The Stallions of Woodstock Read online

  Columbanus had lost much of his erstwhile liveliness. His head was bowed, his shoulders sagged and his confidence had been badly sapped. His manner was almost tentative now.

  ‘Gervase,’ he whispered, ‘I sincerely hope that this will not rob me of your friendship.’

  ‘There is no chance of that.’

  ‘I value it highly. I would hate to lose your respect.’

  ‘Have no fear on that score, Brother Columbanus.’

  ‘You have my firm promise that I will endeavour to make amends for my conduct in the hall last night. You and your colleagues will have no further cause for complaint.’

  ‘We have none now,’ Gervase reassured him. ‘You are being far too hard on yourself. Put the whole matter behind you.’

  ‘That is what I will strive to do.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And you will not mention this incident to Canon Hubert?’

  ‘I would not dream of it.’

  Columbanus brightened. ‘A thousand thanks, Gervase. I knew that you would show compassion. I said as much to Arnulf. You have lifted a huge weight from me. I am ever in your debt.’

  After another burst of apologies, he excused himself and set off across the bailey. There was far more colour in his cheeks now and something of the old spring in his stride. Gervase was glad to observe these early signs of recovery. Contrition had taken all the ebullience out of Columbanus and crushed his spirit. Gervase preferred the animated companion of the previous two days.

  He was just about to go into the church when a familiar voice hailed him. Gervase turned to see Arnulf the Chaplain sailing towards him. They exchanged a warm greeting.

  ‘Did you sleep well, my friend?’ asked Arnulf.

  ‘Very soundly.’

  ‘And your fellows?’

  ‘They seemed well rested when we shared breakfast.’

  ‘Brother Columbanus had a more troubled night.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘I saw nothing in his behaviour to condemn,’ said the chaplain with a wry smile, ‘but he seems to feel that he committed seven deadly sins and danced naked with the devil. He was terrified that he would be given a sharp reprimand.’

  ‘I put his mind at rest about that,’ said Gervase. ‘But I was hoping to see you before we left for the shire hall. I wanted to find out more about the prisoner.’

  ‘Then you could not have come at a better time.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I have just visited him in his dungeon.’

  ‘Ebbi?’

  ‘He asked to see the priest from his parish church but my lord sheriff denied that request. Ebbi had to make do with me instead. My command of his language is uncertain but we did manage to have a conversation of sorts.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘What anyone in his predicament wants, Gervase. Help. Kindness. Reassurance. Even a glimmer of hope.’

  ‘Were you able to give him that hope?’

  ‘Alas, no. His prospects are grim. He knows that.’

  ‘Only if he was guilty of the murder.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arnulf uneasily. ‘Only then.’

  ‘And that guilt has yet to be proved. From what you told me about this Ebbi, he seems an unlikely assassin. Was that the impression you formed when you spoke to him?’

  ‘I did not discuss his crime with him.’

  ‘His alleged crime,’ corrected Gervase.

  ‘Ebbi neither confessed his guilt nor pleaded innocence. And even if he had, I would not be at liberty to reveal to you what he said. He called for a priest for a particular reason.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘To ask a favour,’ said the other softly. ‘In the event of his being convicted – and he is fitting his mind to that dreadful probability – he begged me to carry a message to his family and friends. I could not refuse such an entreaty.’

  ‘He must be in despair.’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’

  ‘Old before his time, Gervase. Tired, scrawny, ragged.’

  ‘Yet capable of this murder?’

  ‘That is not for me to say.’

  ‘Where does Ebbi dwell?’

  ‘Close by the forest of Woodstock.’

  ‘Who owns that land?’

  ‘My lord Wymarc.’

  ‘Has Ebbi fallen foul of the law before?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Did you learn nothing of his past history?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Arnulf with a shrug. ‘It was a very short conversation. I have told you all that passed between us.’

  Gervase studied him carefully. He could not decide if the chaplain was being totally honest or politely obstructive. Arnulf met his gaze without flinching.

