The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Six

Bertrand Gamberell lay on the bed in a state of joyful exhaustion.

Long, luscious hours of exquisite pleasure had left him coated with perspiration and tingling with exhilaration. The woman in his arms was so gloriously sated that she dozed off to sleep. Gamberell ran a hand down her naked back and traced the curve of her fleshy buttocks.

Her skin was like silk. She had a body of generous proportions and she had yielded it up to him unreservedly. It was their first time together and he resolved that there would be many other secret trysts.

She was an eager lover but there was still much that he could teach her before he was done.

The thrill of a new conquest was always something to savour but Gamberell took a special delight from the seduction of a married woman. It added a piquancy and an element of danger. It also gave him an exclusive insight into the most private area of a marriage.

When he took a man’s wife to bed, he could see exactly what kind of lover the husband was and that gave him a perverse gratification.

In this case, the husband was an old, tired, neglectful man who was largely indifferent to his wife’s needs and who had never fully explored the potentialities of her desire. What her husband lacked, Gamberell provided in abundance and she had groaned in ecstasy as he took her on a voyage of discovery. In place of a fumbling and inconsiderate old man, she now had a strong, sensitive, virile young lover who was seasoned in all the arts of pleasure. Her earlier fears and doubts had been burned away in the delicious heat of their adultery. She was a most willing victim.

The woman had provided more than just a few hours of calculated lust for Gamberell. She was his escape. Locked in her embrace, he could forget all about the grim events at Woodstock. The cold-blooded murder of his knight preyed on his mind even though the assassin had apparently been caught. It was no random action. Gamberell felt certain that someone had hired the killer to make sure that Hyperion did not win the race. The murder had been an indirect attack on Gamberell himself and he was determined to root out the villain who had instigated it.

As his excitement cooled, ugly memories began to flood back. Even the warmth of the woman’s body could not block them out now. He recalled with a start that he had to be back in Oxford in good time for the funeral. In the service of his master, Walter Payne had been callously murdered. If he had not ridden Hyperion in the race, he would still be alive. The thought activated Gamberell’s sense of guilt.

He needed to be at the church to lead the mourners as they paid their last respects to a tragic victim.

When he tried to disentangle himself, she opened her eyes.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked dreamily.

‘Back to Oxford, my sweet.’

‘So soon?’

‘I have important business there.’

She nestled into him. ‘You have important business here, Bertrand.

Or have you tired of me already?’

‘I could never do that,’ he murmured, nuzzling her cheek.

‘Do you still love me?’

‘You know that I do, my angel.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I have already done so.’

‘Prove it again,’ she coaxed, kissing him on the lips.

‘If I had the time, I would. But I really must go.’

‘Not yet.’

‘I will come back another day. I promise.’

‘Not yet!’ she pleaded. ‘Do not leave me just yet.’

He gave her a parting hug and tried to pull away but she held him tenaciously. Rolling on top of him, she started to kiss him with such ardour that his own passion was soon ignited again. He caressed her body until she was writhing with delight then he eased her on to her back so that he could take both breasts in his hands to suck the nipples in turn. As their pleasure swiftly heightened, he parted her thighs and made her gasp with joy as he drove deep inside her.

‘Love me!’ she begged. ‘Love me, Bertrand!’

‘I do, my sweet.’

‘Show me how much.’

‘I will.’

He rode her hard until her desire built irresistibly to the moment of release and she flailed about in ecstasy.

‘My stallion!’ she purred.

It was all over in minutes. Gamberell did not allow himself the luxury of rest and reflection this time. He rose from the bed and began to put on his apparel, gloating over the naked body that still lay so invitingly on the sheets. The woman stretched and sighed with satisfaction.

‘When will I see you again?’ she whispered.

‘Soon.’

‘Do not keep me waiting, Bertrand.’

‘I will not.’

‘Pine for me.’

‘Send word when your husband is next away.’

‘I have no husband now. Only a lover.’

‘Your lover will return.’

She sighed again then drifted happily asleep for a short while.

When she awoke, Bertrand Gamberell had gone and the bedchamber suddenly felt cold and empty. She went quickly to the window and was just in time to see him leaving by the back door of the house. He looked up, blew her a kiss of farewell, then headed for the stables.

She was content.

Gamberell was making a swift departure. There was no point in taking unnecessary risks. Her husband was away and her servants had been diverted by their mistress with various chores but he was circumspect. He would not feel entirely safe until he was well away from the house. Only then could he relax and revel in his latest conquest.

