The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  Their rivalry had long roots. It grew partly out of Wymarc's envy of someone who seemed to enjoy an effortless superiority in almost every area of life. Where Wymarc had to sweat and struggle to achieve his aims, Gamberell did so with a studied nonchalance. Close in age, they were far apart in appearance and ability. All the advantages undoubtedly lay with Gamberell and, as a handsome bachelor, he could explore myriad pleasures that were for ever beyond the reach of an ugly married man like Wymarc.

  It was when Bertrand Gamberell turned his plausible charm on Helene that her brother's hatred of him reached new depths. The girl was young and immature but that did not deter a seasoned voluptuary. When he learned that Helene was in the church choir, he took to lurking around the castle when she was due to leave, seizing a few minutes with her to flirt and entice and ensnare. Wymarc had broken up their conversations a number of times but no amount of dire warnings from him had held his sister back from further association with Gamberell. After singing the praises of God in church, she went out to play with the devil. Wymarc's only remedy was to take her out of the choir altogether.

  The sky was slowly darkening as they neared the end of their journey and they kicked more speed out of their horses for the final mile. The house eventually came into sight and Wymarc envisioned a warm welcome from his wife and a hot meal prepared by his cook, compensatory comforts after a long day away from home. Disappointment awaited him. In place of the warm welcome, he rode into a scene of fear and tension. His wife and two of the servants were waiting outside the house to waylay him with their anxieties.

  ‘Thank heaven you are come!’ exclaimed his wife.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is Helene.’

  ‘What is wrong with her?’

  ‘She has barricaded herself into her room.’

  ‘Not more tantrums!’ he sighed.

  ‘Helene refuses even to speak,’ said his wife, taking his arm as he dropped from the saddle and hustling him towards the front door. ‘She has not said a word for hours.’

  ‘Is her door locked?’

  ‘Locked and bolted. And the shutters are also closed.’

  ‘Leave her to me.’

  ‘She has not eaten all day.’

  ‘This has got to stop!’ insisted Wymarc, heading for the stairs. ‘I'll stand no more of it.’

  As he pounded up the steps, his wife, a short, thin-faced woman with a febrile prettiness, trotted behind him with the servants bringing up the rear. All four were soon standing outside Helene's bedchamber. Wymarc gave the door a hard and uncompromising kick.

  ‘Helene!’ he ordered. ‘Come out at once!’

  There was no sound from within. He kicked out again.

  ‘Open this door or I'll force my way in. Do you hear?’

  He interpreted the silence as deliberate insolence.

  ‘This is your last chance, Helene!’

  When there was still no reply, Wymarc's patience snapped and he put his shoulder to the door. The lock held at first but it could not withstand the repeated assaults of his beefy frame as he hurled himself against the timber. There was a splintering noise as the door finally surrendered its position but it retreated only a couple of inches. Something heavy was jammed up against it on the inside. Wymarc used the combined strength of himself and the two servants to dislodge it with a concerted shove.

  The chest slid back, the door flew open and the hideous truth was at last revealed to them. Helene was lying spreadeagled on the bed, her limbs contorted, her face paler than ever, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and her mouth wide open to utter a cry of agony that nobody would ever hear.

  ‘Helene!’ yelled Wymarc.

  His wife screamed, the servants gasped and everyone else in the house came running to see what had happened. Wymarc cradled his sister in his arms and tried in vain to revive her with profuse kisses and redundant words of love. He was so shaken by fear and afflicted with guilt that it was minutes before he even noticed the tiny stone bottle beside her.

  In the capacious kitchen Edith was taking an inventory of their stock. Game of all kinds hung from hooks in abundance. Golde was amazed by the number of geese, chickens and other birds waiting to be plucked and she had never seen so many dead rabbits before.

  ‘Twenty years ago, they were unknown,’ she observed.

  ‘Rabbits were brought over from Normandy as a delicacy. They breed quickly so they soon spread. We will certainly serve rabbit at the banquet. And venison,’ Edith added as she looked around. ‘We will need more. Far more. It is as well that Robert has hunting privileges in the forests.’

  ‘How many are you expecting on Saturday?’ asked Golde.

  ‘Fifty at least. Probably twice that number.’

  ‘A hundred guests!’

  ‘We had even more the last time the bishop stayed at Oxford Castle. Geoffrey has a large entourage. He likes to do things in style.’

  ‘So I can see.’

  ‘He is a power in the realm, Golde.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Robert wants me to spare no expense. Everything must be in perfect readiness. We have only a few days.’

  As the two women walked between the tables and ducked under the swinging carcasses, the cooks and their assistants watched in obedient silence. A banquet would involve an immense amount of work for them but they did not complain. It brought Edith down to the kitchen and that was always a source of delight. She consulted them, directed them, cajoled them and generally made them feel that they were performing a vital service to the inhabitants of the castle. Under her careful supervision, any banquet would be a feast to remember.

  ‘Is there anything I have forgotten, Golde?’

  ‘Ale.’

  Edith laughed. ‘I will leave that in your hands.’

  ‘The bishop will assuredly prefer French wine.’

