The Stallions of Woodstock (Domesday Series Book 6) Page 6

  When they took their seats with their documents in front of them, the commissioners were an imposing trio. Resplendent in a white tunic and red mantle, Ralph sat between Maurice, ever the soldier, in his hauberk, and Gervase in the sober attire of a Chancery clerk. Keen to impress them, their scribe reached for his quill long before it was required.

  Ralph turned to the new and untried commissioner.

  ‘Are you ready for the first assault, Maurice?’ he said.

  ‘More than ready, Ralph. The case is crystal clear.’

  ‘We have not heard the disputants yet.’

  ‘I am surprised that we need to. My mind already inclines one way. This will be a very brief session, I think.’

  ‘Then you are wrong, my lord,’ said Gervase pleasantly. ‘The arguments are more finely balanced than they may appear at first. I'll wager that we reach no resolution today.’

  ‘Then the sooner we start, the better,’ decided Ralph.

  He gave a signal and one of the guards left the hall. When the man returned, he was accompanied by two witnesses of strikingly different appearance and character. Azelina, wife of Roger d'Ivry, was a tall, gracious Norman lady with a mature beauty which arrested every eye. She wore a blue gown over a white linen chemise. Coiled at the back, her hair was covered by a wimple. Her girdle was a long silken rope, wound around her narrow waist, with its tasselled ends hanging almost down to the hem of her gown. She moved with exquisite grace.

  Brother Timothy, by contrast, hobbled into the room as if his diminutive feet were tied together. The black cowl was tailored for a much larger monk and it made an already small man look absurdly tiny. Long sleeves hid his hands, his hem scraped the wooden floor and the thick folds obscured much of his chin and cheeks. When the commissioners took a closer look at him, they realised that the cowl might not, after all, be such a grave sartorial mistake, because Timothy had an ugliness that bordered on the grotesque.

  A huge, bulbous nose sat right in the middle of a pasty countenance that was apparently assembled from discarded features of a dozen other misshapen faces. Nothing seemed to fit. Any garment which hid even part of his grisly visage was performing a valuable service. Beside a woman of such elegance and comeliness, Brother Timothy looked plainly ridiculous.

  Ralph rose to his feet to welcome Azelina and to invite her to take a seat. While she lowered herself on to a cushion, Ralph suppressed the urge to stare in disbelief at Timothy and indicated that he, too, should be seated.

  ‘I am surprised to see you here in person, my lady,’ said Ralph, settling back into his own chair. ‘I thought perhaps you would send your steward to speak in your stead.’

  ‘I am well able to defend myself, my lord,’ she said.

  ‘We do not doubt it,’ observed Maurice with gallantry.

  ‘With my property under threat, I would not dream of sending a deputy to fight on my behalf. This is far too important a matter to be relegated to anyone else.’

  Her voice was soft and compelling, a musical instrument in itself. Ralph had to force himself to look across at the monk.

  ‘You, Brother Timothy, speak for the abbey of Westminster.’

  ‘That is so, my lord,’ said the other meekly.

  ‘Then we have a case of Church versus State on our hands.’

  After introducing himself and his colleagues, Ralph called upon Gervase to read out the relevant passage from the returns which had been sent to Winchester by the earlier team of commissioners who visited the county. Gervase first recited the information in its original Latin and gained an approving nod from Brother Timothy. Azelina was motionless.

  ‘“Land of Roger d'Ivry's Wife,”’ translated Gervase. ‘“Roger d'Ivry's wife holds 5 hides in Islip from the King. Three of these hides never paid tax. Land for 15 ploughs. Now in lordship 3 ploughs; 2 slaves. 10 villagers with 5 smallholders have 3 ploughs. A mill at 20 shillings; meadow, 30 acres; pasture, 3 furlongs long and 2 wide; woodland, 1 league long and 1½ leagues wide. The value was £7 before 1066; when acquired £8; now £10. Godwin and Alwin held it freely.”’ He glanced up at Azelina who was now listening carefully. ‘“Roger d'Ivry's wife also holds 3 hides and ½ a virgate of land in Oddington. She holds these two lands in commendation from the King.”’

