The Stallions of Woodstock

Chapter Seven

It took them the best part of an hour to find it. The hiding place was so carefully chosen and so cunningly disguised that they walked past it a dozen times without ever suspecting that it was there. Gervase Bret eventually stumbled on it by mistake. He noticed the fresh earth which had been scattered over a wide area among the bushes. When he knelt to take up a handful for closer examination, he felt the ground give way slightly beneath his weight.

‘Ralph!’ he called.

‘Have you found something?’

‘I may have.’

‘Where?’ asked Ralph, emerging from the thick shrubbery. ‘I hope that this is not another false trail, Gervase. We’ve had a dozen of those so far.’

‘This time, we may have more fortune.’

With both palms on the ground, he pushed down with his full weight and the turf gave way. Ralph let out a whoop of triumph and knelt beside him, using his dagger to probe further into the cavity. It was less a hole than a natural depression in the ground which had been hollowed out then covered over with the turf which had been lifted from it with such painstaking care. Twigs, bramble and small logs had been stuffed into the cavity to hold the turf in its original position, but they could not withstand the pressure from Gervase.

Overhung by a thick bush, the hiding place was quite impossible to detect with the naked eye. Only a combination of patience and good fortune had finally brought it to light.

After removing the segments of turf, Gervase began to scoop out the wood and bramble which had supported it. The cavity was gradually exposed. Ralph Delchard began to have doubts about the find.

‘Are you quite sure that this is it, Gervase?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s not big enough to conceal a man.’

‘Not someone of your size and solidity, perhaps. But a slighter frame could easily be concealed in there.’

‘Ebbi has a slight build.’

‘So do I,’ said Gervase. ‘Let me try it for size.’

Ralph was horrified. ‘You’re going to crawl in there?’

‘Why not?’

‘You will get filthy.’

‘It is in a good cause.’

‘What about all those insects?’

‘Someone who wanted to evade capture would not be troubled by a few ants. Nor even by the odd worm or two. Stand back.’

Gervase lay face down on the edge of the cavity then slowly rolled over until he toppled into it on his back. It was just wide enough and deep enough to accommodate him.

‘Replace some of the turf,’ he said.

‘Are you mad, Gervase?’

‘I want to be absolutely certain.’

‘First, you drop into a hole in the ground. Now you want to be buried alive.’ Ralph was aghast. ‘How will you breathe?’

‘That is what I wish to find out.’

‘Then you are a braver man than I. Give me a sword and I will fight all day against superior odds without a qualm. But you would never get me to rehearse my own funeral like this.’

‘It will not take long.’

‘ Hic iacet Gervase Bret. Requiescat in pace. ’

He collected the segments of turf and replaced them in the order in which they had been lifted off the cavity. Gervase’s legs and body would soon be completely hidden. Ralph picked up the final square of turf and hesitated.

‘You are my dear friend. I cannot do this to you.’

‘You have to, Ralph.’

‘What if you suffocate?’

‘I will not stay down here long enough.’

‘Gervase, I hate this.’

‘Cover my face.’

After further protest, Ralph acceded to his request and Gervase vanished from sight. The turf fitted so neatly that Ralph was astounded.

Had he not known, he would never have guessed that a grown man lay inches beneath the surface.

‘Can you hear me, Gervase?’ he called. ‘Do you want me to dig you out of there? Gervase!’ A long silence. He became alarmed. ‘Are you in trouble down there?’

Before he could grab the first section of turf, the whole patch suddenly erupted into life as Gervase sat up. He was caked in dirt and insects were crawling over him but there was a smile of satisfaction on his face.

‘That was how it was done, Ralph. I have proved it.’

‘All you have proved is that Gervase Bret could have been the assassin. Give me your hand.’ Ralph hauled him upright in one fluent move. ‘Look at the state of yourself.’

‘It will brush off,’ said Gervase, dusting vigorously with both hands.

‘We have solved the mystery. We now know how it was done.’

‘Could you breathe down there?’

‘Not very well. Until I lifted the edge of the turf that lay across my face. Did you observe that?’

‘No.’

‘Then neither would that search party. We cannot blame them for not finding the man. He outwitted them. Then quit his hiding place when it was safe to do so and covered it up again so that nobody would discover his ruse.’

‘Until we came along.’

‘Yes,’ said Gervase, detaching a worm from his hem.

‘We have learned how he evaded capture. All we have to do now is to track the villain down.’

‘There is someone else we must track down first, Ralph.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Ebbi’s saviour.’

