The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Thirteen

Golde knew that he was not asleep. She could hear his breath in the darkness. It came in short gasps rather than in the long, deep, measured way that always accompanied his slumber. Ralph Delchard was disturbed about something and it was keeping him awake in the dead of night. She rolled slowly over in the bed to face him.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

He came out of his reverie to nuzzle against her.

‘Nothing, my love. Go back to sleep.’

‘Your mind is troubling you.’

‘I will doze off in a minute.’

‘You are upset.’

‘I am fine, Golde.’

‘Tell me why.’

‘I did not mean to keep you awake.’

‘I want to know, Ralph.’

She reinforced her wish with a playful bite on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her to him, rolling on to his back so that she was pulled directly on top of him. He caressed her haunches before kissing her again.

‘I still want to know,’ she persisted.

‘It is so trivial.’

‘Let me judge for myself.’

‘Very well,’ he said as a wave of fatigue hit him. ‘I was thinking about what Brother Columbanus said.’

‘At the table this evening?’

‘Yes. Even a fool says a wise thing sometimes.’

‘Brother Columbanus is no fool.’

‘True, my love. He may yet turn out to be the shrewdest man among us. Especially when drink is taken for it seems to sharpen his wits.’

He gave a chuckle. ‘I just hope we will not have another outburst of penitence from him in the morning.’

‘He talked about St Augustine.’

‘He never stopped talking about St Augustine,’ sighed Ralph. ‘Then Gervase started quoting St Augustine at me as well. I am grateful that Canon Hubert was not there or I would have been assailed from three directions at once. No,’ he said, relaxing again, ‘Columbanus said one thing which had nothing to do with St Augustine of Hippo.’

‘Remind me.’

‘It was that remark about an acorn and an oak.’

‘I thought it rather apposite.’

‘Yes, Golde. It was. So apposite and so obvious that it had just never occurred to me. I have been lying here trying to work out why.

My brain is addled.’

‘Go back to that acorn.’

‘It was planted that day in Woodstock,’ said Ralph. ‘When Walter Payne was killed, an oak stirred out of the ground. In a short time, it has grown to monstrous proportions.’

‘Frightening to watch.’

‘Yet all coming from that same acorn,’ he said. ‘All branches of the same huge tree. Brother Columbanus put it so eloquently. Every crime is linked to the others.’

‘Even this suicide?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘I do not know but there has to be a connection. Our merry monk may seem unworldly, but he made a very sound suggestion. Suppose that Walter Payne really was the girl’s lover? That would give Wymarc a strong motive to arrange his death. And it would account for the fact that Helene was so overcome with grief, she took her own life.’

‘We have no proof that she was overwhelmed by grief. Helene may have been prompted by fear. Or by self-disgust. Or by something else.

I do not see this connection you talk about.’

‘No more do I, my love. But I know it is there. That is why Brother Columbanus was helpful for once. He has set me looking in the right direction.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘They are here, Golde.’

‘Who are?’

‘The men behind it all,’ he argued. ‘The one who killed Walter Payne or arranged his murder. The one who stole the black stallion.

The one who seduced that poor creature and drove her to suicide.

The one who is provoking violence between Wymarc and Gamberell.

The one who is so keen to win a horse race that he will take another’s colt away by force.’

‘How many men are you talking about?’

‘One, two, perhaps more,’ he said. ‘But this much I know. I have met them, Golde. Talked with them all. Wymarc, Ordgar, Milo Crispin, Bertrand Gamberell and Robert d’Oilly.’

She was surprised. ‘You include the sheriff?’

‘He is waist-deep in this morass.’

‘But it is his task to solve the crimes,’ she reasoned. ‘You heard his complaints this evening. He is finding the cares of office very burdensome.’

‘Those cares are more than outweighed by the rewards.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look around you, Golde,’ he urged. ‘This castle is one of the finest and strongest in England. Only a rich man could afford to build it.

Robert d’Oilly holds ten manors in Oxfordshire and collects rent from his subtenants on twenty-one others. And do you not remember your walk through the town with Arnulf?’

‘Only too well.’