  ‘He drinks nothing else.’

  ‘A moderate amount of English ale, then.’

  ‘At your discretion.’

  Golde's friendship with her hostess had been enriched even more. Edith put her so completely at ease that she felt they had known each other for years instead of merely a matter of days. Edith ran a discerning eye over some sides of pork and nodded in approval. They moved on to a table laden with fruit and cheese. Edith examined it with the utmost care.

  Golde stood beside her and inhaled the various aromas.

  ‘I am sorry we are an extra burden, my lady,’ she said.

  ‘Burden?’

  ‘Ralph led me to believe that the work of the tribunal would be completed by the weekend. We should have ridden out of Oxford on Saturday and left you in peace to cope with your other guests. But the commission has had to suspend its work until Canon Hubert arrives.’

  ‘I am delighted that you are able to stay, Golde.’

  ‘The delay has been forced upon us.’

  ‘So I understand.’ She probed gently. ‘Why did my lord Maurice quit the town so abruptly?’

  ‘He and my husband had some sort of disagreement.’

  ‘Do you know its exact nature?’

  ‘Ralph does not confide in me, my lady,’ Golde lied.

  ‘No more does Robert in me and rightly so. Well,’ she said with a smile, ‘let us leave the affairs of the world to our husbands and concentrate simply on feeding them properly. This is where real power resides, Golde. In the kitchen. Important decisions can only be made on a full stomach.’

  Golde laughed and followed her across to the serried ranks of fish, shimmering monsters laid out on stone slabs for their perusal and giving off the most arresting odours. Golde held her breath and took a couple of steps back.

  ‘You made mention of entertainment,’ she recalled.

  ‘It would be a dull banquet without it, Golde.’

  ‘What form will it take?’

  ‘The details have yet to be finalised by our steward,’ said Edith, prodding at a salmon. ‘But we will certainly have music, dancers, tumblers and clowns. Minstrels w
ill be hired and Arnulf has promised us a girl from his choir.’

  ‘The celebrated Helene?’

  ‘Alas, no. She is lost.’

  ‘Who has taken her place?’

  ‘A young Saxon girl.’

  Golde grinned. ‘I am all in favour of that.’

  ‘Arnulf says she has considerable promise.’

  ‘He is the best judge.’

  ‘The girl will be sparingly used at the banquet but it will be a valuable experience for her.’

  ‘And a pleasing one for us.’

  ‘I am certain of that, Golde.’

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘Bristeva.’

  She arrived not long after dawn and he was there to greet her and to thank Ordgar for bringing her so early. Arnulf the Chaplain helped the girl down from her pony then tethered it to a rail outside the stables. When they had waved her father off, Bristeva followed her teacher eagerly into the church of St George's-in-the-Castle.

  He could see that she was brimming with excitement.

  ‘Your father has obviously told you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what was your reaction, Bristeva?’

  ‘At first, I was overcome with fright.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have never sung in front of so many people before.’

  ‘You will soon get used to that,’ said Arnulf with an avuncular hand on her shoulder. ‘Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances loves choral singing and he will almost certainly wish to attend a service here to listen to you. As an additional treat, I want him to hear my best pupil at the banquet.’

  Bristeva was diffident. ‘Am I really the best?’

  ‘Easily.’

  ‘I do not feel it, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘You are getting better all the time.’

  ‘Helene had a far more beautiful voice.’

  ‘Forget Helene,’ he said with uncharacteristic sharpness, taking his hand away. ‘She is gone, you are here. Helene let us all down, you will not. Will you, Bristeva?’

  ‘No, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘Do as I say and you will have nothing to worry about.’

  She nodded dutifully and walked down the nave beside him.

  Bristeva had been in a state of exhilaration from the moment she set out from home. Amalric had mocked her and Edric the Cripple had been cynical about the choir, but their comments had not dimmed her pleasure, and she was encouraged when her father upbraided both of them sharply for trying to upset her. On the ride to Oxford, he told her how proud he was of his daughter and how hard she must be prepared to work to meet the chaplain's high standards. In performing at the banquet, she would be representing her whole family.

  When they stopped at the altar rail, she realised that she had never been alone in the church with him for a private rehearsal. Bristeva had always been one member of a choir before. Now she had been singled out and that filled her with the most unspeakable joy. Arnulf, too, seemed pleased to have a new soloist to whom he could impart his love of singing.

  ‘I want you to be happy, Bristeva.’

  ‘I am, I am.’

  ‘Singing is an expression of joy.’

  ‘I know, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘You have that joy bubbling inside you and it is my task to draw it out. But I cannot do that without your help. We must share that joy together, Bristeva.’

  ‘We will.’

  He gave her a smile then indicated that she should kneel.

  ‘Before we begin, let us pray together.’

  ‘Yes, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘We will ask for God's blessing on our endeavours.’

  Bristeva knelt at the rail with her hands gently closed together. With his back to the altar, the chaplain stood facing her and enclosed her hands between his palms. She was deeply comforted. When Arnulf began to chant the prayer in a soft, caressing voice, Bristeva felt that she was almost listening to the voice of God Himself.