Gamberell was still smiling to himself as he came round the angle of the stables. Everything had worked out well. There had been no problems. The smile suddenly froze on his lips and he stopped in his tracks. Hyperion was gone. He had tethered the horse to an iron ring in the wall of the stables but the animal was no longer there.

He looked around then darted into each of the stalls in a frantic search but all to no avail. He dashed into the bushes at the rear of the stables to widen his search but it still proved fruitless. Hyperion was simply not there. While one stallion had been rutting lustily in the bedchamber, another had completely vanished.

Ralph Delchard soon restored calm in the shire hall. When the shocking accusation was made by Brother Timothy, it was Maurice Pagnal who protested most vociferously but Azelina also made her disgust felt. Even Brother Columbanus joined in, calling upon his Benedictine brother to apologise for making such an unfounded charge.

Gervase Bret alone held his peace. In the short time he had known him, he had come to respect Timothy’s advocacy and doubted if the monk would make wild allegations out of pique at having lost the case.

When Ralph had persuaded Maurice to resume his seat, he asked Azelina to leave the room while the matter was sorted out. With a look of disdain at Brother Timothy, she rose to her feet and made a dignified exit. Controlling his own anger, Ralph turned to the lone figure on the front bench.

‘Would you care to repeat that accusation?’ he said.

‘If you wish, my lord.’

‘I do, Brother Timothy. Nobody can cast a slur on this tribunal with impunity. We are royal commissioners who have been sent to Oxford to look into a number of irregularities and disputed claims. The King appointed us because we are independent judges. None of us has holdings, ties of family, obligations of friendship or anything else in this shire which would influence our decisions. If we had,’ he continued with emphasis, ‘we would have been debarred from this commission.’

‘I understand that, my lord.’

‘Then why do you dare to denounce us?’

‘Because it was my bounden duty to do so.’

‘It is my bounden duty to stop this nonsense,’ growled Maurice. ‘Be grateful that you wear a cowl, sir, or I would ask you to back up this foul slander with your sword.’

‘The sword of truth is my weapon.’

‘We ought to use it to cut out your tongue!’

‘Peace!’ said Ralph. ‘We will get nowhere with intemperate language.

A serious allegation has been made. I am still waiting for it to be substantiated.’

‘Do you censure all of us?’ asked Gervase.

‘No, Master Bret. There is only one culprit.’

‘Which one?’

‘He knows,’ said Timothy. ‘And his presence here makes the verdict of this tribunal invalid.’

‘This is outrageous!’ protested Maurice in a fit of indignation. ‘Are we to let this minnow from the backwaters of Westminster vilify us like this? It is a disgrace. Let us hear no more of this calumny. Send him back to his abbot with a flea in his ear.’

‘I will do much more than that if his charge proves groundless,’

warned Ralph. ‘Brother Timothy can look to be expelled from the Order at the very least.’

‘I stand by my accusation,’ said the other.

‘Then name the man you accuse.’

The monk stood up again and pointed at Maurice.

‘He sits beside you, my lord.’

‘Let me at him!’ roared Maurice, jumping up.

‘Stay!’ ordered Ralph, restraining him with a hand on his arm.

‘Hear him out, Maurice. We owe him that right.’

‘The only right he is owed is a rope around his neck!’

‘Sit down again. This must be resolved calmly.’

With a menacing glare at the monk, Maurice took his seat.

‘Speak your piece, sir,’ he challenged. ‘I am listening.’

‘Yesterday,’ began Brother Timothy, ‘I presented the evidence in favour of Westminster Abbey’s claim to Islip. I did so in good faith, firmly believing that the case would receive just, equitable and impartial consideration. When I left the shire hall, I took the trouble to ride out to Islip to view the land under dispute. While I was there, I chanced to meet the parish priest and fell into conversation with him.’

‘Do we need to hear this gibberish?’ grumbled Maurice.

‘It is highly relevant, my lord.’

‘How?’

‘The priest was once chaplain to Hugh de Grandmesnil, sheriff of Leicestershire. He talked at length about that time and your name,’ he said to Maurice, ‘was mentioned more than once. I do not need to remind you why.’

Maurice glowered but there was no denial this time.

‘I do not understand,’ said Columbanus, baffled. ‘What place has the sheriff of Leicestershire in a dispute that concerns a village in Oxfordshire?’