‘What struck you most?’

‘The number of derelict houses.’

‘How did they get in that condition?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Then let me tell you. The sheriff has forty-two inhabited houses in Oxford but only sixteen of them pay tax and tribute. The other inhabitants are too poor. Robert d’Oilly has a further eight dwellings which are derelict because the families who lived in them have been forced out.’

He eased her on to her side. ‘This sheriff of ours, who finds the cares of office so burdensome, has bled this town dry. To build his castle and construct his bridge, he levied taxes on every household in Oxford.’

He checked himself and gave her an apologetic kiss.

‘But what sort of conversation is this for a man and wife to have in their bedchamber?’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry, my love. These arguments should be heard in daylight.’

‘Go on,’ she encouraged him. ‘I am interested.’

A yawn threatened. ‘We need our sleep.’

‘Not until you explain your charge.’

‘It is no charge, Golde. I am thinking aloud.’

‘You truly believe that the sheriff is involved?’

‘If a shire is corrupt, its sheriff must take much of the blame.

Maurice Pagnal was probably bribed by the sworn brother of our host. I too was probed to see if I would yield to influence. Oxford is rotten to the core.’ He stroked her hair. ‘None of this may make the sheriff an accessory to murder. But the speed with which he sought to prosecute an innocent man keeps his name on my list.’ He grinned in the dark. ‘Here endeth the lesson.’

‘I have had quieter nights,’ she said.

‘My fault. I will make amends.’

‘I am fully awake now.’

‘That is why I will administer a sleeping draught.’

‘Sleeping draught?’

‘Yes, my love,’ he said, rolling gently on top of her. ‘We will take it together then slumber in each other’s arms.’

Golde smiled lazily and pulled him to her.

Dawn found them riding side by side over the last mile to Oxford. A fine drizzle was carried on the breeze. Ordgar brooded anxiously but Bristeva was in a cheerful mood. As her pony trotted along the track, she watched the distant town grow slowly in size on the horizon.

‘I cannot wait to get there,’ she said excitedly.

‘It will not be long now, Bristeva.’

‘Just think, father. I am to sleep at the castle tonight.’

‘You must be on your best behaviour.’

‘In my wildest dreams, I never thought to have such an honour,’

she said, eyes still on the town. ‘To be a guest at Oxford Castle then to sing at a banquet. These things do not happen to someone like me.’

‘They did,’ said Ordgar wistfully. ‘In the old days, my family were accustomed to have such privileges heaped upon them. We were always invited to banquets. We mixed with the greatest in the land. Your father was a thegn, Bristeva, and you must never forget it. You are the daughter of nobility.’

‘I know.’

‘Then think yourself entitled to these honours.’

The pride in his voice made her heart leap and she put out a hand to squeeze his arm. Ordgar was a pragmatic man. He adapted with dignity to changes he could not resist but his memories of former glory remained undimmed.

‘I saw Amalric before we left,’ she recalled. ‘He was in the stable with Cempan when I went for my pony.’

‘Did he speak to you?’ he asked with slight alarm.

‘Only to bid me farewell.’

‘He said nothing else?’

‘Nothing, father. That is what surprised me. Amalric knew where I was going this morning yet he did not even tease me about it. I thought he would berate me again.’

‘I am delighted to hear that he did not.’

‘Did you speak sternly to him?’

‘Amalric was warned.

‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘I feared that he might try to stop me riding to Oxford today. He and Edric have been so cruel in their comments.’

‘That is all past, Bristeva.’

‘I do hope so.’

‘Neither of them will tax you again.’

‘I am pleased to know that, father.’ A frown surfaced. ‘Amalric seemed in a happy mood today.’

‘Happy?’

‘I have never seen him like that before.’

‘He has little to be happy about at the moment.’

‘Unlike me.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Unlike you.’

Conscious of the dark secret he was hiding from her, Ordgar was finding it difficult to keep up a conversation with his daughter. Her joy came in such sharp contrast to his own sadness. Ordgar was pleased that she would sing at the banquet but he regretted the circumstances in which her performance would take place. In shielding her from the knowledge of Helene’s suicide, he felt that he was being both kind and cruel to her. He was fearful how Bristeva would react when she realised that he had conspired with Arnulf to keep her ignorant of the tragedy. He and the chaplain were partners in betrayal.