  It was well past midnight by the time the doctor finally arrived. Wymarc's man had ridden several miles to summon him, only to find him absent on another call. A long wait ensued. When the two of them eventually reached the house in the pitch dark, Wymarc berated the doctor for keeping them waiting then rushed him upstairs to his sister's bedchamber. By the light of the candles, the weary doctor examined Helene. As soon as he realised what had happened, he cleared the room so that he could work in private.

  Time trickled past. Wymarc began to wonder if the man had fallen asleep through fatigue. He himself had difficulty in staying awake. His wife had taken to her bed and the servants had been packed off to their rooms. Wymarc kept a lonely vigil in his parlour, hoping ridiculously that Helene could somehow be brought back to life yet knowing such a miracle was well beyond any doctor's skill. What hurt him most was the ranting discourtesy he had shown at the end. Helene lay dead and all that her brother could do was yell at her before smashing his way into her chamber. It was a kind of defilement.

  Exhaustion finally claimed him. Wymarc fell into a deep and troubled sleep. When he was awakened at cockcrow, he saw that the doctor was sitting opposite him. Wymarc sat up with a start and rubbed his palms into his eyes.

  ‘How long was I asleep?’ he said.

  ‘An hour or two.’

  ‘Have you been here all this time?’

  ‘For most of it.’

  ‘Why on earth did you not rouse me?’

  ‘You needed the sleep, my lord,’ said the doctor quietly. ‘You will get precious little of it when you hear what I have found out about your poor sister.’

  Wymarc was on his feet. ‘Was there no hope at all?’

  ‘None, my lord.’

  ‘If only you had got here earlier.’

  ‘It would have been no use, my lord. Helene was dead long before you burst into the chamber. I know the signs. Her body is very eloquent.’

  Baldwin the Doctor was a small, wizened, inoffensive man with an almost permanent smile of apology on his lips. A skilled physician, he was also kind and tactful when it came to passing on bad news about a patient to family members. The present situation, however, would tax even his discretion and he had been glad to find Wymarc asleep. The delay gave him time to come to terms with the tragedy and to frame the explanation he would have to give.

  ‘Well?’ said Wymarc.

  ‘Helene died from a fatal dose of poison. Until a proper postmortem examination is carried out, it is impossible to say what type of poison it was though the rash on her skin would incline me to think that belladonna was a constituent element.’

  ‘Would she have died in pain?’

  ‘I fear so, my lord.’ He saw the other wince. ‘The position of the limbs suggests she had some kind of spasm.’

  Wymarc was stunned. ‘Helene? Poison? I cannot believe it, Baldwin. I will not believe it.’

  ‘The evidence is unmistakable.’

  ‘But who could have given her such a hideous concoction? Who could have tricked her into taking it?’ He became furious. ‘There's villainy at work here. I'll hunt down the culprit, no matter how long it takes. Helene has been murdered!’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Someone has poisoned my sister!’

  ‘She took her life with her own hand.’

  ‘Who could do such a thing to her?’

  ‘Nobody else was involved.’

  ‘This must be reported to the sheriff at once.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Baldwin, rising wearily from his seat. ‘I am sorry to be the one to break the sad tidings to you but the truth must be faced. Helene committed suicide.’

  ‘Never!’ yelled Wymarc, seizing him by the arms. ‘That is a hideous charge to make against my sister. Take it back at once. I will not listen to such calumny. Take it back!’

  ‘If only I could.’

  ‘Helene would never kill herself.’

  ‘She did, my lord. Send for another doctor, if you do not believe me. Every physician in the land will tell you the same thing. Helene
deliberately swallowed the contents of that bottle.’

  ‘She was forced to drink the poison.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The villain who procured it.’

  ‘But there was nobody else in the bedchamber with her. It was locked from the inside.’ Baldwin grimaced. ‘Please let me go, my lord. You are hurting me.’

  Wymarc relaxed his grip and the doctor stepped back a precautionary yard, rubbing his arms to relieve the pain. He waited as Wymarc slowly came to accept the grim diagnosis. It was a long and harrowing process. As the full implications began to dawn on Wymarc, he staggered to a bench and lowered himself on to it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to bury his throbbing head in his hands.

  ‘Think of the shame,’ he murmured. ‘The dreadful shame.’

  ‘You have my deepest sympathy.’

  ‘Helene! Of all people!’

  ‘There will have to be an inquest, I fear.’

  ‘Everyone will know. Everyone will remember. The whole county will point me out hereafter as the man whose sister took her own life. They will blame me.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Tongues will wag. Fingers will point.’

  ‘This is not the time to think of yourself,’ suggested the doctor softly. ‘Save your pity for Helene. She died in fearful circumstances. What made her choose such a painful exit from life? How did such a lovely young girl, with every advantage, come to lose the will to live?’

  Wymarc shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Helene had not been ill, to my knowledge.’

  ‘She was fit and healthy.’

  ‘What of her mind?’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with her mind,’ said Wymarc defensively. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Was the girl troubled? Racked by anxiety?’

  ‘Of course not.’