The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  When they reached their destination, Edric held up a hand.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Amalric.

  ‘Close to my stable.’

  ‘How did you find your way?’

  ‘I know every inch of this shire.’

  ‘Who owns this land?’

  Edric grinned. ‘Bertrand Gamberell.’

  ‘Hyperion is hidden on his own property?’

  ‘Right under his nose.’

  ‘No wonder he could not find him.’

  ‘Stay here.’

  Edric left him under a tree and went the remainder of the way on his own. The boy watched with fascination. He could hear running water nearby. On the bank was an abandoned mill, once a home and a source of livelihood until the river capriciously altered its course and turned a surging tributary into a sluggish stream. Edric rode round the building in a wide circle to make sure that it was safe to approach. Satisfied that all was well, he dismounted and, pulling his horse after him, hopped on his one leg through the door.

  There was a long delay and Amalric feared that something untoward had occurred inside. Had the steward been ambushed? Injured in some way? Or had one of the horses been hurt by accident? The boy wanted to investigate but a sixth sense told him to stay well clear. His patience was eventually rewarded. When Edric next appeared, he was riding Hyperion.

  ‘Does he mind being locked up in there?’ said Amalric.

  ‘Yes. But he is well fed.’

  ‘What about exercise?’

  ‘This is not the first night I have been here.’

  ‘You have ridden Hyperion before?’

  ‘I had to keep him in training.’

  ‘Where do we go now?’

  ‘To the course.’

  Flushed with exhilaration, Amalric followed him on a tortuous route across the fields. The boy's ambition was about to be fulfilled. His own horse and his skill as a rider would be pitted against Hyperion. With Edric in the saddle, the black stallion would have a rider every bit as good as Walter Payne. It would be a fair race.

  When they reached the course, Edric took him over it so that he could inspect it with care. A mile long over open ground, it posed no problems apart from the slight upward gradient over the final furlongs. A clump of bushes marked the finishing post. They trotted back to the designated starting place, eager to compete, each resolved to win. The horses pranced with nervous energy, wanting the race as much as the riders and relishing the headlong dash through the moonlight.

  Edric brought Hyperion's head round to face the course. The clump of bushes could be seen in distant silhouette on the rising slope. Amalric adjusted his position in the saddle and gave Cempan a pat of encouragement.

  ‘How will we start?’ he asked.

  ‘When you are ready,’ said Edric, ‘just go.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I will be alongside you all the way.’

  It was a confident prediction but it fell short of the truth. When Cempan surged forward, Hyperion went after him like a dog after a rabbit, running him down inside the first furlong and passing him comfortably to lead by a couple of lengths. Amalric used his heels to urge more speed out of the colt and it gradually closed the gap on its rival.

  In spite of his handicap, Edric was riding like a master, pacing his horse superbly and coaxing the best out of the black stallion. But Amalric had more fire in his veins and a greater need of victory. He pushed Cempan to the limit. By the halfway point they were level and he flashed a smile at Edric before easing past him. It was the colt who now had a lead and he never relinquished it. Hyperion came back at him over the last furlong and Cempan was tiring badly as they ascended the slope, but Amalric was still able to goad his mount on.

  He flashed past the clump of bushes a clear winner and was close to ecstasy as he slowed his horse to walking pace. Edric brought the black stallion alongside him and patted the boy on the back.

  ‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Now we know.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Golde knew that he was not asleep. She could hear his breath in the darkness. It came in short gasps rather than in the long, deep, measured way that always accompanied his slumber. Ralph Delchard was disturbed about something and it was keeping him awake in the dead of night. She rolled slowly over in the bed to face him.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  He came out of his reverie to nuzzle against her.

  ‘Nothing, my love. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Your mind is troubling you.’

  ‘I will doze off in a minute.’

  ‘You are upset.’

  ‘I am fine, Golde.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘I did not mean to keep you awake.’

  ‘I want to know, Ralph.’

  She reinforced her wish with a playful bite on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her to him, rolling on to his back so that she was pulled directly on top of him. He caressed her haunches before kissing her again.

  ‘I still want to know,’ she persisted.

  ‘It is so trivial.’

  ‘Let me judge for myself.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said as a wave of fatigue hit him. ‘I was thinking about what Brother Columbanus said.’

  ‘At the table this evening?’

  ‘Yes. Even a fool says a wise thing sometimes.’

  ‘Brother Columbanus is no fool.’

  ‘True, my love. He may yet turn out to be the shrewdest man among us. Especially when drink is taken for it seems to sharpen his wits.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I just hope we will not have another outburst of penitence from him in the morning.’

  ‘He talked about St Augustine.’

  ‘He never stopped talking about St Augustine,’ sighed Ralph. ‘Then Gervase started quoting St Augustine at me as well. I am grateful that Canon Hubert was not there or I would have been assailed from three directions at once. No,’ he said, relaxing again, ‘Columbanus said one thing which had nothing to do with St Augustine of Hippo.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘It was that remark about an acorn and an oak.’