‘Do all that you are told,’ he instructed.

‘I will, father.’

‘None of this would have happened without Father Arnulf. We are indebted to him and you must show your gratitude by your obedience to him.’

‘I always do.’

‘Listen to nobody else but him, Bristeva.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘No reason.’

The drizzle thickened and they increased their pace. As Oxford came ever nearer, the girl’s excitement knew no bounds.

‘I am to sing before my lord sheriff and his lady,’ she said, luxuriating in the thought. ‘The Bishop of Coutances will be there with his train.

And Father Arnulf tells me that royal commissioners are staying at the castle. Everyone will hear me,’ she said with a giggle. ‘I will be famous!’

‘Enjoy the moment.’

‘I will, I will.’

‘You deserve it Bristeva.’

‘I do. I worked so hard in the choir. And now I’ve been chosen to take over from Helene.’ A thought nudged her. ‘Do you think she will be there?’

‘Who?’

‘Helene. Her brother will surely be invited.’

‘That is true.’

‘Will he bring her along with him?’

Ordgar had to force the words out between his lips.

‘No,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Helene will not be there.’

Wymarc had spent so long before the altar on his knees that his whole body was aching. His thighs were on fire, his calves were assaulted by cramp and his shoulders felt as if a great weight was pressing down on them. When he struggled to his feet, he tried to rub some of the stiffness out of his neck. Discomfort had brought its rewards. Wymarc had prayed for help and a measure of consolation had come. His earlier rage had been drained out of him to leave him calm and reflective. He was even ready to take some share of the blame for the desperate action of his sister. An hour of humility had taught him many things about himself as well as about Helene.

When he left the church of St George’s-in-the-Castle, he saw a young man walking towards him across the bailey but he paid no heed to him. Gervase Bret, however, took an instant interest in him.

Guessing at his identity, he quickened his stride to intercept the visitor as the latter untethered his horse.

‘My lord Wymarc?’ enquired Gervase.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Gervase Bret,’ said the other politely. ‘I believe that you have met my colleague, Ralph Delchard. We sit in commission together.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember. He rode out to Woodstock and I showed him the exact place where the murder occurred.’ A sour note intruded.

‘When my back was turned, he sneaked on to my land without permission and searched for evidence.’

‘I was his accomplice in that search,’ admitted Gervase, ‘but I am not ashamed to own it. Our investigation resulted in the release of an innocent man. Would you have preferred your slave, Ebbi, to have died for a crime he did not commit?’

‘No, I would not.’

‘Then our trespass was justified.’

‘Why did you not come to me first? I would not have forbidden you entry. I could have helped you in your search.’

‘I am hopeful that you may be able to do that now, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘This is not an appropriate time to raise the matter, I know.

I offer you my sincerest condolences.’

‘Thank you,’ mumbled Wymarc.

‘I can appreciate the enormous strain you must feel.’

‘It is crushing me, Master Bret.’

‘The chaplain has spoken to me of your distress.’

‘Arnulf has been wonderful. Both at my house and here in the castle when my fury got the better of me. The man is blessed. He gentled me.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘That is why I came to his church this morning. To give thanks and to seek further guidance.’

‘I trust that you found that guidance.’

‘What is this help you spoke of?’

‘The murder remains unsolved,’ said Gervase, ‘and the sheriff fears the killer may have fled far from here.’

‘That is my fear as well.’

‘It is not ours, my lord. We believe that he is a local man. Only someone who knew the area well could plot that killing and plan his escape so cunningly. And who else would know Walter Payne but those in the vicinity?’

‘True.’

‘How well did you know the fellow?’

‘Only by sight and reputation.’

‘Reputation?’

‘His skill as a horseman was well known,’ said Wymarc, ‘and I saw far too much evidence of it myself. But the fellow also had a reputation for wild behaviour.’

