‘Thank heaven that he is not at this table!’

‘Let us hear Brother Columbanus,’ returned Golde gently.

‘Do you see what this means?’ continued the monk. ‘When Judas killed himself, he killed a criminal, and yet he ended his life guilty not only of Christ’s death, but also of his own; one crime led to another.

Suicide is always a crime.’

‘A very persuasive argument,’ said Edith solemnly.

‘Who could fault it?’ added Golde.

Columbanus nudged Ralph. ‘Do you follow it, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Helene hanged herself on an elder because she felt guilty about being given thirty pieces of silver for singing in the choir!’

‘That remark is profane.’

‘Then do not provoke me. Judas is not relevant here. What equivalent crime did this girl commit? None! In her case, one crime does not lead to another.’

‘One sin led to another,’ said Columbanus. ‘It was her guilt over the sin of fornication that led her to the grosser sin of suicide.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Gervase.

‘All the evidence points that way.’

‘What if the girl’s chastity was violated?’ asked Edith. ‘It is difficult to believe that she was a willing sinner.’

‘Exactly, my lady,’ said Gervase. ‘On this point, too, St Augustine can offer us some guidance.’

‘Not you as well, Gervase!’ moaned Ralph.

‘He reminds us of Lucretia’s suicide.’

‘That noble Roman matron,’ said Columbanus.

‘When she was ravished by the son of King Tarquin, she revealed the crime to her husband then destroyed herself. Lucretia was unable to endure the shame and indignity. Yet she was only the victim of the crime here. She was praised for what she did,’ observed Gervase. ‘It was felt that two persons were involved but only one committed adultery.’

‘That is not the Christian attitude,’ said Columbanus. ‘What was admired in ancient Rome should not be condoned today in Woodstock.

If a Christian woman is violated, she should not take vengeance on herself for another’s crime. In the sight of God, she has the glory of her chastity still within her. The testimony of her conscience should be her guide. There is no excuse to add the crime of self-slaughter to that of lust. St Augustine makes that clear.’

‘And so have you,’ said Ralph, hoping to silence him.

‘Heart and head are in conflict in this matter,’ said Edith with a wan smile. ‘My heart reaches out to the poor girl but my head inclines to Christian precept. Suicide is a crime. It is a denial of God’s ordinance.’

‘Quite so, my lady,’ agreed Columbanus, helping himself to a second cup of wine. ‘There is no equivocation here.’

‘We still do not know the true facts of the case,’ said Golde. ‘Until then, our suppositions may be unjust to Helene.’

‘A valid point, my love,’ said Ralph.

‘And one on which to conclude the debate,’ added Gervase.

‘Well said!’

There was a long pause as they addressed themselves to their meal.

Columbanus discovered that his second cup of wine had somehow disappeared so he ventured to pour himself a third. St Augustine jogged his memory once more and he was about to mention the example of Cato’s suicide. The sudden return of Robert d’Oilly put paid to that.

‘Saints preserve us!’ said the sheriff as he came back into the hall.

‘As if I didn’t have enough to contend with already!’

‘What was the problem?’ asked Ralph.

‘Wymarc’

‘Roused to anger?’

‘Determined to geld the man who lay with his sister. I had to subdue him before he added another crime to my list. This week beggars description,’ he complained. ‘Everything but fire, flood and famine have afflicted me.’

‘Only indirectly, my lord sheriff,’ said Gervase.

‘When a crime is committed, I bear its full weight.’

‘I would have thought the victim did that.’

‘Robert has endured much this week,’ said Edith, coming to his support with a consoling smile. ‘You have been sorely oppressed and you have our utmost sympathy. We have all admired the way that you have dealt with each new crisis.’

‘Thank you, Edith.’

‘I could not have done it,’ said Ralph ambiguously.

‘With respect,’ returned d’Oilly, ‘I doubt if you would ever be given the shrievalty of any county.’

Ralph chuckled. ‘I am relieved to hear it.’

‘It is so strange,’ mused Columbanus. ‘A case of an oak growing from a harmless little acorn.’

‘Do I hear St Augustine again?’ grumbled Ralph.