  ‘It is my turn to ask a favour,’ said Gervase.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘If you visit Ebbi again, take me with you.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I am curious to meet him.’

  Arnulf stiffened. ‘He is not a wild animal to be peered at through the bars of his cage. Curiosity is an insufficient excuse, my friend.’

  ‘My interest goes well beyond that. May I come?’

  ‘Only my lord sheriff could sanction such a visit.’

  ‘Will you speak to him on my behalf?’

  Arnulf took a long time to consider the request.

  ‘If you wish,’ he agreed at length, ‘but he is bound to question your motives.’

  ‘Tell him that I wish to help his chaplain.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gervase. ‘You had difficulty holding a proper conversation with Ebbi. I would not. My mother was a Saxon and I am fluent in the language. Ebbi will be able to speak more freely to you through me. That is what you can tell my lord sheriff. You need my assistance.’ He flicked a glance towards the dungeons. ‘Gervase Bret is your interpreter.’

  Robert d'Oilly was giving instructions to his steward when Ralph Delchard came down the staircase in the keep. The sheriff dismissed his man at once and gave the newcomer a guarded smile of welcome.

  ‘Well met!’ he said with false affability. ‘I am sorry to have been such an indifferent host thus far but you came upon us at a particularly awkward time.’

  ‘So I observed.’

  ‘A murder was committed at Woodstock yesterday.’

  ‘We have heard the bare facts of the case.’

  ‘A miserable slave had the sheer audacity to kill one of Bertrand Gamberell's men. A verminous Saxon killing a Norman knight. That makes the crime doubly heinous.’

  ‘If the prisoner is indeed guilty,’ noted Ralph.

  ‘There is no doubt of that.’

  ‘He has confessed?’

  ‘Confession was not needed,’ said d'Oilly irritably. ‘He was found hiding close by the scene of the crime with a weapon about him identical to that used in the murder.’

  ‘Identical, my lord sheriff? Or similar?’

  ‘It amounts to the same thing.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you examined the two daggers side by side?’

  The sheriff bridled. ‘Who is in charge of this inquiry?’ he snarled. ‘You or me?’

  ‘You, of course.’

  ‘Then I will thank you to let me get on with it. I need no prompting from you or from any other man. I speak for the King in Oxford. You would do well to remember that.’

  ‘I am sure that I will have little opportunity to forget.’

  The tart rejoinder made his host redden with anger. Ralph was a sturdy man but Robert d'Oilly towered over him. Their eyes engaged in a brief battle of wills and Ralph did not cede an inch of ground under the other's intimidating glare. The sheriff eventually calmed and tried to dispel the tension with a throaty chuckle.

  ‘A host should not be arguing with his guest,’ he said.

  ‘I take my share of the blame.’

  ‘Let us s
tart afresh, shall we not? As true friends.’

  ‘We are honoured by your hospitality, my lord sheriff.’

  ‘I am delighted to offer it to you. The reputation of Ralph Delchard is not unknown here. It has gone before you. I have heard how sedulous you have been in your high office.’

  ‘It is onerous work at times but someone has to do it.’

  ‘The King chose well when he selected you.’

  Ralph wondered why there was such a sudden change in his manner. A man who could move so swiftly from antagonism to flattery was not to be trusted. Something lay behind the surface bonhomie and Ralph soon learned what it was.

  ‘I believe that you sit in session today,’ said d'Oilly.

  ‘That is true. I am on my way to the shire hall now.’

  ‘You will no doubt be an upright judge.’

  ‘We view each case on its individual merits.’

  ‘That is as it should be,’ said the other, moving closer. ‘Justice must be paramount. I am sure you will apply that principle when the dispute concerning Islip comes before you this morning.’

  ‘How do you know that it will be considered today?’

  ‘Little of importance escapes my notice in Oxford.’

  Ralph sensed what was coming. He realised that it was no chance encounter. Robert d'Oilly had been deliberately waiting to intercept him. A request was in the offing.