‘My lord Ralph mentioned that.’

‘Walter Payne and his friends went on drunken rampages from time to time. They would pick fights, cause damage to property and even assault womenfolk.’

‘Did nobody complain?’

‘Nobody whose protest carried any strength,’ said Wymarc. ‘Bertrand Gamberell would simply laugh and refuse to discipline his men. They were entitled to their pleasures, he would say.’ His jaw tightened.

‘Bertrand sets great store by pleasure.’

‘How did Walter Payne come into his service?’

‘They are birds of a feather.’

‘My lord Bertrand is not known for drunken behaviour.’

‘He spreads his destruction by more subtle means.’

A spark of anger came into his eye but it soon died. The conversations with Arnulf and the early morning visit to the church had quelled his urge for vengeance.

‘This Walter Payne,’ continued Gervase, probing tenderly. ‘You had no personal grudge against him, then?’

‘Indeed I did! He cost me a small fortune. Every time he rode Hyperion to victory, he made a fresh hole in my purse. I would not have thrown the dagger that killed him but neither will I mourn his death.’

‘Who would have thrown it, my lord?’

‘How do I know?’

‘You might be able to suggest names.’

‘Of whom?’

‘Those harassed by Walter Payne and his fellows,’ said Gervase.

‘One of your manors is contiguous with my lord Bertrand’s land. Were any of your subtenants the victims of their wild misconduct?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Who bore the brunt of his roistering?’

‘None of my people,’ said Wymarc. ‘Walter Payne let them off lightly.

Most of his prey were on Milo’s land. He ran riot across it a number of times. Milo’s subtenants were always protesting about Walter Payne.’

‘Did those subtenants include Ordgar?’

‘Probably. Why?’

‘I ask out of idle curiosity, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘Nothing more.

Thank you for giving me your time. I will intrude on your grief no longer. Farewell.’

As Wymarc rode out of the castle, a pensive Gervase watched him leave. A chance meeting had yielded much of value. Instead of going into the church, Gervase went off to report to Ralph.

The room was small, bare and featureless with only the most meagre portion of light coming through the tiny arched window. The stone walls and floor gave off a chill that was not relieved by the single flickering candle in the alcove. A mattress lay in one corner with a stool beside it. On the wall above the mattress was a wooden crucifix.

Bristeva was thrilled with her accommodation.

‘This will be very suitable,’ she said gratefully.

Arnulf was apologetic. ‘It is a mean chamber, I fear.’

‘Not at all.’

‘I sought to find you an apartment in the keep,’ he said. ‘But all are reserved for the guests. When the bishop arrives with his train, the castle will be filled to bursting. You will have to make do with this humbler lodging next to the church.’

‘I will be quite content here.’

‘Good.’

‘I am comforted to know that you are nearby.’

‘Yes,’ said Arnulf, pointing a hand at one wall. ‘I am in the adjoining chamber and Brother Columbanus is further down the passage.’

‘Brother Columbanus?’

‘He travels with some important visitors who have come to Oxford and serves them in the office of a scribe. You will like him, Bristeva.

In spite of his cowl, he is a jolly man.’

‘I am always a little afraid of monks,’ she confided.

‘Why?’

‘I do not know. Their holiness frightens me.’

Arnulf smiled. ‘Does my holiness frighten you as well?’

‘Oh, no!’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’

‘You are different, Father Arnulf.’

‘Thank you.’

He gazed at her with fondness and reached out to adjust the edge of her wimple. Singing at the banquet would be a supreme test for her but he had every faith in Bristeva.

‘I need to ask a special favour of you,’ he said.

‘It is granted before it is even asked.’

‘Talk to nobody inside the castle.’

She was confused. ‘Not even you, Father Arnulf?’

‘Nobody except me,’ he clarified. ‘Whenever I can I will stay close by you, but there will be times when you are alone. Keep to this chamber. Too much scurrilous gossip floats around a castle and I do not want your young ears corrupted by it. Give me your word, Bristeva,’

he said, taking her gently by the elbows. ‘Do not speak to anybody.’

‘Not even Brother Columbanus?’