‘No, my lord,’ said the monk amiably. ‘The acorn in question is the race which took place at Woodstock on the day of our arrival. A small event to any but those engaged in it. Yet out of that race has come murder, wrongful arrest, theft, violence and — indirectly — suicide.

Could it be, for instance, that Walter Payne was the father of her child and that Helene killed herself out of grief at the death of her lover? That would not excuse what she did but it might help explain it. So many crimes have been committed here and behind them lie others yet to be discovered.’ The third cup of wine was supplanted by a fourth. ‘A great oak tree of wickedness, spreading its branches everywhere until it blocks out the light. And it all began with a horse race.’

They rode silently through the night. Edric the Cripple led the way on his mare and Amalric rode behind him on the chestnut colt.

Moonlight was kind to them, shedding enough illumination to show them their path but leaving ample shadows to hide them from any curious eyes. Amalric was baffled. He thought he knew the area well but he was being taken over land that was totally unfamiliar.

When they reached their destination, Edric held up a hand.

‘Where are we?’ asked Amalric.

‘Close to my stable.’

‘How did you find your way?’

‘I know every inch of this shire.’

‘Who owns this land?’

Edric grinned. ‘Bertrand Gamberell.’

‘Hyperion is hidden on his own property?’

‘Right under his nose.’

‘No wonder he could not find him.’

‘Stay here.’

Edric left him under a tree and went the remainder of the way on his own. The boy watched with fascination. He could hear running water nearby. On the bank was an abandoned mill, once a home and a source of livelihood until the river capriciously altered its course and turned a surging tributary into a sluggish stream. Edric rode round the building in a wide circle to make sure that it was safe to approach. Satisfied that all was well, he dismounted and, pulling his horse after him, hopped on his one leg through the door.

There was a long delay and Amalric feared that something untoward had occurred inside. Had the steward been ambushed? Injured in some way? Or had one of the horses been hurt by accident? The boy wanted to investigate but a sixth sense told him to stay well clear.

His patience was eventually rewarded. When Edric next appeared, he was riding Hyperion.

‘Does he mind being locked up in there?’ said Amalric.

‘Yes. But he is well fed.’

‘What about exercise?’

‘This is not the first night I have been here.’

‘You have ridden Hyperion before?’

‘I had to keep him in training.’

‘Where do we go now?’

‘To the course.’

Flushed with exhilaration, Amalric followed him on a tortuous route across the fields. The boy’s ambition was about to be fulfilled. His own horse and his skill as a rider would be pitted against Hyperion.

With Edric in the saddle, the black stallion would have a rider every bit as good as Walter Payne. It would be a fair race.

When they reached the course, Edric took him over it so that he could inspect it with care. A mile long over open ground, it posed no problems apart from the slight upward gradient over the final furlongs.

A clump of bushes marked the finishing post. They trotted back to the designated starting place, eager to compete, each resolved to win.

The horses pranced with nervous energy, wanting the race as much as the riders and relishing the headlong dash through the moonlight.

Edric brought Hyperion’s head round to face the course. The clump of bushes could be seen in distant silhouette on the rising slope.

Amalric adjusted his position in the saddle and gave Cempan a pat of encouragement.

‘How will we start?’ he asked.

‘When you are ready,’ said Edric, ‘just go.’

‘What about you?’

‘I will be alongside you all the way.’

It was a confident prediction but it fell short of the truth. When Cempan surged forward, Hyperion went after him like a dog after a rabbit, running him down inside the first furlong and passing him comfortably to lead by a couple of lengths. Amalric used his heels to urge more speed out of the colt and it gradually closed the gap on its rival.

In spite of his handicap, Edric was riding like a master, pacing his horse superbly and coaxing the best out of the black stallion. But Amalric had more fire in his veins and a greater need of victory. He pushed Cempan to the limit. By the halfway point they were level and he flashed a smile at Edric before easing past him. It was the colt who now had a lead and he never relinquished it. Hyperion came back at him over the last furlong and Cempan was tiring badly as they ascended the slope, but Amalric was still able to goad his mount on.

He flashed past the clump of bushes a clear winner and was close to ecstasy as he slowed his horse to walking pace. Edric brought the black stallion alongside him and patted the boy on the back.

‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Now we know.’