The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Two

Gervase Bret was kneeling at the altar rail when he heard the noise from the bailey. The thick walls of the church partially muffled the sound but it was still loud enough to interrupt his prayers. Lifting his head, he strained his ears to listen but he could make out nothing of what was being said by the angry voices. The distant clamour ended as abruptly as it had begun. A comforting silence invaded the church. Gervase lowered his chin, closed his eyes and surrendered himself once more.

The habit of prayer had been inculcated in him during his time at Eltham Abbey and, though he had elected not to take the cowl at the end of his novitiate, he did not abjure all that he had been taught.

Prayer replenished Gervase. It stilled his anxieties, cleansed his soul, offered guidance and allowed him personal communion with his Maker. Prayer never let him down. His simple act of faith and humility was always rewarded with peace of mind.

It was only when he rose to leave that he realised he was not alone in the church. Standing in the shadows at the rear of the nave was a tall, slim figure who seemed to blend with the dark stone itself. The place had been empty when Gervase entered it so the newcomer must have slipped in unnoticed and that made the visitor wary. How long had he been watched at prayer? Why had his privacy been intruded upon? As Gervase walked back down the aisle, the man stepped forward to greet him and flickering candles disclosed his identity at once. He wore clerical garb and moved with the measured tread of someone at ease in the house of God.

‘I am Arnulf the Chaplain,’ he confirmed in a low and melodious voice. ‘You, I believe, are Gervase Bret.’

‘That is so.’

‘Brother Columbanus spoke fondly of you. He much enjoyed your company on the ride to Oxford. You talked at great length together, I understand.’

‘Brother Columbanus thrives on conversation.’

‘So I have discovered. I look to have much debate with him myself.

He holds you in high esteem.’

‘I am flattered.’

‘His portrait of you was clearly accurate.’

‘In what way?’

‘He told me what an unusual person you were.’

‘Unusual?’

‘Nineteen of you rode into the castle this evening. Tired, damp and hungry after your arduous journey. Apart from Brother Columbanus himself, you are the only member of the party who thought to come here in order to thank God for your safe arrival. That marks you out as very unusual.’

‘Most of my companions are soldiers.’

‘Say no more. This is a garrison church. I am acquainted with the difficulty of luring soldiers here for regular devotions. It is a problem with which I contend every day.’

He spoke without rancour. Arnulf the Chaplain accepted the role assigned to him and sought to discharge his duties as conscientiously as he could. There was no trace of reproach or self-pity in him. He was a pragmatic Christian.

Gervase’s first impressions of the man were wholly favourable.

Behind the chaplain’s friendly smile, he sensed a keen intelligence and a deep commitment to his ministry. Arnulf had a long, thin, clean-shaven face that tapered towards the chin and positively glowed in the candlelight. Large, kind, watchful eyes were set beneath a high, domed forehead. Though in his early thirties, the chaplain retained an almost boyish enthusiasm. He was neither pious nor judgemental.

‘Did you hear the disturbance?’ said Arnulf, glancing over his shoulder. ‘There was quite a commotion out there earlier on. It was deafening.’

‘The noise reached me in here.’

‘I thought that it might.’

‘Do you know what caused it?’

‘Yes. I was in the bailey when they brought him in.’

‘Him?’

‘The assassin,’ explained Arnulf. ‘Or so it is alleged. Earlier today, a man was murdered near the forest of Woodstock. My lord sheriff sent out a posse in search of the killer and they have captured him.

The fellow now lies in the dungeon, awaiting his fate. If his guilt be established, no mercy will be shown to him.’

‘And if he is proved to be innocent of the charge?’

‘That seems unlikely. The posse are convinced that they have apprehended the man responsible for this heinous crime.’

‘Who was the victim?’

‘One of Bertrand Gamberell’s knights.’

Gervase raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Gamberell?’

‘You know him?’

‘Only by name. He is to appear before us at the shire hall.’ He ran a pensive hand across his chin. ‘The timing of this murder is curious.

It occurs on the very day that we arrive in Oxford.’

‘An unfortunate coincidence.’

‘Probably so.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Nothing,’ said Gervase. ‘Nothing at all.’

But his mind was already grappling with another faint possibility.

Bertrand Gamberell was locked into an acrimonious property dispute with two rival claimants, Wymarc and Milo Crispin. Gervase was bound to wonder if the murder was in some way connected with that fraught situation. He was not ready to confide in Arnulf until he knew the man better and until more facts about the crime were at his disposal. His suspicion might yet prove to be completely unfounded.

‘I would hear more about this,’ he said at length.