Robert d’Oilly listened with growing impatience to the demand. He raised a hand to silence the bitter recriminations.

‘Enough, Bertrand,’ he decreed. ‘I will hear no more.’

‘But you must, my lord sheriff.’

‘You rush to judgement without proper evidence.’

‘Milo covets Hyperion. Milo has thrice been humiliated by Hyperion.

Milo has sworn revenge. What more evidence do you need? My horse has been stolen and I name Milo Crispin.’

‘Then you do not deserve one more second of my attention. Milo is my son-in-law and a more upright man does not dwell in this county.

Accuse him and you attempt to stain my family. Is that your intention?’

‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Did you see Milo steal the animal?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Did you witness any of his men committing the crime?’

‘The theft occurred privily.’

‘And what clues were left behind?’

‘None, to speak of.’

‘In short, you have nothing beyond your own hostility towards Milo to indicate that he is involved here. False accusation is a crime in itself, Bertrand. Withdraw this charge against my son-in-law or he will call you to account and I will back him to the hilt. Do I make my purpose clear?’

Bertrand Gamberell’s temper began to cool. He was coming to regret his premature confrontation with Milo Crispin. He believed that Milo might still be in some way responsible for the theft of Hyperion but it had been wrong to challenge him at the funeral. The stone-faced Robert d’Oilly reinforced the point with a wagging finger.

‘Your own man lies in his grave and all you can do is bicker about a piece of horseflesh.’

‘Hyperion is an exceptional animal.’

‘That may be, Bertrand, but an animal is all that he is. Not a human being like Walter Payne. Can you not show some respect for your knight? Riding your horse cost the fellow his life. Does that not trouble your conscience?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then forget about the horse.’

‘Hyperion has been stolen. We must find him.’

‘The crime has been reported and I will look into it. In time. But I will not disrupt a funeral service to arrest my son-in-law on a charge that arises solely out of your blind rage.’

Gamberell felt slightly ashamed. They were standing outside St Peter’s-in-the-East as the last of the mourners departed. The priest lurked beside the grave. Having ridden to Oxford on a borrowed horse, Gamberell had all but missed the start of the funeral and found it impossible to concentrate fully during the service. He was certain that Walter Payne’s murder and the theft of the black stallion were interrelated crimes and he persuaded himself that both could be laid at the door of Milo Crispin.

Robert d’Oilly regarded him with frank distaste.

‘Why did you make such a ludicrous allegation?’ he said.

‘I acted on instinct.’

‘You are far too impulsive, Bertrand. As always.’

‘Time will tell if I am quite so far from the mark.’

‘Milo is no horse thief!’

‘If you say so, my lord sheriff.’

‘I do say so!’ growled d’Oilly. ‘What you claim about my son-in-law could equally well be said of Wymarc. He, too, is a rival of yours with a score to settle against you. Why not heap your accusations on him?

Or even on Ordgar? He put a horse into that race alongside your black stallion. Could not he have plotted to steal the horse out of envy?’

‘Ordgar would never dare and Wymarc would be too inept.’

‘Then look elsewhere for your culprit.’

Gamberell nodded. His obsessive concern for the horse had blotted out all else from his mind and committed him to rash actions. Robert d’Oilly had rightly scolded him. Gamberell tried to bank down his wrath so that he could take a calmer view of the situation. His priority was to trace Hyperion as quickly as possible and he needed the sheriff’s help.

‘When was the horse taken?’ asked d’Oilly.

‘Earlier today.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In the stable.’

‘At your manor?’

An awkward pause. ‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Then which stable?’

‘It does not matter.’

‘Of course it matters. If we are to pick up the trail, we must begin at the point where the horse was taken. Where was Hyperion at the time?’

Gamberell’s hesitation was an explanation it itself. Robert d’Oilly burst into laughter then put a hand to his mouth to speak in a mock whisper.

‘Who is the lady this time, Bertrand?’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘The horse was stolen when you were bare-arsed in some bedchamber. There is your most likely thief. Do not drag Milo into this. You have one obvious suspect.’

‘Do I, my lord sheriff?’

‘Yes. Her husband.’

The laughter become more raucous as d’Oilly strode away.

She saw them from a long way off and scurried back to the hovel at once, diving inside and barring the door before running to close the shutters on the solitary window. Alone in the gloom, she crouched down behind the rough wooden table and waited. The hoofbeats eventually came within earshot. When a fist banged on the door, she shivered with apprehension.

