The Stallions of Woodstock Page 8

  Edric listened in stony silence. He heard much which distressed him but little which actually surprised him. He scratched at a straggly beard before making any observation.

  ‘There is one consolation,’ he said at length.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Ordgar.

  ‘Cempan won the race. Our belief in the colt was not misplaced. He was obviously the best horse on the day.’

  ‘And I was the best rider,’ reminded Amalric.

  ‘Indeed you were. But your success was your undoing. Milo Crispin has seen that this famous Hyperion can actually be beaten. That matters a great deal to him.’

  ‘I know!’ said Ordgar ruefully.

  ‘He wants Cempan for his own stable.’

  ‘Never!’ insisted Amalric. ‘We will not part with him.’

  ‘Suppose my lord Milo comes to take him?’ asked his father. ‘He will bring a troop of men to enforce his purpose. What then?’ He turned to Edric. ‘What then, old friend?’

  Edric the Cripple hobbled to the water trough and perched on the edge of it. He thought long and hard. Unable to see the steward from her hiding place, Bristeva wondered what was going on. She mastered the urge to burst in on the discussion and claim her right to offer an opinion. More could be learned by staying where she was and listening.

  ‘Well, Edric?’ prompted Ordgar. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we have one less Norman knight in Woodstock and that is a certain gain. Whoever killed the man is our benefactor.’ He scratched his beard again. ‘Unfortunately, he also landed us with a worrying possibility. The loss of Cempan. Stolen from us by Milo Crispin.’

  ‘Is there no remedy?’ said Amalric.

  ‘I spy only one.’ He turned to Ordgar. ‘Has the time for the next race been set?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then we must delay it as long as possible.’

  ‘Delay it?’

  ‘Until the race is run, they will not need Cempan. We may be able to hold on to our colt a little longer.’

  ‘But my lord Milo wants another contest soon.’

  ‘So will Bertrand Gamberell,’ said Amalric. ‘His pride has been sorely wounded. He cursed me for winning a race that he thought belonged to Hyperion. He will want revenge.’

  ‘In another race.’

  ‘Yes, Edric.’

  ‘Then there is our remedy.’

  ‘Delay the race?’

  ‘Make sure that it never happens.’

  Ordgar and Amalric were completely baffled. They looked across at Cempan, grazing in the nearby field, then turned to look at each other. Both shook their heads in puzzlement. When they faced Edric again, they saw him chuckling to himself.

  ‘Stop the race altogether?’ asked Ordgar.

  ‘That is my advice.’

  ‘But how do we do that, Edric?’

  The steward hoisted himself back up on his crutch.

  ‘Leave it to me.’

  Chapter Five

  As soon as she returned that evening, the whole atmosphere at the castle underwent a subtle change. Edith, wife to Robert d'Oilly, was a rather plump woman with a fading beauty but she was treated with the utmost respect by the whole garrison. The guards greeted her with a polite wave, the soldiers in the bailey cut short their crude banter, the ostlers ran to take charge of the horses from the little cavalcade and the servants in the keep, from the humblest to the most exalted, went about their chores with a new zest. With Edith in residence, the castle was a different place.

  But the most striking alteration was in Robert d'Oilly himself. A warmth came into his manner and the visitors noted a first spontaneous smile. Affectionate to his wife, he showed far more courtesy to his guests and invited them to feast in the hall with him that night. It was not a lavish occasion but Ralph and the others did not mind. They were delighted to be able to meet Edith and to watch the effect she had on those around her. The cooks excelled themselves under her direction and the meal was served with more alacrity. Seated beside his wife at the head of the long oak table, Robert at last began to remember the duties of a host. A convivial spirit soon spread throughout the hall.

  Ralph could not resist baiting Brother Columbanus.

  ‘Drink your fill,’ he teased, pointing to the jugs of ale.

  ‘I am content with water, my lord,’ said the monk.

  ‘There is water enough in ale. Sample it.’