  As soon as Gervase finished, Ralph turned to Azelina.

  ‘Have you anything to add, my lady?’ he asked.

  ‘The document enforces my right to that property,’ she said reasonably. ‘If anyone challenges that right, the burden of proof lies on them.’

  ‘Not so, my lady,’ argued Brother Timothy. ‘Our claim pre-dates yours and renders it invalid. That is why Abbot Gilbert has sent me here to present our case. There are aspects of this dispute which did not come to light during the visit of the first commissioners. What has just been read out to us was set down in error.’

  ‘No error, I do assure you,’ countered Azelina.

  ‘An honest one but no less troublesome for all that.’

  ‘The land was given to me, Brother Timothy.’

  ‘The returns make that clear,’ added Maurice helpfully.

  ‘With respect, my lord,’ said the little monk, ‘they do not. They merely perpetuate a grave mistake.’ He turned to Ralph. ‘Do I have your permission to proceed at length?’

  ‘State the case for the abbey,’ encouraged Ralph.

  ‘Then I will.’

  Brother Timothy cleared his throat and took control.

  ‘Islip is probably only a name on a document to you, my lords,’ he began, ‘and I feel that you should know something of its nature before you decide who rightly holds the land. It is a charming village. Islip straddles a hill that is undercut by the River Ray near its junction with the River Cherwell. The soldiers among you would appreciate its strategic value at once because, in floodtime, Islip Bridge is on the only dry route between north and south. In 1065, when the Northumbrians rebelled against Earl Tosti, they drove south across the bridge and caused hideous damage to Islip itself.’

  ‘God's tits!’ muttered Maurice, rolling his eyes upward. ‘Is there much more of this homily?’

  ‘But it has another special claim on our attention,’ continued Timothy, well into his stride. ‘Islip was the birthplace of King Edward of blessed memory and he was baptised in the font of the parish church there. As a gesture of kindness for which we are eternally grateful, the King gave the holding to his beloved foundation of St Peter's, Westminster, or, as it is now known, Westminster Abbey. There, in essence, is our claim. Islip came to us by royal decree and it is still legally and morally ours. Ten main reasons can be advanced in support of our claim.’

  Brother Timothy was a remarkable advocate. His mild manner gave way to a driving confidence and his unsightly features took on an animation that made them almost human. So cogent was his argument, so startling his control of language and so effortless the flow of his rhetoric that nobody else had an opportunity to speak for over an hour. Even the hitherto unsympathetic Maurice was forced to revalue the monk. In choosing Brother Timothy as his spokesman, Abbot Gilbert of Westminster had sent his most powerful weapon.

  Azelina was neither cowed nor distracted by the skilful performance of her rival. She spoke with great feeling about her love for Islip and about the honour she felt when it was granted to her by King William. Her arguments tended to be emotional as well as legal but they were no less effective for that. Maurice found himself nodding in agreement with her as she contradicted the abbey's claim. Along with Ralph and Gervase, he put a number of questions to Azelina and found her resolute in her answers.

  They were well into the afternoon before the two rivals finally paused to catch their breath. Maurice was impatient.

  ‘The debate is over,’ he said gratefully. ‘All we have to do now is to reach our verdict.’

  ‘There is no chance of that yet,’ Ralph pointed out.

  ‘Is there not?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘We have only watched the opening skir
mish. The battle will not be properly joined until we have viewed all the documentary evidence from both sides.’

  Maurice gasped. ‘Documentary evidence?’

  ‘I have brought a deposition from Abbot Gilbert himself,’ said Timothy, patting the satchel beside him, ‘and a collection of charters from our archives. They need the most careful perusal by you.’

  ‘I, too, have royal charters to present,’ said Azelina, not to be outdone. ‘My steward has them. He stands without.’