Ralph Delchard pounded even harder on the door before trying to open it. The wooden bar held against his shoulder.

‘There is nobody at home,’ he concluded.

‘There has to be,’ said Gervase. ‘Unless the door locked itself from the inside. You frightened her off.’

‘Me?’

‘She took one look at you and fled indoors.’

‘You are more likely to have scared her off, Gervase. Look at the state of your attire, man. Scuffed and dirty. You rose from that grave like Lazarus and that is enough to put the fear of God into anybody. It terrified me.’

Gervase grinned and dismounted from the saddle.

‘Leave this to me,’ he suggested.

‘I was about to kick the door in.’

‘That is not the way, Ralph. Frighten her further and we will not get a word out of the woman.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘When we came over the brow of that hill, I thought I saw movement down here.

I was right. She must have espied us and gone to ground.’

‘Not another one who burrows like a rabbit!’

‘Move further off.’

‘Why?’

‘So that I may speak to her in her own tongue and try to win her trust. She will not come out if she sees a figure of such authority standing before her door.’

‘I do not even wear a sword.’

‘You do not need to, Ralph.’

A moment’s reflection convinced him that Gervase was right. Ralph could only yell at the woman in a language which she had learned to hate even though she did not understand a single word of it. Compulsion would achieve nothing. Only gentle persuasion would succeed and that meant yielding control to Gervase. Taking both horses by the reins, Ralph led them a short distance away and tethered them to some bushes.

He folded his arms and watched his friend in action.

Instead of belabouring the door, Gervase tapped softly.

‘Leofrun!’ he called. ‘I wish to speak with you.’

The woman was astounded by the sound of her name and the kindness in his voice but it was not enough to draw her out of hiding.

If they had come to arrest her, they would use any trick to ensnare her.

‘My name is Gervase Bret,’ he said. ‘Ebbi has sent me.’

Her curiosity was aroused but she remained cautious.

‘Can you hear me, Leofrun?’

There was a long pause and she hoped that he might have gone away. When he spoke again, his voice came through the shutters directly behind her. She spun round in alarm.

‘We need to talk, Leofrun,’ he said. ‘Come to the window.’

Instead, she backed away and huddled in a corner.

‘Ebbi told me about you,’ he continued. ‘He is in grave danger and only you can help him. He lies in a dungeon at the castle and will soon be tried by my lord sheriff for a murder that he did not commit.

You know that he is innocent and so do I. Will you help him, Leofrun?’

‘Who are you?’ she croaked.

‘A friend.’

‘One of my lord sheriff’s men?’

‘No,’ he explained slowly. ‘We are strangers in the town. We have come to Oxford at the King’s behest on important business. But this murder has interrupted our work and we would see it solved before we can continue.’

‘Ebbi is no killer,’ she averred. ‘He is a good man, a kind man. Ebbi could never kill anybody.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I spoke with him myself. In his dungeon.’

‘Have they hurt him?’

‘He is not in good health.’

‘They were cruel,’ she said with spirit. ‘I saw the way they treated Ebbi. Four soldiers against one man. They bound his hands tight then beat him black and blue. Ebbi had no chance against them.’

‘He will suffer worse if you do not help him.’

‘What can I do?’ she wailed.

‘Open the door and I will tell you.’

She was reluctant even to budge from the corner.

‘Very well,’ he coaxed. ‘Look at me through the crack in the shutters and judge for yourself if I am friend or foe. I will stand a few yards off.

Will that content you, Leofrun?’

It took her a long while to pluck up the courage to respond to his suggestion. Rising to her feet, she crept across to the shutters and applied a wary eye to the crack. Gervase was standing away from the house. His smile was friendly and his manner unthreatening but she wondered why his garb was so covered in dirt. He gave an apologetic shrug.

‘Forgive the state of my apparel,’ he said. ‘We have been searching in the undergrowth and this is the result. We were looking for clues that might help Ebbi.’

She angled her head so that she could appraise Ralph for the first time. A Norman baron was a more disturbing presence. Leofrun was worried that he might have soldiers within call.

Gervase seemed to read her thoughts once more.

‘We have come alone,’ he promised. ‘My lord sheriff’s men would have battered down your door without a second thought but they do not even know that you exist. Ebbi has shielded you once again. It has cost him dear.’

‘What does he want of me?’

‘The truth, Leofrun. That is all.’

‘Who would listen to it?’

‘I would. So will my lord Ralph here. We have influence at the castle and will speak in Ebbi’s defence, but our word is worthless without your testimony. Will you give it?’