‘Then I will tell you all I know,’ offered the chaplain, putting a hand on his sleeve. ‘But let us adjourn to the hall while we talk. A meal is waiting for you. Brother Columbanus tells me that you are all starving. You should not deny yourself a moment longer.’

He opened the door and led Gervase out into darkness.

Robert d’Oilly made only the briefest of appearances in the hall to welcome his guests and to assure them that they would want for nothing while they were in his care. He promised to spend more time with them on the morrow when his wife would return from a visit to her relatives and he himself might not be so weighed down with the cares of office. The castellan was unfailingly civil but there was little warmth behind that civility. When he took his leave of them, he did so with an undue alacrity. They felt unwanted.

A meal had been set out on the table for them and Arnulf joined in the repast, showing a genuine interest in them and supplying the cordiality that was so signally lacking in their host. Even Ralph Delchard, with his rooted distrust of all churchmen, began to warm to the chaplain. Golde found him a soothing presence and gradually pushed the memory of Robert d’Oilly’s earlier display of brutality to the back of her mind. Arnulf somehow made Oxford Castle seem a more civilised place than she had at first feared. He would be a useful friend to her while her husband was preoccupied with his work as a commissioner, and he promised to act as her guide when she wished to visit the town.

Maurice Pagnal was more interested in the food than in anything else, munching his way noisily through his chicken pasties and flatbread, and washing them down with generous draughts of red wine. Brother Columbanus was the revelation. His predecessor as scribe, the shy, unworldly Brother Simon, rarely ate with the commissioners, preferring the more frugal fare and less boisterous company of a religious house, and never daring to venture an opinion of his own in public lest it bring down ridicule upon him.

Columbanus was an altogether more convivial Benedictine, fond of his food, even fonder of his ale and ready to enter any discussion with beaming eagerness. The more he drank, the more garrulous he became, and Gervase was left to speculate on the motives which had taken such a gregarious man into a closed monastic order. He would not have such freedom of expression when he sat in the chapter house with his brothers. It was almost as if the monk were using the meal to celebrate his temporary release from the cloister.

Arnulf, by contrast, ate little and drank only water yet showed no disapproval of Columbanus’s voracious appetite. He encouraged the guests to call for anything they wanted from the kitchens. The strong ale eventually took its toll of the monk. He began to slur his words, sway on his bench and giggle ridiculously to himself. The chaplain took charge of him at once, helping him gently up and half carrying him off to his bed before another cup of ale nudged Columbanus into the realms of disgrace.

Ralph watched it all with a tolerant smile.

‘A drunken scribe!’ he said. ‘That is all we need!’

‘Columbanus will not be found wanting,’ said Gervase.

‘I am sure that he will not,’ agreed Golde. ‘Even though he differs in every imaginable way from Brother Simon.’

‘Indeed he does,’ said Ralph amiably. ‘Columbanus downed more ale in one night than Simon drinks in a decade. There is a human being inside that black cowl. Brother Simon wears his in the same way that a snail carries his shell. As a place in which to hide from the real world.’

‘I loathe monks of all kinds,’ confessed Maurice through a loud yawn. ‘They are forever trying to prick my conscience about my misdeeds. What misdeeds? Is bearing arms for my King a misdeed? I am not ashamed of anything I have done in my life. Let those sanctimonious brothers stay in their cloisters where they belong and leave us to manage the serious business of keeping the peace in this ungrateful land.’

He gave another involuntary yawn and his lids drooped. With a supreme effort, he lifted himself up from the table.

‘Pray, excuse me,’ he said to Golde. ‘I did not mean to be so unmannerly. Old age is creeping up on me. I am exhausted.’ He raised a weary arm. ‘I bid you farewell, my friends.’

They waved him off and he staggered out of the hall.

‘It is time for us to retire as well,’ said Golde.

Ralph nodded. ‘Go ahead of me, my love. I will not keep you long.

Gervase and I need to speak alone for a moment.’

‘Then I will steal quietly away.’

After an exchange of farewells, Golde went off on her own. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ralph leaned across the table towards his friend. His geniality vanished at once.

‘What is going on here, Gervase?’ he asked.

‘Going on?’

‘There was uproar down in the bailey earlier on.’

‘Yes, I heard it.’

‘Robert d’Oilly saw fit to batter some poor wretch senseless. Why?

What had the fellow done? Golde was revolted by the sight. It took me an age to persuade her to come here to the hall. Having seen the way that our host dealt with his prisoner, she was refusing even to meet Robert.’

‘I noticed that she was tight-lipped in his presence.’