‘I was forgetting him.’

‘You said a moment ago that I would like him.’

‘Why, yes. I did,’ he recalled. ‘And he would certainly cause you no harm. Let me speak to him first. Brother Columbanus might help to stave off boredom for you.’

‘I could never be bored when I am here with you.’

Arnulf smiled and took his hands away from her.

‘Is your father looking forward to the banquet?’ he said.

‘Very much.’

‘The hall will be crowded with guests.’

‘I hope I am not too nervous.’

‘You will have no problems.’

‘But there will be so many distinguished guests there,’ she said. ‘I have never performed in front of such a large gathering before. Was Helene ever nervous?’

‘No, Bristeva.’

‘Did she ever let you down?’

‘Never.’

‘I asked father if Helene might be at the banquet but he seemed to think she would not be. Is that right?’

He nodded ruminatively. ‘My lord Wymarc confirmed it. He was here even before you this morning, Bristeva.’

‘What did he say.’

‘Helene is indisposed. She will not be coming.’

‘I am disappointed to hear that.’

‘We all are.’ He became brisk. ‘Now that I have shown you where you will sleep, let me take you to the hall where you will sing. We need to rehearse in there while we may. There will be little opportunity once the guests arrive.’

‘I’m ready,’ she said.

‘Thus far, you have only sung in the church. Your voice will sound very different in the hall. You need to get used to that difference.

Come, Bristeva,’ he said, taking her out into the passage. ‘We will make a start. When we have earned a rest from our rehearsal, I will bring you back here to introduce you to Brother Columbanus.’ He remembered something. ‘If we can actually find him, that is.’

Brother Columbanus opened a preliminary eye in the firm conviction that he would find himself in his chamber. He expected to see a finger of light poking in through the little window and pointing reverentially at the crucifix on the wall above his head. But he saw nothing. No wall, no window and no crucifix. He was in the pitch dark. Could it still be the middle of the night? A second eye joined the first in a vain attempt at probing the gloom. Where was he?

When he shifted his bulk, he felt something hard and uncomfortable beneath him. He was not lying on his mattress. Instead, he seemed to be propped up against a wall in a room that was thick with dust and devoid of any furniture. How had he got there? Columbanus racked his brain to tease out every detail of the meal in the hall. He recalled the vigorous debate about suicide and the words of St Augustine came back to him with reassuring exactness. Beyond that, however, all he could remember was that the food had been delicious.

Had he eaten to excess? Had he so disgraced himself that he had been cast into outer darkness? Or had he wandered off into some remote part of the castle and simply got lost? Brother Columbanus was totally perplexed. He was about to offer up a prayer for guidance when he felt something in his lap. He reached down to discover that he was holding a flagon of wine. It was still half full. Its contents swished around delightfully. He put the flagon to his lips.

Columbanus was soon fast asleep again in the undercroft beneath the church. He no longer cared how he had got there. The wine was as sweet this morning as it had been the previous night. There was another bonus.

St Augustine was waiting in his dreams to welcome him once more.

Ralph Delchard was intrigued to hear what Gervase had gleaned.

‘Wymarc came here?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

‘He felt the need for spiritual comfort.’

‘Then why not go to the nearest church? Why ride all the way into Oxford before dawn?’

‘Arnulf is here. Wymarc holds the chaplain in high regard.’

‘So does the sheriff,’ noted Ralph. ‘When Wymarc and his men rode in here last night, our host was able to shout them down but it was Arnulf who really subdued the vengeful lord. This chaplain is a useful man to have around the castle.’

‘Much more than useful, Ralph. He is invaluable.’

‘And blessed with astonishing tolerance.’

‘Tolerance?’

‘Yes, Gervase. What other man of God would put up with such a bellicose master as Robert d’Oilly?’

‘Arnulf will hear no criticism of the sheriff. He is blind to the man’s faults.’

Ralph pointed to the river which ran below them.

‘Can one look at the Thames and be blind to the water?’