The latch was lifted on the shutters and they were flung wide.

Leofrun was framed by the window. She was a short, swarthy, round-shouldered woman whose pleasant features bore the stamp of time and the drudgery that went with it. She wore a kirtle of homespun material and her hair was hidden beneath a torn hood. Smudged with grime, her face was still puckered in suspicion. Words came out slowly and painfully.

‘Why should you wish to help Ebbi?’ she said.

‘Because he is plainly innocent.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The same way that you do, Leofrun,’ said Gervase. ‘When Walter Payne was murdered during a horse race, Ebbi was here with you. No man can be in two places at the same time.’

Ebbi lay in the fetid straw, too weary to move yet unable to reach for the solace of sleep. Since his arrest in the forest of Woodstock, his life had been a continuous torment and he was coming to think that death, however agonising, might be a blessed release. His spirit had been broken. He no longer had the strength to despise Robert d’Oilly and to rail against the rank injustice of his situation. Ebbi had heard all the stories. Few people imprisoned in the castle dungeons ever came out alive again. Why should he fare any better?

The jingle of keys made him turn bloodshot eyes towards the door.

When it creaked back on its hingers, Arnulf the Chaplain stepped into the cell. The door was locked behind him. The visitor knelt beside the wounded man.

‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.

‘No better.’

‘Take heart. All is not yet lost.’

‘I feel that it is.’

‘Have they fed you at all today?’

‘All that I am given is foul water.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Arnulf, moving in closer to him. ‘I am not permitted to relieve your hunger or I surely would. You do know that?’

Ebbi felt something being pressed into his hand. When he glanced down, he saw that he was holding a hunk of bread.

‘God bless you!’ he murmured.

Then he took a first desperate bite of the food.

Bristeva watched her brother put the horse through its paces. Bolt upright in the saddle, Amalric took his mount at a steady trot in a wide circle, gradually increasing Cempan’s speed by judicious pressure with his heels. The chestnut colt was mettlesome and needed to be kept on a short rein. Edric the Cripple looked on with satisfaction.

He had taught the boy to ride and was pleased with the skills that were now second nature to him. Horse and rider belonged to each other.

Using his crutch, he moved across to Bristeva. They were in a field at the rear of the stables and the soft ground bore countless examples of Cempan’s signature. As he broke into a canter, the horse left even more clods in his wake.

‘Would you like to ride him?’ asked Edric.

‘No,’ said Bristeva. ‘He is too spirited for me. I am happy enough with my pony.’

‘Your brother is a fine horseman.’

‘Amalric will practise all day.’

‘The only way to improve, Bristeva,’ said the steward. ‘At his age, I was often in the saddle from dawn until dusk. There is no greater pleasure for a man.’

‘I prefer other delights.’

‘So your father has been telling me.’

Bristeva liked the steward but she could never be as close to him as Amalric. Her brother looked upon him as a favourite uncle and often forgot that Edric was not a member of the family. In some ways, he was closer to the steward than he was to his own father. Edric certainly spent more time with him than Ordgar was able or inclined to do.

There could never be the same bonding between Bristeva and Edric.

He was always polite to her but far more at ease in male company and a slight friction had crept into their relationship. It surfaced once again.

‘Why do you bother with this choir?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the circling horse. ‘It is a waste of your time.’

‘I like singing.’

‘Then sing at home so that we may all enjoy your voice.’

‘I only sing at the church.’

‘For the benefit of the garrison.’

‘Some of the townspeople come to hear us. Father Arnulf is always trying to invite more and more of them in.’

‘Who wants to venture into that castle?’

‘I do, Edric. They have been kind to me.’

‘Normans are never kind to us, Bristeva,’ he said with muted hostility.

‘The most they will do is condescend. That is what Arnulf the Chaplain is doing to you.’

‘No, he is not.’

‘I spoke to your father about it.’

‘About what?’

‘This church choir. I think he should stop you going.’

‘But I get so much pleasure out of it,’ she said with a vehemence that surprised even her. ‘Father Arnulf has been wonderful to me. He has taught me to appreciate music. He has turned me into a chorister.

Nobody bothers with me here but he has shown a real interest in me.’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Edric, turning to look at her, ‘but you are deceiving yourself, Bristeva. The chaplain is looking down his nose at you. Yes, he may have one or two Saxon children in this choir of his but not because he cares about you. To him, you are just performing bears hauled in to amuse the garrison.’