‘Hugh de Grandmesnil is father to the lady Azelina,’ explained Timothy. ‘He would naturally support his daughter’s claim to Islip as would anyone who had been in his household. My lord Maurice was once in that position. According to the priest, he might have looked to be deputy sheriff one day had he stayed in the county. At all events, he is a friend and confidant of the lady Azelina and thus not qualified to sit in judgement on this dispute.’ He turned to Ralph. ‘There is much more I can say on this subject, my lord. More evidence to support my charge. You will understand why I felt that our cause had been betrayed.’

‘We have heard enough from you for the moment, Brother Timothy,’

said Ralph through gritted teeth. ‘I think that it is time my lord Maurice had a chance to defend himself.’ He fixed him with a stare. ‘Were you so acquainted with Hugh de Grandmesnil?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Maurice evasively.

‘But you did serve him?’

‘We fought together. It forged a friendship.’

‘Why did you conceal it from us?’

‘I did not think it had a bearing on our work.’

‘It had a most profound bearing!’ hissed Ralph before reining in his temper. He turned to Timothy. ‘We need to discuss this in private for a time. Bear with us until we send for you, Brother Timothy.’

‘Gladly, my lord.’

‘The same applies to you, Brother Columbanus.’

‘But I am your scribe.’

‘No record need be kept of this conversation,’ said Ralph pointedly.

‘Besides, the language may grow warm in here and offend more cloistered ears.’

Columbanus nodded and followed Brother Timothy out. On a signal from Ralph, the four guards also quit the hall. There was a strained silence. Elbows on the table, Maurice leaned forward with his head bowed. Ralph stood over him.

‘Can you deny this?’ he demanded. ‘Have you really been deceiving us all this while, Maurice? Working in collusion with the lady Azelina and her father?’

‘She has the stronger claim to Islip,’ retorted Maurice. ‘You believed that, Ralph. Your verdict favoured her.’

‘That is immaterial.’

‘We did not know of your personal interest here,’ said Gervase coldly.

‘Your action has tainted us, my lord.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘Then what was that intention?’ yelled Ralph, quivering with rage.

‘To pull the wool over our eyes while you showed favour to your friends?

To pervert the course of justice? We have built our reputation on fairness and integrity. In one flawed judgement, you have put that reputation under threat.’

‘Do not take this so personally, Ralph.’

‘Can you not see what you have done?’

‘Is it so serious a matter?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ affirmed Gervase. ‘Extremely serious.’

‘Awarding land to someone who legally owns it?’ Maurice gave a hollow laugh. ‘Where is the crime in that?’

‘You prejudged the case.’

‘When you had no right even to be a member of this tribunal,’ said Ralph. ‘Now I begin to see why you contrived to get yourself appointed.

You pretended that the work was an imposition but you came to Oxford with a purpose. To help your friends at the expense of honesty and justice. Hell and damnation, man! This is rank corruption!’

‘Come,’ said Maurice, rising to his feet, ‘which of you would not help a friend in the same circumstances?’

‘Neither of us, my lord,’ said Gervase.

‘Do not be so pious.’

‘You must have known that this dispute would come before us or you would not have agreed to join the tribunal. Did the lady Azelina make contact with you?’

‘Or was it Hugh de Grandmesnil?’ added Ralph.

‘Roger d’Ivry, perhaps?’

‘How was it done, Maurice? We will find out in time.’

‘The King himself will wish to look into it.’

Maurice Pagnal was cornered. He could not wriggle or browbeat his way out of the situation. Only one possible escape remained and he seized on it with grinning desperation.

‘We three are men of the world,’ he said, reaching out to touch both of them. ‘Nobody else needs to know of this. I will find a way to silence that infernal Brother Timothy. Let us resolve the matter here behind closed doors. Between friends.’ He licked his lips before making his offer. ‘Someone did appeal to me for help. When the ownership of Islip was to be contested, I was asked to use what influence I might have with the commission. We bore arms together, Ralph, so I hoped that friendship might carry the weight of a favour.’

‘That hope was shipwrecked before it set sail.’

‘Chance contrived better than I could myself,’ continued Maurice.

‘Canon Hubert fell ill and a replacement was sought. I used what connections I had at Court to have the name of Maurice Pagnal pushed forward. Others, too, had influence which was used subtly to secure my appointment. Thus it stands, my friends.’ He looked from one to the other before blurting out his offer. ‘Handsome payment was made for my help. The money is meaningless to me. I was prompted only by old ties. Take the money and divide it between you. Let it buy your silence. I will excuse myself from this commission and it can then continue with its reputation untarnished.’