  ‘Lady Azelina has the prior claim on that property,’ said the sheriff airily. ‘I can save you and your colleagues a lot of time and trouble here by giving my personal endorsement to her cause. If you wish, you may summon me as a witness on her behalf but I trust that this private word between us will carry enough weight in itself.’

  ‘Any decisions we reach will be made in the privacy of the shire hall,’ affirmed Ralph, ‘and we have no reason to summon you to give evidence, my lord sheriff.’

  ‘You know my mind,’ said the other meaningfully.

  ‘I hope you are not seeking to apply undue influence.’

  ‘Advice is all that I have offered.’

  ‘Then let me give you some in return,’ said Ralph with a steely grin. ‘We must be impartial at all times. The only reason we accepted your hospitality was that you are not involved in any of the disputes we have come to settle. It would have been quite improper for us to stay under the roof of Milo Crispin or Bertrand Gamberell or the lady Azelina or anyone else listed for examination. You appreciate that?’

  ‘Of course,’ grunted d'Oilly.

  ‘It would have laid us open to charges of favouritism.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘Then my advice is this. Refrain from giving any more yourself, my lord sheriff. If I thought you were trying to affect our decision in any way, I would quit the castle with the other commissioners and seek out a lodging in the town. Is that what you wish us to do?’

  Robert d'Oilly accorded him a grudging smile.

  ‘I wish you to carry out your duties unimpeded,’ he said. ‘I am sorry that you choose to misunderstand me. Just bear in mind that I will still be here when you leave the shire. I will have to live with the consequences of your judgements.’

  ‘Do I hear a threat in that remark?’

  The sheriff gave an elaborate shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘What could I hope to gain by threatening Ralph Delchard?’

  The question hung in the air between them.

  When Ordgar returned to his house, his son was grooming the chestnut colt outside the stable. The horse's coat shone in the morning sunshine. Amalric began to comb his mane with meticulous care. As he heard the approach of footsteps, he broke off and turned to see his father.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he asked with concern.

  ‘Wallingford.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘He refused to see me until this morning.’

  ‘Refused!’ Amalric smarted at the insult. ‘Milo Crispin kept you waiting that long? Did you not protest?’

  ‘Several times,’ said Ordgar. ‘And with vehemence. But all to no avail. And so I refused to leave the castle until I had talked to him. My lord Milo owes me some respect. I was not going to be shrugged off by him.’

  ‘You should have taken me with you. I would have hammered on his door until he consented to speak to us.’

  ‘That would only have annoyed him even more.’

  ‘But we have right on our side, father.’

  ‘It is not enough, Amalric.’

  Ordgar lowered himself down on to the edge of the stone water trough. The ride from Wallingford had taxed his already depleted strength and the sad tidings he bore weighed heavily upon him. Amalric, on the other hand, was young, alert and bursting with energy. Ordgar thought wistfully of a time when he had had his son's zest. The old man also had rank, property and influence in the shire in those days. So much had changed for the worse in the intervening years.

  ‘Did you get the purse?’ asked Amalric.

  ‘No, son.’

  ‘But it was ours. I won that race.’

  ‘It has been declared void.’

  ‘They cannot do this to us!’

  ‘They can, Amalric.’

  ‘It is sheer spite!’ fumed the other. ‘They are peeved because we beat the very best of their Norman horses.’

  ‘All except Hyperion.’

  ‘Had he stayed in the race, I'd have beaten him as well.’

  ‘But he did not, Amalric, and that alters everything. It was not a fair race, they say, so the purse will not be awarded.’

  ‘Did you not at least reclaim our share of it?’

  ‘I tried,’ said Ordgar with a sigh. ‘I tried.’

  ‘Then where is it?’

  ‘My lord Milo would not yield it up.’

  ‘But that money came from many hands. They expect it back. Our friends supported us. Are we to tell them that we won the race but lost their stake?’

  ‘We have harsher news than that to pass on.’