She was wounded. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’

‘I’m only trying to warn you.’

‘Father is glad that I’m in the church choir.’

‘We’ve had many arguments on that subject. I see it very differently from Ordgar. He, too, is being misled.’

‘Father Arnulf is my friend!’

‘Then I will say no more.’

Amalric came trotting up to them and brought the horse to a halt.

He looked at his sister’s flushed cheeks.

‘What ails you, Bristeva?’

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘We had an argument,’ confessed Edric. ‘It is over now.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘It does not matter,’ said Bristeva but her stomach was churning. ‘I will go back indoors.’

‘Wait!’ said Edric, wanting to appease her. ‘I am sorry I spoke out of turn. I had no right to do so.’ He took the horse’s reins. ‘Let me show you what Cempan can really do.’

Amalric dismounted and the steward handed him his crutch.

Grasping the pommel, Edric bounced on his foot then hauled himself into the saddle with remarkable ease. He disdained the stirrup and used his knees to control the horse. They set off across the field. It was no steady canter in a wide circle this time. Edric the Cripple was putting on an exhibition for them, zigzagging at a gallop and showing a control over Cempan that even Amalric could not match.

He brought the horse to a skidding halt then made it spin sharply on its heels three times before urging it on again. Cempan was soon racing once more and describing complex patterns in the field. The horse made so many sudden switches of direction that they felt giddy watching it.

Amalric was suffused with enthusiasm.

‘I will ride like that one day!’ he boasted. ‘Edric will teach me. I want to be as good as him. I know I can do it.’

‘Then you will be able to show off in the same way.’

‘That is horsemanship of a high order, Bristeva.’

‘Edric is making sure that we know it.’

He looked at her. ‘What did he say to you just now?’

‘I would rather forget it.’

‘Do not fob me off,’ he said. ‘I could see that he upset you. Edric speaks his mind. What did he say to offend you?’

‘He does not think I should be in the church choir.’

‘No more do I.’

‘Amalric!’

‘Why do their bidding at the castle?’

‘I enjoy singing.’

‘You are out of place there, Bristeva. They laugh at you.’

‘That is not so!’ she said hotly. ‘I am respected. Father Arnulf told me that I have improved beyond his expectations.’

‘I am at one with Edric on this. Leave the choir.’

‘Never! It is the most important thing in my life. I will never give it up. If you and Edric think it clever to ride a horse around a field, then go to it. I will not stand in your way. So please do not stop me doing what I want.’

‘I am entitled to an opinion.’

‘And I am just as entitled to ignore it, Amalric,’ she said with her eyes flashing. ‘The choir means much to me. I have been given an education at the castle far beyond anything I could have hoped for.

Father Arnulf now wants me to lead the choristers. That is a real honour. Think of it.’ Her face shone with pride. ‘I have been chosen to take over from Helene.’

Helene waited until the house was completely empty before slipping quietly upstairs again. It had been an effort to make conversation with the others and she was relieved to be on her own once more so that she could lose herself in her thoughts. She had already decided what she must do. When she got to the bedchamber, she locked the door then dragged the heavy wooden chest against it to barricade herself in. Then she closed the shutters and flicked the latch into place.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brooded endlessly in sombre silence. Weeks before, she had danced around the room and sung at the top of her voice but all that was in the past. There was no choir in her life any more. It could never be the same again. As memories crowded in upon her, she became more convinced that her decision was the correct one. There was no alternative. Helene was trapped.

She crossed to the chest and lifted the lid to examine her wardrobe.

Her brother was a reluctant guardian but not without impulses of generosity. As she sifted through the various garments in the chest, she saw how much he had spent on her to turn her into an elegant young woman. But the very apparel which was intended to enhance her had proved her downfall. In a fit of sudden anger, she grabbed a tunic and tore it into shreds before being seized by a burning regret at what she had just done and trying, pointlessly but with pathetic determination, to stick the strips of material back together again in order to recapture associations which she had so recklessly destroyed.

It was hopeless. She discarded the torn fragments and slammed the lid of the chest shut once more. Then she moved to the bed and knelt down to feel beneath the mattress. Her hand closed on a tiny stone jar. It was cold to the touch. Helene brought it out to examine it, rubbing it between her palms for several minutes before removing the stopper and holding it beneath her nostrils. It had no aroma.

She looked around the bedchamber for the last time. A tide of regret swept over her. Helene closed her eyes tight and lifted the bottle to her lips. She had bought it from an apothecary in Oxford, telling him that she needed a strong poison to kill vermin. The contents of the bottle were drained in a second and her tribulations were almost at an end.