‘Thank heaven he did not stay to eat with us! Or Golde would certainly have called him to account. And that would not have advantaged any of us. I love her dearly but she can be outspoken at times.’ He drained the last of the wine from his cup. ‘Do you have any idea what this is all about?’

‘Yes,’ said Gervase.

‘Well?’

‘A horse race.’

Ralph’s eyes widened. ‘Horse race?’

‘Close by the forest of Woodstock.’

‘Can this be true?’

‘I had it from Arnulf the Chaplain and have been biding my time until I could divulge all the details to you. It is too soon to be certain but they may well have a bearing on our work here.’

‘How so?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

Ralph listened intently as Gervase recounted all that he had heard.

Arnulf had gleaned his information from Wymarc himself and it had the ring of truth about it. As the story unfolded, the cruel treatment of the prisoner took on a new meaning though Ralph could still not condone it and he knew that his wife would never forgive or forget it.

‘Who is the man?’ he asked.

‘A slave called Ebbi.’

‘And is he guilty?’

‘So it is claimed.’

‘Where was he taken?’

‘In the forest of Woodstock,’ said Gervase. ‘After a long search they eventually picked up his trail and ran him to earth. He denied all knowledge of the murder but they pinioned him at once.’

‘Why?’

‘Ebbi was carrying a knife in his belt, not unlike that which was thrown at the rider on the black stallion. That was proof enough for the posse.’

‘Do they have no other evidence?’

‘They will look to beat a confession out of him in time.’

‘And I am sure they will succeed,’ said Ralph with a rueful sigh.

‘Whether he is guilty or not. He was a small, skinny fellow in tattered clothing. I marvel that such a creature would have the boldness to commit this crime. What motive could he possibly have?’

Gervase shrugged. ‘He is a Saxon.’

‘So?’

‘Look in the returns for this county and you will see motive enough for every Saxon to raise his hand against a Norman knight. They have been dispossessed, Ralph. Before the Conquest, this Ebbi was probably a bordarius, a smallholder. Or even a villager. Now he is a mere slave.’

‘That may give him cause to resent us but it does not necessarily turn him into an assassin.’ He became pensive. ‘And why choose one of Gamberell’s knights as his victim? A fitter target might have been Bertrand Gamberell himself. Or Milo Crispin. Or even Robert d’Oilly.

They rule the roost in this shire. What could Ebbi hope to gain by killing this Walter? It does not make sense.’

‘There is another question to ask.’

‘Go on.’

‘Consider the race itself,’ said Gervase. ‘Six horses galloping hell-for-leather. Flashing through those trees in a matter of seconds. It would have taken great skill to pick out the right man and hurl a dagger between his shoulder blades. Why choose such a difficult target when far easier ones must have presented themselves?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I have grave doubts, Ralph.’

‘You think that Ebbi is innocent?’

‘I would need much more convincing that he is guilty.’

‘The sheriff clearly does not,’ said Ralph, recalling the scene he had witnessed. ‘It will be a short trial, I fancy. All that we can do is await its outcome.’

‘That is the last thing we must do,’ argued Gervase.

‘Why?’

‘Because we are involved here, Ralph. Look at those who entered a horse in that race. Wymarc. Gamberell. Milo Crispin. All three are at the heart of our investigations here. They are contesting ownership of the same property near Wallingford. Could it not be that this murder is in some strange way linked to our business in Oxford?’

‘That had not occurred to me.’

‘Weigh the notion in the balance.’

Ralph pondered. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘It could be, Gervase. I am at a loss to see quite how. But it could be.’

‘That would rule out Ebbi completely, unless he was hired by one of the others. It’s conceivable, Ralph, but it seems unlikely. He has no place in our considerations. Put him aside for a moment.’

‘Then you would have to find another assassin.’

‘Consider what happened. Who stood to gain most by the death of Gamberell’s rider?’

‘Everyone else in the race.’

‘That gives us five suspects immediately.’

Ralph was incredulous. ‘One of the other riders was the assassin?

Are you insane, Gervase? That is arrant nonsense.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes — and plainly so!’

‘Six men rode into that copse: only five rode out. Why?’

‘Someone hurled a dagger at one of them in the trees.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It is the only explanation.’

‘I think not,’ said Gervase, rising to his feet as he thought it through.

‘A dagger can be used to stab as well as to throw. When a horse is running alongside you, it is more than possible to thrust a blade into its rider’s back.’

‘But according to you, most of the other horses were ahead of Gamberell’s stallion at that point.’

‘Most but not all.’

‘It is a ludicrous idea.’

‘Not if you are Wymarc or Milo Crispin. Not if you have placed a heavy wager on your own horses. Not if you are resolved that the black stallion will not beat them yet again.’ Gervase spread his palms.