  ‘I thought it rather apposite.’

  ‘Yes, Golde. It was. So apposite and so obvious that it had just never occurred to me. I have been lying here trying to work out why. My brain is addled.’

  ‘Go back to that acorn.’

  ‘It was planted that day in Woodstock,’ said Ralph. ‘When Walter Payne was killed, an oak stirred out of the ground. In a short time, it has grown to monstrous proportions.’

  ‘Frightening to watch.’

  ‘Yet all coming from that same acorn,’ he said. ‘All branches of the same huge tree. Brother Columbanus put it so eloquently. Every crime is linked to the others.’

  ‘Even this suicide?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I do not know but there has to be a connection. Our merry monk may seem unworldly, but he made a very sound suggestion. Suppose that Walter Payne really was the girl's lover? That would give Wymarc a strong motive to arrange his death. And it would account for the fact that Helene was so overcome with grief, she took her own life.’

  ‘We have no proof that she was overwhelmed by grief. Helene may have been prompted by fear. Or by self-disgust. Or by something else. I do not see this connection you talk about.’

  ‘No more do I, my love. But I know it is there. That is why Brother Columbanus was helpful for once. He has set me looking in the right direction.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘They are here, Golde.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘The men behind it all,’ he argued. ‘The one who killed Walter Payne or arranged his murder. The one who stole the black stallion. The one who seduced that poor creature and drove her to suicide. The one who is provoking violence between Wymarc and Gamberell. The one who is so keen to win a horse race that he will take another's colt away by force.’

  ‘How many men are you talking
about?’

  ‘One, two, perhaps more,’ he said. ‘But this much I know. I have met them, Golde. Talked with them all. Wymarc, Ordgar, Milo Crispin, Bertrand Gamberell and Robert d'Oilly.’

  She was surprised. ‘You include the sheriff?’

  ‘He is waist-deep in this morass.’

  ‘But it is his task to solve the crimes,’ she reasoned. ‘You heard his complaints this evening. He is finding the cares of office very burdensome.’

  ‘Those cares are more than outweighed by the rewards.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look around you, Golde,’ he urged. ‘This castle is one of the finest and strongest in England. Only a rich man could afford to build it. Robert d'Oilly holds ten manors in Oxfordshire and collects rent from his subtenants on twenty-one others. And do you not remember your walk through the town with Arnulf?’

  ‘Only too well.’

  ‘What struck you most?’

  ‘The number of derelict houses.’

  ‘How did they get in that condition?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Then let me tell you. The sheriff has forty-two inhabited houses in Oxford but only sixteen of them pay tax and tribute. The other inhabitants are too poor. Robert d'Oilly has a further eight dwellings which are derelict because the families who lived in them have been forced out.’ He eased her on to her side. ‘This sheriff of ours, who finds the cares of office so burdensome, has bled this town dry. To build his castle and construct his bridge, he levied taxes on every household in Oxford.’

  He checked himself and gave her an apologetic kiss.

  ‘But what sort of conversation is this for a man and wife to have in their bedchamber?’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry, my love. These arguments should be heard in daylight.’

  ‘Go on,’ she encouraged him. ‘I am interested.’

  A yawn threatened. ‘We need our sleep.’

  ‘Not until you explain your charge.’

  ‘It is no charge, Golde. I am thinking aloud.’

  ‘You truly believe that the sheriff is involved?’

  ‘If a shire is corrupt, its sheriff must take much of the blame. Maurice Pagnal was probably bribed by the sworn brother of our host. I too was probed to see if I would yield to influence. Oxford is rotten to the core.’ He stroked her hair. ‘None of this may make the sheriff an accessory to murder. But the speed with which he sought to prosecute an innocent man keeps his name on my list.’ He grinned in the dark. ‘Here endeth the lesson.’

  ‘I have had quieter nights,’ she said.

  ‘My fault. I will make amends.’

  ‘I am fully awake now.’

  ‘That is why I will administer a sleeping draught.’

  ‘Sleeping draught?’

  ‘Yes, my love,’ he said, rolling gently on top of her. ‘We will take it together then slumber in each other's arms.’

  Golde smiled lazily and pulled him to her.

  Dawn found them riding side by side over the last mile to Oxford. A fine drizzle was carried on the breeze. Ordgar brooded anxiously but Bristeva was in a cheerful mood. As her pony trotted along the track, she watched the distant town grow slowly in size on the horizon.

  ‘I cannot wait to get there,’ she said excitedly.

  ‘It will not be long now, Bristeva.’

  ‘Just think, father. I am to sleep at the castle tonight.’

  ‘You must be on your best behaviour.’

  ‘In my wildest dreams, I never thought to have such an honour,’ she said, eyes still on the town. ‘To be a guest at Oxford Castle then to sing at a banquet. These things do not happen to someone like me.’

  ‘They did,’ said Ordgar wistfully. ‘In the old days, my family were accustomed to have such privileges heaped upon them. We were always invited to banquets. We mixed with the greatest in the land. Your father was a thegn, Bristeva, and you must never forget it. You are the daughter of nobility.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then think yourself entitled to these honours.’