  ‘Then we will be pleased to have them along with the documents from the abbey,’ said Ralph, on his feet again. ‘All will receive our close attention before we can proceed. That being the case, I thank you both for appearing before us and adjourn this session until the same time tomorrow morning.’

  Gervase escorted Azelina out of the hall while Brother Columbanus relieved Timothy of his satchel. Several hours of work remained for the commissioners. Maurice was dejected.

  ‘Will every case be as interminable as this?’ he moaned.

  ‘No,’ said Ralph with a grin. ‘Most will be much longer.’

  ‘This is Purgatory!’

  ‘I thought we had a profitable day in here, Maurice.’

  ‘Listening to that mad monk preaching a sermon?’

  ‘He marshalled his argument well.’

  ‘Yet Islip patently belongs to the lady Azelina.’

  ‘That is a matter of opinion,’ said Ralph, moving away, ‘and I have no time to discuss mine with you now. I want to make best use of the light while I can. It is a tidy ride.’

  ‘Ride?’

  ‘To Woodstock.’

  Chapter Four

  It was late afternoon before Arnulf the Chaplain was able to fulfil the promise he had given to Golde the previous night. They met at the castle gates.

  ‘I am sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It must have been very tedious for you to be cooped up here all day without amusement or female companionship.’

  ‘It was rather dull,’ she admitted, ‘but I cheered myself with thoughts of this walk through Oxford with you.’

  ‘What would you like to see, my lady?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Then let us begin.’

  He led her out of the castle then swung right towards the centre of the town. Golde felt an immediate sense of release. All that she had learned about Robert d'Oilly made her want to keep well away from him and she could, in any case, never be entirely comfortable in a Norman garrison. Pungent smells from assorted trades wafted into her nostrils but it was still refreshing for her to be mingling with the ordinary citizens in the street even if her fashionable apparel set her apart from the Saxon womenfolk and induced some hostile glances.

  Oxford was a loud, lusty, bustling town with a population of over three and a half thousand, enlarged by those who streamed in from the outlying areas to its thriving market. Dogs barked, children cried, horses whinnied and carts rolled to add to the general pandemonium. Arnulf had to raise his voice to be heard above the din of a blacksmith's hammer and anvil.

  ‘What do you think of Oxford?’ he asked.

  ‘It is much bigger than I expected,’ said Golde. ‘It makes my own home town seem very small.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Hereford.’

  ‘How many inhabitants do you have?’

  ‘Barely a thousand.’

  ‘Only London, Winchester and York are substantially larger than us,’ he said with evident pride, ‘and we think that Oxford is prettier than all three. I was born and brought up in Falaise myself but I have been here long enough to take the town to my heart. In time, I trust, we will come to blend in more harmoniously.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Look around you, my lady. Most of these people still view us as an army of occupation rather than as a source of protection for the whole community. After all these years, they have the same suspicion and resentment. That is why I have tried so hard to reach outside the castle walls to the local people.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Visiting them, talking to them, helping them with their problems, showing fellowship, even nursing them through injury and illness on occasion, for I have some skill as a doctor. In short, my lady, doing exactly what a parish priest should be doing for his flock. Then, of course, there is the church choir.’

  ‘Choir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, face aglow, ‘it is a labour of love. Choral singing is the true perfection of Christian worship. I have devoted much time and effort to it. And since the garrison can hardly provide me with my choristers, I have come out in search of them.’

  ‘Boys from the town?’

  ‘Boys and girls, my lady. The female voice is every bit as beautiful as that of the young male. I had to endure much criticism when I first introduced girls as choristers but they have won over all but the most narrow-minded.’

  ‘A mixed choir,’ said Golde, excited by the notion. ‘I wish I had been able to sing in church when I was a girl. I would have adored it. But it was not considered proper in Hereford.’

  ‘Some of my young ladies sing like angels.’

  She was drawn to him even more. Arnulf was a considerate man with natural charm. His easy companionship was the perfect antidote to her poisonous memories of Robert d'Oilly. The chaplain was the human face of Oxford Castle.