  ‘Do not tempt me.’

  ‘Last night, you needed no temptation,’ Ralph reminded him. ‘You quaffed your ale so heartily that I thought you might burst asunder. Doff the cowl and drink until dawn. That seemed to be your rubric. Yet tonight you are telling Satan to get behind thee.’ He gave the other a playful nudge. ‘Drink, man. We will not tell on you. Have all the ale you wish.’

  ‘Do not lead the poor man astray,’ said a jocular Maurice Pagnal, raising his cup. ‘You should not be thrusting ale at him. Introduce him to the taste of good French wine instead.’

  Columbanus wore a brave smile but shifted uneasily on the bench. He was grateful when the conversation moved away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could still see the jug of ale and it exercised a strange fascination for him, at once attracting and repelling him, awaking a deep thirst yet frightening him with its inherent danger. The water began to taste increasingly sour upon his tongue.

  Golde had no qualms about drinking the ale and she savoured its quality. Like most of those around the table, Edith sipped a cup of wine and she was intrigued by Golde's preference.

  ‘Have you always had a liking for ale?’ she asked.

  ‘I had no choice in the matter, my lady,’ said Golde. ‘My first husband was a brewer and I was perforce apprenticed to the trade. When he died, I carried on after him and brewed ale for Hereford Castle until the day I left the town.’

  ‘Have you taught Ralph to enjoy English ale?’

  ‘Not yet, but I live in hope.’

  ‘Robert will not touch it while there is wine to be had.’

  ‘Both serve their purpose.’

  ‘We can all see that,’ observed Edith with a smile as Robert, Maurice and Ralph burst into laughter at a shared joke. ‘I am so glad that you decided to accompany your husband on this visit, Golde. I will make it as enjoyable for you as I may. Rely on that promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Golde had an immediate affinity with her. Like her, Edith was the daughter of a Saxon thegn who had lost his eminence and his property after the Conquest. Both had married Norman barons and learned to adjust to the new dispensation. It was a luxury for Golde to be able to talk in her own language to a woman of such rank.

  ‘My father was Wigot of Wallingford,’ said Edith with a wistful expression. ‘Kinsman and butler to King Edward. I was born and raised in Wallingford.’

  ‘We passed close by it on our journey.’

  ‘An important town, Golde, even more so in those days. King Edward held some land there with a garrison of housecarls to protect it. My father talked so fondly of those days.’

  ‘Everything has changed since then,’ said Golde soulfully. ‘In your life, as in mine. But those changes have not all been for the worse,’ she added with a fond glance at Ralph. ‘I have found a happiness that I never dared to imagine.’

  ‘It is so with me. Robert has been a good husband.’

  Golde found it difficult to believe. She could not understand how such a kindly and mild-mannered woman could bear to live with such a brutish man as Robert d'Oilly. Their host was genial enough now but Golde could not forget his treatment of the prisoner who festered in the dungeon. Nor could she shake from her mind the image of so many ravaged houses in the town over which the sheriff held sway. Oxford was an attractive place which had been ruthlessly pillaged. Golde suspected that she was sitting at the same table as its leading persecutor.

  ‘Would you like to return to Herefordshire?’ said Edith.

  ‘I have done so a number of times,’ replied Golde. �
�My sister, Aelgar, is still there and I have many old friends to see as well.’

  ‘I wondered if you would prefer to live there yourself.’

  ‘There is no question of that. Ralph's estates are in Hampshire and it is a most pleasant county in which to dwell. In truth, I am relieved to have left Hereford. When I lived there, I was constantly reminded of all that had been lost of my father's manors. It must be so with you, my lady.’

  ‘In some sort.’

  ‘You live within an easy ride of Wallingford. Twenty years ago, your father was a man of great consequence. Now his lands have been completely forfeited.’

  ‘That is not quite true, Golde.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘There are other ways to preserve an influence.’

  ‘I do not follow.’