They were all there. Milo Crispin sat in the front row and waited with unruffled patience. Wymarc was a more restive spectator, shifting about on his seat as if it were on fire and darting glances at every person who entered the hall. Ordgar was not invited but came along as an interested party nevertheless. Still fuming at the loss of his horse and still harbouring grudges against all three of the others, Bertrand Gamberell stood at the window to catch an early glimpse of the man who had first set his misery in motion. When he saw the prisoner being brought up from the dungeon, his hand went straight to his sword.

‘Take a seat, Bertrand,’ ordered a curt Robert d’Oilly. ‘And stay there throughout the proceedings. I am the judge here and you would do well to remember that.’

Gamberell schooled his rage and crossed to his seat. Milo, Wymarc and Gamberell were now in a straight line, separated by the knights who had watched the race at Woodstock and were thus additional witnesses. Ordgar sat alone at the rear of the hall, knowing that his evidence would never be sought. The fact that his horse had actually won the race was an embarrassing accident for his three rivals. They wanted a man to be convicted of the murder so that they could erase the memory of the fateful race from their minds.

The hall in the keep had been transformed into a courtroom. Robert d’Oilly sat behind the long table which had been turned sideways to face the witnesses. A scribe sat beside him to keep a record of the trial and the chaplain was next to the scribe, retained to act as an interpreter for the Saxon prisoner and looking distinctly uneasy with that role. Armed guards were on sentry duty at both doors. A room which had reverberated to the laughter of his guests on the previous night was now a chamber of death. The atmosphere was chill.

When the prisoner was brought in, he could barely stand. Swathed in bandages, Ebbi was dragged across to a stool to the right of the table and forced to sit. His hands were tied behind his back and he was patently in considerable distress. Temples pounding, Gamberell glared with hatred at the man. Wymarc, too, directed a blistering hostility at Ebbi. Milo was more detached from the whole thing and Ordgar, peering over their shoulders for a first proper look at the prisoner, felt a rush of sympathy for him. Guilty or not, the man would get short shrift from Robert d’Oilly. Ordgar had seen too many examples of Norman justice in Oxford to expect either fairness or clemency. Ebbi was doomed.

The sheriff banged a fist on the table to stifle the loud murmur which had started. With the funeral of the victim out of the way, he saw no reason to delay the trial. The sooner retribution was set in motion, the sooner he could shake Bertrand Gamberell from his back.

Robert d’Oilly believed that summary justice was a useful instrument.

It sent out a clear and unequivocal message that crime would be dealt with swiftly and savagely.

On the table in front of the sheriff was a copy of the Holy Bible but it induced no spirit of Christian charity in him. His voice boomed out with rasping authority.

‘This court has been convened to try a man for the foul murder of one Walter Payne, knight, cut down at Woodstock but two days ago.’

He paused while Arnulf translated for the benefit of the prisoner.

Then Robert d’Oilly surged on with his preamble.

‘The slave, Ebbi, from the manor of my lord Wymarc, stands accused of this crime. The law is clear. If anyone breaks the King’s peace, given by his hand or seal, so that he kills a man to whom the peace has been given, his limbs and life shall be in the King’s decision.’

His back straightened and his chest swelled. ‘I represent the King in this shire.’

The chaplain took more time to translate this time and there was no indication that Ebbi even heard what was being said. The sheriff signalled to one of his men.

‘Take the Bible to him so that he may take the oath.’

‘How can he when his wrists are tied, my lord sheriff?’ said Arnulf reasonably. ‘May I suggest that his bonds be loosened so that he may place a hand on the Bible?’

‘If it is held before him,’ snapped the other, ‘that will suffice. Explain to him the significance of the oath. God himself will be his witness here in this hall.’

Arnulf acted as an interpreter once more and Ebbi took the oath in a faltering voice. The Bible was replaced on the table and the sheriff consulted the document in front of him. He did not foresee a long trial. All the witnesses told the same story. He switched his gaze to Ebbi.

‘How does the prisoner plead?

But there was no time for the words to be translated by Arnulf the Chaplain. Voices were heard outside, then the door was flung open and Ralph Delchard burst in. Everyone watched in stunned silence as he took a moment to look around before striding purposefully across the hall. Ralph stationed himself beside the cowering prisoner and put a compassionate hand on his shoulder. He spoke with quiet certitude.

‘This man is innocent, my lord sheriff.’