‘Is it really so ludicrous?’

Ralph pondered afresh. ‘No,’ he conceded after a long pause. ‘Not ludicrous, perhaps. But highly unlikely. How could the assassin know that he would be alongside the black stallion as they plunged into those trees? How could he be sure that the other riders would be ahead of him and thus blind to his villainy?’

‘He could not.’

‘Then your argument must be discarded.’

‘Must it? Could not this other rider simply have seized the opportunity when it offered itself? In a hectic race like that, his rivals would have no time to look back at him. Their eyes would have been fixed on the course ahead of them. I still contend that Gamberell’s man may have been stabbed.’

‘Then we must agree to differ.’

‘Very well,’ said Gervase. ‘Let us move on.’

‘To what?’

‘The winner of the race. The chestnut colt.’

‘That belonged to Milo’s subtenant.’

‘Ordgar. Once a proud thegn in this county. Reduced from his former glory. He might have the strongest reason of all to take the black stallion out of the race.’

‘You surely cannot accuse him,’ said Ralph with a mocking laugh as he got up from the bench. ‘By all accounts, his horse was vying for the lead when they came out of that copse. Are you seriously suggesting that Ordgar’s son tossed a dagger over his shoulder and that it somehow landed conveniently in the back of Gamberell’s man?’

‘Of course not.’

‘It was a race. The son needed both hands on the reins.’

‘All I am saying is that Ordgar may somehow be implicated. He stood to forfeit a lot of money if Gamberell won the race. Money which he could ill afford to lose. And he has twenty years of resentment against his Norman overlord to assuage. I think we should look closely at this Ordgar.’

‘That brings us back to Ebbi then.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Perhaps he really did commit the murder. Perhaps we have been too quick to absolve him of guilt. Ebbi may have been Ordgar’s hired assassin. Wymarc and Milo Crispin would hardly employ a creature like that to serve their ends. Besides,’ he added, ‘we should not be maligning respected men with our suspicions. On the evidence we have so far — and I know that it is patchy — there is no reason whatsoever to accuse either Wymarc or Milo. If they were ready to stoop to villainy in order to win that race at Woodstock, they would somehow have disabled Gamberell’s black stallion instead of killing its rider. I rely on my instinct here, Gervase.’

‘And what does it tell you?’

‘Ordgar paid Ebbi to do the deed. That is my guess.’

‘It would not be mine.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Ebbi was caught too easily,’ said Gervase. ‘If you can plot such a cunning murder, you will also plan your escape with equal care. I do not believe that the man locked up in that dungeon is the assassin.’

‘We shall see,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘We shall see. One thing is certain. We will not solve this crime by staying up all night and talking about it. We have shot enough arrows in the dark for now. Let us get some sleep. All may become clearer in the morning.’

‘I hope so. But I doubt it.’

His companion gave a soulful nod.

‘So do I,’ he sighed.

‘Still here?’ gasped Milo Crispin. ‘Did the man not go home?’

‘He stayed here all night, my lord.’

‘Where did he sleep?’

‘We found him huddled on the staircase.’

‘Old fool!’

‘He is determined to see you, my lord.’

‘I am far too busy to listen to his ramblings.’

‘Ordgar will not be sent away.’

‘Then he must be thrown out by force.’

‘Is that your order?’

The steward waited patiently while his master took time to reflect.

Milo Crispin had no wish to start the day by arguing with one of his subtenants. Ordgar was a nuisance and deserved to be turned away without compunction. At the same time, the problem which had brought the Saxon to Wallingford Castle had to be resolved sooner or later. Ordgar was persistent. He would lurk and harry until he was granted an audience with his overlord. One short discussion now might obviate a lot of irritation in the future.

‘Very well,’ said Milo, relenting. ‘Send him in.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘But warn him to expect no more than a few minutes.’

‘That is all he craves.’

The steward went out and Milo pored over the accounts on the table in front of him. He was in the hall, a long, low room whose timbered floor creaked beneath any footsteps. He did not look up when Ordgar shuffled into the room. An uncomfortable night had left the old man aching all over but he bore himself with as much dignity as he could muster. To remind him of his subordinate place, Milo kept him waiting for a long time.

‘Well?’ he said, finally turning his gaze on his visitor. ‘Why have you come to bother me so early in the morning?’

‘You refused to talk to me yesterday, my lord.’

‘We had nothing to talk about.’

‘But we did,’ insisted the other. ‘The race.’

‘It has been declared void.’

‘On whose authority?’

‘Mine.’

‘I ask you to think again, my lord.’

‘There is no need.’

‘But my colt won that race.’