‘Untarnished!’ howled Ralph. ‘Untarnished! You offer us a bribe and tell us that our integrity will remain intact!’

‘In the eyes of everyone else.’

‘But not in our own, my lord,’ said Gervase sharply.

‘Do not be fools!’ urged Maurice. ‘You throw away a rich reward.

Give yourselves some recompense for the tedium of sitting through this dispute. Share the spoils.’

Ralph’s anger took over. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he hurled him to the floor with such force that Maurice slid for yards along the wooden boards. Ralph was on him at once. As Maurice pulled his dagger from its sheath, it was kicked away from his grasp. Fury was Ralph’s weapon and Maurice knew that he had nothing to match it.

He listened to his sentence.

Ralph was on fire. ‘By the power vested in me as leader of this tribunal,’ he said, looming over him, ‘I strip you of your rank as a commissioner. The King will hear a full report of your crimes. You will be duly arraigned.’ Taking him by the throat, he hauled Maurice upright. ‘You have caused enough damage in Oxford. Leave by sundown, Maurice. Or answer to me.’

After a show of defiance, Maurice Pagnal slunk away in disgrace.

Ralph watched until the door was closed behind him, then his rage slowly ebbed. He looked at Gervase and gave a hopeless shrug.

‘Where do we go from here?’

‘We summon Brother Columbanus and dictate a letter to Canon Hubert,’

said Gervase. ‘A fast horse would reach him in Winchester some time tomorrow. Hubert may have recovered his health by now. And even if he has not,’ he added, ‘I am sure that he would respond to your call.’

‘Wise counsel. I’ll act on it.’

‘The dispute over Islip can be left in abeyance. We will look at it afresh when Hubert gets here.’

‘And until then?’

‘We suspend our investigations, Ralph.’

‘We have to, I fear, though it will extend our stay here.’

‘Let us make virtue of a necessity.’

‘What do you mean, Gervase?’

‘Someone else is in desperate need of justice,’ said the other, ‘and there is no tribunal to mete it out to him. Will you ride with me to Woodstock?’

The warm sun encouraged them to leave the drab interior of the keep and descend to the bailey where they perambulated slowly around the perimeter by way of gentle exercise. Golde kept in step with Edith in every sense. A friendship which took root on the previous night was growing apace as they discovered a wealth of shared interests and common experience. As they strolled amiably along, Golde shed all her reservations about Oxford Castle. It was no longer a place of such menace and discomfort. Edith made it seem homely.

‘Do you have any children?’ asked Edith.

‘No, my lady.’

‘It is still not too late.’

‘I have no hopes in that direction.’

‘Oh?’

‘Ralph’s first wife died in childbirth,’ explained Golde. ‘I would not put him through that suffering again. Such a tragedy is not certain to happen again, I know, but it is always at the back of my mind. We are happy in each other, my lady. Even without the blessing of children.’

‘They are not always a blessing,’ admitted the other with a sigh.

‘Childbirth is a trial enough but raising a family can also be something of an ordeal in itself. It is such a responsibility to educate the young.

I am glad all that is behind me now.’

‘I’m sure that you were an excellent mother.’

‘I tried, Golde. Within my limitations.’

Arnulf the Chaplain came out of the great square tower of the church and waved a greeting to them before heading for the castle gates.

Edith looked fondly after him.

‘Life is so ironic at times,’ she mused.

‘Ironic?’

‘Arnulf would have made an ideal parent. Kind, loving and endlessly patient. He would have been a perfect father and yet he will never have children of his own.’

‘It is the choice he made, my lady.’

‘Yes,’ said Edith. ‘When he became ordained, he committed himself to a vow of celibacy. I teased him once and he said that he did have children. In his choir. They are his family and he dotes on them like any father.’

‘I am looking forward to hearing them sing.’

‘They are a positive delight, Golde. Even though they have lost their young soloist.’

‘The chaplain told me about Helene.’

‘He lavished so much time and care on that girl.’

‘Perhaps he will find someone to take her place.’

Golde halted involuntarily as they came to the entry to the dungeons.

An armed guard stood on sentry duty outside it. She remembered the prisoner who had been beaten to the ground by Edith’s husband before being dragged down into the twilight of the dungeons. Golde wondered if the man was still alive down there.