  ‘The bonds of marriage,’ said Edith with a gentle smile. ‘Manors which formerly belonged to my dear father, Wigot of Wallingford, are now in the hands of Milo Crispin.’

  ‘Is that not a cause for regret?’

  ‘It was, Golde. Until Milo married my daughter.’

  The two women remained in earnest discussion while Robert d'Oilly lapsed into soldierly reminiscences with Ralph and Maurice. Gervase Bret noted the way in which the feast had fragmented into three different conversations. He himself was seated between Arnulf and Brother Columbanus. The jug of ale was exercising a firm hold on the monk's attention.

  Gervase swallowed a mouthful of grilled quail and turned to the chaplain.

  ‘Golde tells me that you showed her the sights of Oxford.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Arnulf. ‘She is a delightful companion and it was a joy to be her guide.’

  ‘Where did you take her?’

  ‘Almost everywhere. Her curiosity was insatiable.’

  ‘She told me how much she enjoyed meeting the canons of St Frideswide's. From our point of view as commissioners, it is a privileged community. Land held by St Frideswide's is exempt from tax. It does not belong to any hundred.’

  ‘The canons are duly grateful.’ He looked beyond Gervase to Columbanus. ‘But I marvel that you did not choose to stay with them rather than with us. You might have found a softer lodging there than at the castle.’

  ‘I am happy enough here,’ said the monk.

  ‘You would be more than welcome at St Frideswide's.’

  ‘I will pay my respects there at some point.’

  ‘Brother Simon would certainly have stayed with the canons while he was in Oxford,’ said Gervase. ‘He had but little tolerance of lay company.’

  Columbanus grinned. ‘I have a more forgiving nature.’

  ‘It becomes you.’

  The monk's eye twinkled and he seemed to be emerging from his repentance. He allowed a passing servant to pour him a first cup of ale and sipped it with only the merest trace of the guilt which had afflicted him earlier.

  ‘Golde told me about your choir,’ said Gervase to the chaplain. ‘Is it true that you have female choristers?’

  ‘One or two. I hope to recruit more.’

  ‘From the town?’

  ‘From Oxford and beyond,’ said Arnulf. ‘The best girl we had came from Woodstock. As pure a voice as any I have heard. Her talent was so remarkable that it was not confined to a church service. She sang in this hall at banquets for the delight of the guests.’ He gave a sigh of regret. ‘It was a pity to lose her.’

  ‘Why did that happen?’

  ‘To be honest, I am not quite sure, Gervase. I spent hours training her voice. Helene could not have been a more apt pupil. Then, one day, she told me that she was losing interest and wished to withdraw.’ A deeper sigh. ‘I could not force her to remain with the choir.’

  ‘Did she say why her interest was waning?’

  ‘No. And I believe that it was merely an excuse.’

  ‘What was her real reason for leaving?’

  ‘My guess is that it had more to do with her elder brother than with Helene herself. She lives in his house and must do his bidding. He was never happy about her being in the choir in the first place and Helene had many disagreements with him.’

  ‘Could you not argue with him on her behalf?’

  ‘I did so repeatedly, Gervase.’

  ‘But without success.’

  ‘Helene was taken away. Her voice can delight us no more.’

  ‘It seems like an act of wilful cruelty.’

  ‘Her brother, alas, does have a cruel streak.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘My lord Wymarc.’

  Helene sat in the window of her bedchamber and stared sorrowfully out at the garden below. Birds were heralding a fine morning with full-throated relish and the sun was already burnishing the trees and the grass. The sky was cloudless and the wind a mere whisper. A squirrel darted up the trunk of a beech tree. A frog explored the slime at the edge of the pond. Insects were buzzing with early frenzy. A gardener was ambling through the bushes.