‘Only because Hyperion lost his rider.’

‘We might still have beaten him,’ urged Ordgar. ‘Even if there had been no mishap, my colt might still have won. You saw the way he edged out your own horse. I think he would have beaten Hyperion as well.’

‘That may be so,’ admitted Milo, ‘but it was not a fair race. A man was murdered in that copse. One of Bertrand Gamberell’s knights.

That was no mere mishap but a planned attack. Someone lay in wait for him among those trees.’

Ordgar weighed his words before speaking. He had learned the language of his masters but felt at a severe disadvantage when using it. His position was delicate. He had somehow to press his argument without upsetting his overlord. He ran a nervous hand through his silver beard.

‘I regret what happened as much as anyone,’ he said with slow deliberation. ‘It was a vile murder. I hope that the killer is soon made to pay for his crime. I will do all I can to help to track down the man.

But I am bound to ask myself this.’ He licked his lips, then drew himself up to his full height. ‘If my son, Amalric, had been the victim at Woodstock yesterday and one of your horses had won, would the race still have been declared void or would you have claimed the purse?’

Milo smouldered inwardly but kept his poise. There was a grain of truth in the accusation that made it sting even more. Much as he resented the charge, he had a sneaking admiration for the old man who made it. It took courage and that was a quality he acknowledged whenever he met it. At the same time, he was not going to be insulted by one of his subtenants.

‘I will not even deign to answer that question,’ he admonished. ‘For the sake of amity between us, I would prefer to forget that I heard you put it to me.’

Ordgar backed away at once. By offending his overlord, he only weakened his case still more. In all their dealings, Milo Crispin would hold the upper hand. Nothing would change that. Ordgar’s voice took on a placatory tone.

‘All that I am asking for is fair treatment, my lord.’

‘The race is void.’

‘I accept that now. I was wrong to criticise your decision.’

‘Then why waste my time arguing about it? And why did you spend a night on my stairs?’

‘In order to reclaim my share of the wager,’ said Ordgar, eager to get some recompense for his aching bones. ‘You hold the purse for the race. Please return my stake and I will trouble you no further. Those who helped me to raise the money will want it back now.’

‘Then they will have to be disappointed.’

‘But we are entitled to the amount we wagered.’

‘I will be the judge of any entitlement here, Ordgar. And I will not yield up one solitary coin from that purse. It stays under lock and key here in my castle.’

‘But we need it, my lord,’ pleaded the other, stepping forward.

‘Desperately. We are men of limited means.’

‘Then you should not have made such a rash investment.’

‘It was a risk worth taking. Our horse won the race.’

‘But lost his stake.’

‘That is unjust, my lord!’

‘The real injustice took place in those trees,’ said Milo icily. ‘A man was murdered. Bertrand Gamberell’s knight may have been killed but his black stallion lives on to run another day. If you wish for your money, you will have to win it in the second race.’

‘The second race?’

‘Over the same course. Under the same rules.’

‘We will need to think about that.’

‘Withdraw,’ taunted Milo, ‘if you have no stomach for another contest.

Take your colt out of the race and forfeit your wager.’

‘That is a cruel condition to make.’

‘The choice lies with you.’

‘We will take part,’ said Ordgar bravely.

‘You may not enjoy such good fortune next time.’

‘I have every faith in my horse.’

‘He will certainly press Hyperion to the limit, I grant you. Especially with your son in the saddle. Amalric is a true horseman. He got the best out of his mount.’

‘No other horse will outrun that black stallion.’

‘That may be true. Your colt is fleet of foot.’

‘None faster in the whole county, my lord.’

Milo sat back in his chair and regarded the old man through narrowed lids. He thought of the closing moments of the race when his own horse had been found wanting against the chestnut colt ridden by Amalric. And he remembered the size of the purse awaiting the eventual winner. An idea stirred.

‘There is one way you may reclaim your money at once,’ he said.

‘What is it, my lord?’

‘Take it in exchange for your colt.’

‘In exchange?’

‘I am minded to buy the animal off you.’

‘But he is not for sale.’

‘What use is a horse like that to you, Ordgar?’ said Milo smoothly.

‘He will be far better off in my stables. He will be well fed and properly trained here. I would be doing you a favour by taking him off your hands.’ He gave a smile. ‘Yes, I think the time has come for you to part with him.’

‘He is ours, my lord.’

‘You are getting a fair price for him.’

‘We need him to win that race for us.’

‘I am sure you do, Ordgar. But I, too, have my needs and I think you will agree that they take precedence over yours.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Speak to my steward on the way out. He will give you your money.’

The old man was seized by a quiet terror.