They shared a wry laugh. They had left the castle to walk down to Grandpont for a combination of exercise and privacy. Resting against the parapet of the stone bridge which Robert d’Oilly had built over the river, they were enjoying a quiet moment together. The drizzle had stopped now and sunshine was giving the water a bright sheen.

Accustomed to spending their days in musty shire halls, Ralph and Gervase were grateful for the enforced respite though still wounded by the disclosures which had prompted it.

‘Do you think that Canon Hubert will come?’ said Gervase.

‘We will know soon enough. The messenger we dispatched to Winchester should return later today. However ill Hubert is, he will not desert us in our hour of need.’ He gave a snort of disgust.

‘As for Maurice Pagnal, he will have the King’s displeasure visited upon him. I look to find him behind bars when we return.’

‘He took me in completely.’

‘I, too, was fooled, Gervase.’

‘But for Brother Timothy of Westminster, we might never have uncovered the deceit. Islip would have been awarded to Roger d’Ivry’s wife, Maurice would have pocketed his bribe and we would have been none the wiser.’

Gervase gave a rueful sigh. ‘Brother Timothy was our salvation.’

‘Alas, yes. I hate to be beholden to a monk.’

‘Would you rather sit alongside a corrupt judge?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

Gervase watched a kingfisher skim over the river.

‘What is our next move to be, Ralph?’

‘We do not make one. Golde agrees with me.’

‘About what?’

‘Biding our time, Gervase,’ he said. ‘We have spoken to the four men whose horses ran in that race. Wymarc, Ordgar, Milo Crispin and Bertrand Gamberell. And let us not forget that three of them are involved in another kind of contest — the dispute over that property near Wallingford. Four men with good reason to hate each other. I have come to believe that one of them has outwitted us.’

‘How?’

‘In the same way as Maurice. By being too plausible. By telling us exactly what we wished to hear at the time we needed to hear it.

Maurice Pagnal stood right in front of us yet we could not discern his villainy. One of those four men has done precisely the same. And I would add a fifth name.’

‘Robert d’Oilly?’

‘He is involved in everything in this town,’ said Ralph. ‘We may yet find that the murder has some connection with him. Five names, Gervase. Which one would you choose?’

‘I am not sure. But I would eliminate one already.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Bertrand Gamberell.’

‘Why?’

‘He would never set up the murder of his own man.’

‘Stranger things have happened in this shire.’

‘It meant that he lost the race,’ said Gervase, ‘and that went hard with him. Besides, what motive would he have?’

‘He and Walter Payne may have fallen out. Over the girl, perhaps.

We know that Gamberell lusted after her as well. If he learned that his own man had seduced Helene in his stead, he would have been enraged.’

‘Then he would have taken revenge in private and not in such a public way. Walter Payne’s involvement with Helene is only speculation.

Even if there had been a relationship between them, Payne would have made certain that his master never found out about it.’ Gervase pursed his lips in thought. ‘No, Ralph,’ he decided. ‘I do not believe that Gamberell fell out with his rider. He was too anguished by the killing.’

‘Gamberell made a lot of noise about it, that is true. But he also led the search for the assassin in the copse. That was the perfect way to turn suspicion away from himself.’ He scratched his head. ‘I know that it seems unlikely but we must keep his name on the list.’

‘If you insist.’

‘For the rest, we wait until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘The banquet, Gervase,’ he explained. ‘All of our five men will probably be there. The only possible absentee is Wymarc and even he may find it politic to be in Oxford to lick the episcopal arse of Geoffrey of Coutances.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Our man is among them somewhere.’

‘All we have to do is to pick him out.’

‘Yes. It is that simple.’

Gervase laughed. ‘If only it were!’

Bertrand Gamberell returned home that morning at a sedate trot. He had spent an uneasy night at Wallingford Castle but it had been a sensible precaution. Wymarc’s fury would have spent itself in a fruitless search, he decided, and the coast would now be clear. When he reached his own land, he felt no watching eyes upon him and feared no ambush. Wymarc and his men were not lying in wait to wreak vengeance. The danger was past.

The fact was confirmed by his steward when Gamberell strode into his home. There had been no angry callers during his absence. His whereabouts had not been sought.