Taking her by the elbow, Edith led her gently away. She seemed to know exactly what Golde was thinking. Neither of them spoke a word but they were at that moment closer than they had ever been, two compassionate women in a world that was dominated by the coarse brutality of men, one pretending not to notice while the other was denied that choice. They, too, Golde now saw, were trapped in a larger and more comfortable dungeon. The sweet sense of freedom which they had been enjoying was circumscribed by the high walls of the castle.

When they reached the gates, a sturdy figure came lumbering towards them. Maurice Pagnal was too preoccupied to greet them. His jaw was tight, his eyes staring, his head drooping with shame. Before they could detain him, he pushed roughly past them and went off towards the stables.

Edith was shocked by his blatant rudeness.

‘What is amiss with him?’ she wondered.

‘They cannot have finished at the shire hall so soon,’ said Golde.

‘Ralph told me that they would not possibly be back until this evening.’

‘Then why is my lord Maurice here?’

‘They will not sit in session without him.’

Maurice was ordering one of the ostlers to saddle his horse. His knights were running to him to see why he was making such an unforeseen departure. Golde grew fearful.

‘Where are Ralph and Gervase?’ she said.

They tethered their horses on the fringe of the copse and stepped into the trees. Learning from his earlier visit to Woodstock, Ralph had brought them by a slightly different route to avoid being seen by Wymarc’s men and thus hampered by the deferential companionship of their master. To conduct a proper search, they needed to be alone.

Gervase was shown the spot where the dead body had lain and surmised how it must have tumbled along the ground. Like Ralph, he decided that the assassin must have lurked near the point where the six horses in the race first entered the copse and were thus lost from sight to the spectators. After a careful examination of potential hiding places, he decided that a wych elm had offered the man the best cover.

‘He stood here, Ralph. I am sure of it.’

‘Then I am just as certain that he did not.’

‘Why?’

‘Borrow my dagger and you will find out.’

Ralph handed it over and Gervase moved behind the tree.

‘Stand ready!’ warned Ralph. ‘The six horses are here.’

When Gervase stepped out to throw the dagger, he realised what Ralph had known instinctively. The wych elm was on the right of the horses as they galloped into the copse. To hurl the dagger after them with his left hand, Gervase would only have needed to move out a foot or so.

‘But you are right-handed,’ said Ralph, taking the dagger from him.

‘Like most people. A right-handed assassin would never choose that side of the copse or he would have to come out into the open to throw his weapon.’

‘Where do you think he lay in wait?’

‘Let me show you.’

Gervase followed him to the ash and saw the advantages of cover and prospect which it afforded. Ralph drew his attention to the strange marks in the ground which he had noticed earlier. They were small, round indentations in the soft earth. Neither of them could decide how they had come there. Ralph grinned.

‘My turn to be the assassin in the greenwood,’ he said. ‘It is as well for Maurice that he is not about to ride past for I would surely loose the dagger at him.’

‘He certainly tried to stab us in the back.’

‘Too true, Gervase. We were easily misled.’

‘Brother Timothy did us good service in unmasking him.’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph uncomfortably. ‘But I do not like to be beholden to monks. They are an unnatural crew.’

‘Columbanus is an exception.’

‘Only when he is drunk.’ Ralph eased him back. ‘Stand aside and I will show you how the murder was committed. Here come the horses and I pick out my man.’

One stride was enough to bring him half clear of the tree. Ralph threw the dagger with vicious force and it spun through the air until it sank into the trunk of a hazel.

‘That was the easy part, Gervase. Now for the hard one.’

‘What is that?’

‘Disappearing.’

‘Where?’

‘That is what we must find out,’ said Ralph, looking around behind the ash. ‘But I would certainly not be stupid enough to race across open ground to the forest. A fleeing man is a form of confession.’

‘Ebbi discovered that.’

‘This is not his doing. You need a strong arm to throw a dagger with enough force to knock a man from the saddle. I am a more likely assassin than that poor wretch.’

‘So where would you hide?’

‘In the last place they would expect to find me. My guess is that he would have only a couple of minutes to conceal himself before they came in search of the fallen rider. It would be long enough to climb a tree.’

After reclaiming his dagger, Ralph led the hunt, picking his way through the undergrowth and assessing every tree as a possible refuge.

Only three were high enough and leafy enough to provide adequate cover. After scrutinising their trunks, Ralph shook his head.