  Helene drew no pleasure from the tranquil scene. Its quiet beauty only served to sadden her even more. She was a tall, pale, willowy girl of fourteen with nothing of her brother's ugliness or obesity. Her features were pleasant rather than handsome and there was a childlike awkwardness about the way she held herself. Still in her night attire, she ran a comb absent-mindedly through her long, black hair and let her eyes wander aimlessly around the garden.

  A loud knock on her door brought her out of her reverie.

  ‘Helene?’ called a voice.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You have eaten no breakfast this morning.’

  ‘I am not hungry.’

  ‘You said that yesterday. Are you unwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sickening for something?’

  There was no sympathy in her brother's enquiry. Wymarc did not have a close relationship with his younger sister. Since the death of their parents, the girl had been withdrawn and secretive. Helene resented having to live with him and his wife. After two years in their care, she had still not come to accept him as her guardian. For his part, Wymarc found her an irritating burden but she was his sister and duty prompted him. Vows made to his parents had to be honoured. Besides, his sister was a valuable commodity on the marriage market. Betrothed to the right man, Helene could bring her brother real advantage.

  ‘Shall I summon a doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ she protested.

  ‘He may have a cordial to restore your appetite.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Then why do you keep refusing food?’

  ‘I will eat in a while.’

  Wymarc paused to consider his own diagnosis.

  ‘You cannot deceive me,’ he said. ‘I know what this is all about. You are still angry with me, are you not? You are still hurt because I took you away from St George's-in-the-Castle.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘It is, Helene. I remember how bitterly you railed at me. But I only did it for your own good. You will come to see that in time. While you were at the castle you were vulnerable, and it is my duty as your brother to protect you. That is why you had to leave the choir.’

  ‘I will never go back,’ she murmured.

  ‘You still hold it against me.’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘It had to end,’ argued Wymarc. ‘A certain person was starting to pay too much attention to my sister. You are only a child but that would not stop him. I know him too well. When I saw him at the race two days ago, he asked after you yet again, Helene. In a way that disgusted me. He hoped that I would have brought you out to watch his black stallion run. Can you hear what I am saying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you understand my reasoning?’

  ‘You did what you thought best,’ she said dully.

  ‘Then stop hiding up here from me. Come downstairs.’

  ‘I am not hungry.’

/>   ‘We would still like to see you, Helene. We are worried about you. Stop behaving like this.’ A long silence. He became brusque. ‘Very well. I will send for the doctor.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘I will let him be the judge of that.’

  ‘No!’ she protested. ‘Please!’

  ‘Then come out of there.’

  Helene stood and made a forlorn gesture with her hands.

  ‘Very well,’ she capitulated. ‘I will get dressed.’

  Bertrand Gamberell did not have long to wait. On the following morning, he timed his arrival perfectly. He leaned nonchalantly against the trunk of a tree while Hyperion cropped the grass behind him. It was only when he heard the drumming of the hooves that he crouched down out of sight. There were five of them but his only interest was in the man who led them at a canter along the winding track. When they had ridden past, he stood up and slapped his thigh with satisfaction.

  But he took no chances. Gamberell was far too wily and experienced to do that. Leaving his own horse tethered, he strolled up the wooded slope until he reached the summit of the hill. The vantage point allowed him to see a dim outline of Oxford on the distant horizon. He watched the five riders as they continued steadily on their way towards the town. When they were a mile or more away, he strolled casually back to Hyperion and mounted the horse.

  ‘Come on, boy!’ he urged. ‘We must not keep her waiting.’

  Ralph Delchard had to wait until after breakfast for the chance to speak to Gervase Bret alone and tell him about his findings at Woodstock the previous day. Alone in the hall at the castle, they spoke in subdued voices to cheat the echo. Gervase heard him out with rapt attention.

  ‘What did you conclude?’ he asked.

  ‘That the assassin did not flee into the forest at all. Not at first. Too many eyes were against him. He was bound to be seen as he ran across that field.’

  ‘Unless those eyes were deliberately blind.’

  ‘That is a possibility but I think it unlikely.’