‘Has nobody at all been here?’ he said.

‘Not until this morning, my lord,’ replied the steward.

‘Someone from Wymarc, by chance?’

‘The messenger would not name his master.’

‘What letter did he bring?’

‘It is here, my lord.’

The steward handed it over then withdrew to the other side of the parlour so that Gamberell could read the missive in private. Breaking the seal, the latter unfolded the parchment and read the two evocative lines penned there. The letter was in the code which he had taught her to use and its meaning would be beyond anyone else. It made Gamberell grin with pleasure. She had written with a flowing hand which showed character and urgency. He longed to have those same fingers practising their calligraphy on him again.

Her timing was perfect. After the storm he had just weathered, he felt the need of safe harbour in which to lie gloriously at anchor for a few hours. His last visit had been marred by the theft of Hyperion but that was not her fault. She had given him all that he wanted and was now offering more. Gamberell could not refuse her. The generous body would be a partial recompense for the loss of his stallion. After reading the letter once again to savour its promise, he folded it and stuffed it into his belt.

He had forgotten that his steward was there. In the background, the man coughed discreetly to attract attention. His master looked sharply across at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Will there be a reply, my lord?’

‘I will deliver it in person.’

Edric the Cripple was working at the accounts when he heard the boy come into the house. Amalric’s jaunty tread showed that he was still nursing happy memories of his midnight race against Hyperion. It also suggested that the gossip from Oxford had not yet worked its way through to him. Edric had been into the town that morning and found that its interest in the suicide of a young girl had in no way faded.

When Amalric came into the bay where the steward sat at a table, he was grinning broadly. Victory had been dear to him. A sudden yawn proved that it had not been without cost.

‘A boy of your age should get more sleep,’ said Edric.

‘Who needs sleep when they can ride a horse?’

‘I do, Amalric. But my bones are older than yours.’

‘Shall we race again tonight?’

‘No!’

‘You can ride Cempan this time.’

‘The issue has been decided. Ours is the better horse.’

‘That was never in doubt.’

‘No,’ agreed Edric. ‘But we enjoyed good fortune last night. Nobody saw us. Nobody interrupted our contest. We might not be so lucky a second time. It is foolish to take any more unnecessary risks. That is why I will return Hyperion.’

‘Return him?’ gasped Amalric.

‘After dark.’

‘But that would be madness,’ argued the boy. ‘You stole him in order to prevent another race taking place and thus stop my lord Milo from seizing Cempan. If you restore the black stallion to his master, the race will surely be set up.’

‘Not for some while at least.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because they would not run without my lord Wymarc’s horses in the contest to swell the purse. They are not like us, Amalric. Cempan against Hyperion. They will want more horses in the race.’

‘My lord Wymarc will provide them willingly.’

‘Not for a while,’ said Edric, closing the account book. ‘His grief would not allow it.’

‘Grief?’

‘His young sister has died.’

He passed on the news. When he heard the details, Amalric was visibly shaken. Helene had been in the same choir as his own sister and close to Bristeva’s age. He thought for a moment how they would feel if the tragedy had befallen her and not Wymarc’s sister. The fear and the shame would be truly overwhelming.

‘You are right, Edric,’ he conceded at length. ‘It will be a long time before this race is held again. But I would still be sorry to see Hyperion released.’

‘He has served his purpose in both ways.’

‘Both ways?’

‘Yes,’ explained Edric. ‘By stealing him, I saved Cempan from being stolen. But I also found a hiding place for us if that need does arise.

If Hyperion can be stabled in that mill without being discovered then so can Cempan.’

The boy rallied. ‘I never thought of that!’

‘Bear it in mind. The decision may fall to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You will see, Amalric,’ he said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder to haul himself upright. ‘But let us take it one step at a time. First, I will return Hyperion.’

‘Where will you take him?’

‘To the place from which I stole him.’

‘And where was that, Edric?’

‘A house where Bertrand Gamberell had no right to be,’ said the other. ‘He dotes on that black stallion but he may not be so pleased to get him back from that particular house.’

Edric the Cripple shook with malicious glee.