‘How can you be so sure?’ said Gervase.

‘There are no marks upon them. A man shinning up those trees would leave some sign of his passing. He would be in a hurry, remember, so it would have been a scramble.’

‘Unless he climbed up on a rope which he had earlier secured to one of the higher boughs.’

Ralph nodded appreciatively. ‘We will make an assassin of you yet.

I never thought of a rope. Climb up and put your theory to the test.’

‘Climb up?’

‘Of course. You are lighter than me and far more nimble. Come, Gervase. Try this tree first. I can easily bear your weight on my shoulders but you would collapse if I tried to use you as my ladder.’

He knelt down. ‘Step on to me and I will lift you up.’

Gervase obeyed his bidding, standing on his friend’s broad shoulders and bracing himself with his hands against the trunk of a beech.

Ralph rose up without effort and Gervase was able to grasp a bough and clamber into the heart of the tree.

‘Find a branch strong enough to take a rope,’ urged Ralph. ‘Look for the marks that will surely be there. Then get yourself out of sight of the soldiers who will be standing exactly where I am now.’

‘It cannot be done, Ralph.’

‘Then you are up the wrong tree. Try another.’

Gervase had grave misgivings about the venture but it was important to eliminate all the possibilities. Ralph’s strength hoisted him up into the other two trees but neither showed signs of a rope’s bite on their branches and it was impossible wholly to vanish behind the foliage. Descent was somehow more hazardous than climbing and Gervase was glad when he dropped down from the last tree.

Ralph was perplexed. ‘He must have had a hiding place,’ he insisted.

‘Unless he simply changed himself into a bird and flew away. But where? If not up a tree, was it under a bush?’

‘I think not, Ralph. The soldiers would have flushed him out with their swords. From what you told me, there were enough of them searching in here.’

‘Yet the assassin eluded them.’

‘Apparently.’

‘Up a tree or under a bush.’ Ralph gave a low chuckle. ‘There is only one other place it could have been, Gervase.’

‘And where is that?’

‘Beneath the ground.’

The funeral of Walter Payne was held at the parish church of St Peter’s-in-the-East. It was part of a manor which comprised fifty houses, both inside and outside the town wall, owned by Robert d’Oilly. The benefice was in his gift and it had been bestowed on a stout, stooping priest of middle years with a keening voice and eyes which were forever searching the heavens for some kind of inspiration.

The sheriff himself was in the congregation with his steward and some of his knights. Milo Crispin was also present to see the unfortunate rider consigned to his grave. Wymarc was a reluctant mourner but feared that his absence would be noted and wilfully misinterpreted. Ordgar had also felt the need to attend and was accompanied by his son Amalric and by his steward, Edric the Cripple.

What puzzled all of them was that there was no sign of Bertrand Gamberell at the funeral of his own man.

Minutes before the service commenced, there was a mild commotion outside and Gamberell finally appeared. He looked flushed and harassed as he slipped into his place near the front of the nave but his lateness was quickly forgotten by the congregation. Mass was sung and a short sermon about Walter Payne was delivered by a priest who had never really known him but who nevertheless contrived to move the hearts of all but a few. Gamberell was visibly distraught and tears moistened many otherwise hardened eyes.

When the coffin was borne out to the churchyard, a long file of mourners followed and arranged themselves in an arc around the grave. Walter Payne was laid to rest and the priest tossed in a prayer for his soul before the first handful of earth was cast by Gamberell.

He stood there in watchful silence as the mourners gradually dispersed.

Gamberell was surprised to see Ordgar and faintly touched that the old Saxon had come to the funeral. He was annoyed to see Wymarc and relieved when the latter skulked guiltily away. But it was Milo Crispin who really aroused his ire. He sensed a deep complacence behind the poised manner. Milo was among the last to leave and the very act of lingering seemed to Gamberell like a deliberate taunt. Unable to suppress his rising anger, he followed Milo and grabbed his shoulder to spin him round. Gamberell stared accusingly.

Milo was unperturbed. ‘You were late, Bertrand.’

‘And you know why.’

‘Do I?’

‘You stole Hyperion.’

‘Now why should I want to do that?’

‘Out of sheer spite. You could not bear to lose another race to him.

You stole my horse. Where is he, Milo?’

‘I have no idea, my friend. But I hope you find him soon.’

‘Why?’

‘I have a horse of my own to beat him now.’

Turning on his heel, he left Gamberell speechless.