  When they reached the crossroads, he guided her down the hill towards Grandpont, the stone bridge over which she had ridden on her arrival. Initiated by the sheriff, it was a solid structure which spanned the river at a critical point and provided a vital link with southern England. Traffic was crossing the bridge in both directions. Golde admired the work of the stonemasons then lent over the parapet to watch the rippling waters of the Thames. A rowing boat went past beneath her. Fishermen were walking along the bank. Birds abounded.

  ‘A pretty place, indeed,’ she remarked.

  ‘And peaceful now, thank heaven! Oxford has had more than its share of bloodshed and suffering. All that is past.’

  They went back up the hill and turned into the straggling High Street which ran eastwards down the slope. The crowd had thickened even more now and they had to dodge the jostling elbows with the same adroitness they showed in stepping over the occasional piles of refuse or excrement. Arnulf pointed out all the buildings of interest, especially the churches, but Golde was curious about those which were no longer there. Down each street and lane, she caught a glimpse of derelict houses and empty shops.

  ‘Why are so many houses in decay?’ she wondered.

  ‘The scars of war, alas!’

  ‘Here are some more,’ she noted as they passed a row of five abandoned dwellings in the High Street. ‘Did nobody think to rebuild these homes?’

  ‘It takes time, my lady,’ said Arnulf sadly. ‘But your husband will be in the best position to tell the full extent of the spoliation here.’

  ‘My husband?’

  ‘Written in the Domesday Book, as it has come to be known, are the sorry details of the town's plight. There are almost a thousand houses in Oxford but you can see for yourself that a sizeable number are in such poor condition that no taxes can be levied upon them.’

  ‘Were they in this state when Robert d'Oilly first came?’

  ‘I was not myself here then,’ he said evasively.

  ‘Was he not responsible for some of this destruction?’

  Arnulf became defensive. ‘My lord sheriff has done a great deal for Oxford. He built the castle, constructed Grandpont and set in motion a number of other important projects.’

  ‘Yet he allows these ruins to disfigure the town. What happened to all the people who once lived in these houses?’

  ‘They moved out.’

  ‘Or died in their homes,’ she concluded.

  Golde was in a more solemn mood as they headed towards the church of St Peter's-in-the-East. Oxford had clearly suffered greatly. The chaplain sought to rekindle her good humour.

  ‘You
r husband is a remarkable man,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Ralph is quite unique.’

  ‘How did you first meet?’

  ‘In the course of his visit to Hereford. He came to the town with the other commissioners to investigate some abuses that had come to light. Our paths crossed.’

  ‘A fortunate encounter. You are well matched.’

  Golde smiled. ‘It did not seem so at first. I found him arrogant and uncaring beyond measure.’

  ‘And now, my lady?’

  The smile broadened out into an unashamed grin.

  ‘I am married to the finest man in the world.’

  Ralph Delchard enjoyed the ride to Woodstock. He and his two knights covered the seven miles at a steady pace, moving through open countryside that was dotted with small herds of sheep or cows. Men toiled in fields or tended animals or worked in watermills. Laden with salt, a cart trundled past them on its way to Oxford. After the mouldy atmosphere of the shire hall, Ralph found the keen air bracing.

  When they were close to their destination, they left the road to cut across the fields and were soon accosted by four armed knights from Wymarc's retinue, demanding to know why they were trespassing on private property. Ralph introduced himself and told them that he was staying with Robert d'Oilly in Oxford Castle. The sheriff's name was a ready passport and the men became more amenable. At Ralph's suggestion, one of them went to summon his master from his nearby manor house while the others obligingly conducted the strangers to the edge of the forest where the race had taken place.

  Seizing on the unexpected opportunity to ingratiate himself with one of the commissioners, Wymarc spurred his horse into a gallop. Ralph Delchard would preside over the property dispute in which Wymarc was involved and the latter was keen to gain any advantage over his rivals. He never stopped for a moment to question Ralph's motives for wanting to examine the scene of the crime. When he greeted his visitor, his manner verged on the obsequious.