‘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 a
s 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.
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-fac
ed 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.
The Stallions of Woodstock Page 11