  Amalric started. ‘Harsher, you say?’

  ‘I fear so,’ said the old man, shuddering at the memory of his ill- fated visit to Wallingford Castle. ‘I was wrong to press my lord Milo so soon after the event. I should have let time elapse. He might not have been so vindictive then.’

  ‘What did he say? What has he done?’

  ‘Held on to the purse until the race is run again with a new rider in Hyperion's saddle.’

  ‘This news is not so harsh,’ said Amalric confidently. ‘It gives us a second chance to win what is already rightly ours. Let me race again. We will beat Hyperion and any other horse they care to set against us.’ He patted the colt's neck with a proud hand. ‘Cempan is a match for anyone. When I am riding him, there is no way that we can lose.’

  ‘But you will not be riding him in the race.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Milo Crispin wishes to buy Cempan from us.’

  Amalric was stunned. ‘Buy him?’ he echoed. ‘Buy Cempan?’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘He is ours. We will never part with him.’

  ‘We may be forced to, Amalric.’

  ‘I'd sooner destroy the colt than sell him. Whatever price we are offered, we will turn it down. Cempan belongs to us.’ He saw the pain in his father's eyes. ‘You surely did not agree to this sale? That would be a betrayal.’

  ‘I betrayed nobody,’ said Ordgar with a flash of defiance. ‘When I left Wallingford, I refused to take the money that was offered in exchange for Cempan. That was the worst outrage of all. Do you know what my lord Milo offered to pay? Nothing!’ He spat contemptuously on the ground. ‘Nothing, Amalric!’

  ‘But you talked of refusing money.’

  ‘That was only our wager in the race. Milo Crispin wishes to buy Cempan from us with money that is already our own. We would be letting him have the colt free.’

  ‘He is robbing us!’

  ‘That is why I stormed out of the castle.’

  ‘He will not touch Cempan,’ vowed Amalric,
putting a protective arm around the animal's neck. ‘Whatever happens, he will not steal our horse. Milo Crispin and his men will have to get past me first.’

  ‘That is not the answer,’ said a forlorn Ordgar. ‘They are many, we are few. They have force on their side. We will have to find another solution.’ He clutched at a last straw. ‘Let us wait until Edric returns. He will know what to do. We must ask for Edric's help. He will be back any day now.’

  Amalric was about to agree when a voice interrupted them.

  ‘Father!’

  Holding up the hem of her kirtle, the girl came bounding across to him from the house. Bristeva was only fifteen but she had the shapely figure of a woman allied to the bloom of youth. Long, lustrous, flaxen hair trailed down her back. Ordgar rose to take his daughter into a warm embrace.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked, tears in her eyes.

  ‘To Wallingford.’

  ‘We have been worried sick about you.’

  ‘I am safely back home now, Bristeva.’

  ‘Thank God! I did not sleep at all last night. I was afraid that something dreadful must have happened to you.’

  Ordgar pulled her closer and stroked her hair.

  ‘It did,’ he whispered to himself.

  Whatever reservations he might have about their host, Ralph Delchard had none about the town reeve. The man had acted with commendable efficiency. Warned in advance by letters of their arrival and their particular needs, the reeve had everything in readiness for them at the appointed time. The shire hall had been swept clean and four chairs had been set behind a table at one end of the room. Benches had been arranged in front of the table. There were even cushions on the front bench.

  A pitcher of water and four cups awaited the commissioners as they trooped into the hall. A flagon of wine and a jug of beer had also been provided for their refreshment. Maurice Pagnal was especially pleased to see the wine but Brother Columbanus was dismayed by the sight of the beer. Gervase Bret moved it well away from him. The monk poured water into his cup and drained it at a gulp. His spirits revived.

  The shire hall was a nondescript room with a low ceiling held up by thick beams and only limited natural light coming in through the windows, but it was more than adequate for their purposes. Even the musty atmosphere did not irritate them. Four soldiers stood at the rear of the hall and another four were on sentry duty outside.