  The pride in his voice made her heart leap and she put out a hand to squeeze his arm. Ordgar was a pragmatic man. He adapted with dignity to changes he could not resist but his memories of former glory remained undimmed.

  ‘I saw Amalric before we left,’ she recalled. ‘He was in the stable with Cempan when I went for my pony.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’ he asked with slight alarm.

  ‘Only to bid me farewell.’

  ‘He said nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing, father. That is what surprised me. Amalric knew where I was going this morning yet he did not even tease me about it. I thought he would berate me again.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear that he did not.’

  ‘Did you speak sternly to him?’

  ‘Amalric was warned.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘I feared that he might try to stop me riding to Oxford today. He and Edric have been so cruel in their comments.’

  ‘That is all past, Bristeva.’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  ‘Neither of them will tax you again.’

  ‘I am pleased to know that, father.’ A frown surfaced. ‘Amalric seemed in a happy mood today.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘I have never seen him like that before.’

  ‘He has little to be happy about at the moment.’

  ‘Unlike me.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Unlike you.’

  Conscious of the dark secret he was hiding from her, Ordgar was finding it difficult to keep up a conversation with his daughter. Her joy came in such sharp contrast to his own sadness. Ordgar was pleased that she would sing at the banquet but he regretted the circumstances in which her performance would take place. In shielding her from the knowledge of Helene's suicide, he felt that he was being both kind and cruel to her. He was fearful how Bristeva would react when she realised that he had conspired with Arnulf to keep her ignorant of the tragedy. He and the chaplain were partners in betrayal.

  ‘Do all that you are told,’ he instructed.

  ‘I will, father.’

  ‘None of this would have happened without Father Arnulf. We are indebted to him and you must show your gratitude by your obedience to him.’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘Listen to nobody else but him, Bristeva.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘No reason.’

  The drizzle thickened and they increased their pace. As Oxford came ever nearer, the girl's excitement knew no bounds.

  ‘I am to sing before my lord sheriff and his lady,’ she said, luxuriating in the thought. ‘The Bishop of Coutances will be there with his train. And Father Arnulf tells me that royal commissioners are staying at the castle. Everyone will hear me,’ she said with a giggle. ‘I will be famous!’

  ‘Enjoy the moment.’

  ‘I will, I will.’

  ‘You deserve it Bristeva.’

  ‘I do. I worked so hard in the choir. And now I've been chosen to take over from Helene.’ A thought nudged her. ‘Do you think she will be there?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Helene. Her brother will surely be invited.’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Will he bring her along with him?’

  Ordgar had to force the words out between his lips.

  ‘No,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Helene will not be there.’

  Wymarc had spent so long before the altar on his knees that his whole body was aching. His thighs were on fire, his calves were assaulted by cramp and his shoulders felt as if a great weight was pressing down on them. When he struggled to his feet, he tried to rub some of the stiffness out of his neck. Discomfort had brought its rewards. Wymarc had prayed for help and a measure of consolation had come. His earlier rage had been drained out of him to leave him calm and reflective. He was even ready to take some share of the blame for the desperate action of his sister. An hour of humility had taught him many things about himself a
s well as about Helene.

  When he left the church of St George's-in-the-Castle, he saw a young man walking towards him across the bailey but he paid no heed to him. Gervase Bret, however, took an instant interest in him. Guessing at his identity, he quickened his stride to intercept the visitor as the latter untethered his horse.

  ‘My lord Wymarc?’ enquired Gervase.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Gervase Bret,’ said the other politely. ‘I believe that you have met my colleague, Ralph Delchard. We sit in commission together.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember. He rode out to Woodstock and I showed him the exact place where the murder occurred.’ A sour note intruded. ‘When my back was turned, he sneaked on to my land without permission and searched for evidence.’

  ‘I was his accomplice in that search,’ admitted Gervase, ‘but I am not ashamed to own it. Our investigation resulted in the release of an innocent man. Would you have preferred your slave, Ebbi, to have died for a crime he did not commit?’

  ‘No, I would not.’

  ‘Then our trespass was justified.’

  ‘Why did you not come to me first? I would not have forbidden you entry. I could have helped you in your search.’

  ‘I am hopeful that you may be able to do that now, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘This is not an appropriate time to raise the matter, I know. I offer you my sincerest condolences.’

  ‘Thank you,’ mumbled Wymarc.

  ‘I can appreciate the enormous strain you must feel.’

  ‘It is crushing me, Master Bret.’

  ‘The chaplain has spoken to me of your distress.’

  ‘Arnulf has been wonderful. Both at my house and here in the castle when my fury got the better of me. The man is blessed. He gentled me.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘That is why I came to his church this morning. To give thanks and to seek further guidance.’

  ‘I trust that you found that guidance.’

  ‘What is this help you spoke of?’

  ‘The murder remains unsolved,’ said Gervase, ‘and the sheriff fears the killer may have fled far from here.’