The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  ‘That is my fear as well.’

  ‘It is not ours, my lord. We believe that he is a local man. Only someone who knew the area well could plot that killing and plan his escape so cunningly. And who else would know Walter Payne but those in the vicinity?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘How well did you know the fellow?’

  ‘Only by sight and reputation.’

  ‘Reputation?’

  ‘His skill as a horseman was well known,’ said Wymarc, ‘and I saw far too much evidence of it myself. But the fellow also had a reputation for wild behaviour.’

  ‘My lord Ralph mentioned that.’

  ‘Walter Payne and his friends went on drunken rampages from time to time. They would pick fights, cause damage to property and even assault womenfolk.’

  ‘Did nobody complain?’

  ‘Nobody whose protest carried any strength,’ said Wymarc. ‘Bertrand Gamberell would simply laugh and refuse to discipline his men. They were entitled to their pleasures, he would say.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Bertrand sets great store by pleasure.’

  ‘How did Walter Payne come into his service?’

  ‘They are birds of a feather.’

  ‘My lord Bertrand is not known for drunken behaviour.’

  ‘He spreads his destruction by more subtle means.’

  A spark of anger came into his eye but it soon died. The conversations with Arnulf and the early morning visit to the church had quelled his urge for vengeance.

  ‘This Walter Payne,’ continued Gervase, probing tenderly. ‘You had no personal grudge against him, then?’

  ‘Indeed I did! He cost me a small fortune. Every time he rode Hyperion to victory, he made a fresh hole in my purse. I would not have thrown the dagger that killed him but neither will I mourn his death.’

  ‘Who would have thrown it, my lord?’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘You might be able to suggest names.’

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Those harassed by Walter Payne and his fellows,’ said Gervase. ‘One of your manors is contiguous with my lord Bertrand's land. Were any of your subtenants the victims of their wild misconduct?’

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Who bore the brunt of his roistering?’

  ‘None of my people,’ said Wymarc. ‘Walter Payne let them off lightly. Most of his prey were on Milo's land. He ran riot across it a number of times. Milo's subtenants were always protesting about Walter Payne.’

  ‘Did those subtenants include Ordgar?’

  ‘Probably. Why?’

  ‘I ask out of idle curiosity, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘Nothing more. Thank you for giving me your time. I will intrude on your grief no longer. Farewell.’

  As Wymarc rode out of the castle, a pensive Gervase watched him leave. A chance meeting had yielded much of value. Instead of going into the church, Gervase went off to report to Ralph.

  The room was small, bare and featureless with only the most meagre portion of light coming through the tiny arched window. The stone walls and floor gave off a chill that was not relieved by the single flickering candle in the alcove. A mattress lay in one corner with a stool beside it. On the wall above the mattress was a wooden crucifix.

  Bristeva was thrilled with her accommodation.

  ‘This will be very suitable,’ she said gratefully.

  Arnulf was apologetic. ‘It is a mean chamber, I fear.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I sought to find you an apartment in the keep,’ he said. ‘But all are reserved for the guests. When the bishop arrives with his train, the castle will be filled to bursting. You will have to make do with this humbler lodging next to the church.’

  ‘I will be quite content here.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I am comforted to know that you are nearby.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arnulf, pointing a hand at one wall. ‘I am in the adjoining chamber and Brother Columbanus is further down the passage.’

  ‘Brother Columbanus?’

  ‘He travels with some important visitors who have come to Oxford and serves them in the office of a scribe. You will like him, Bristeva. In spite of his cowl, he is a jolly man.’

  ‘I am always a little afraid of monks,’ she confided.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know. Their holiness frightens me.’

  Arnulf smiled. ‘Does my holiness frighten you as well?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it.’

  ‘You are different, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He gazed at her with fondness and reached out to adjust the edge of her wimple. Singing at the banquet would be a supreme test for her but he had every faith in Bristeva.

  ‘I need to ask a special favour of you,’ he said.

  ‘It is granted before it is even asked.’

  ‘Talk to nobody inside the castle.’

  She was confused. ‘Not even you, Father Arnulf?’

  ‘Nobody except me,’ he clarified. ‘Whenever I can I will stay close by you, but there will be times when you are alone. Keep to this chamber. Too much scurrilous gossip floats around a castle and I do not want your young ears corrupted by it. Give me your word, Bristeva,’ he said, taking her gently by the elbows. ‘Do not speak to anybody.’

  ‘Not even Brother Columbanus?’

  ‘I was forgetting him.’

  ‘You said a moment ago that I would like him.’

  ‘Why, yes. I did,’ he recalled. ‘And he would certainly cause you no harm. Let me speak to him first. Brother Columbanus might help to stave off boredom for you.’

  ‘I could never be bored when I am here with you.’

  Arnulf smiled and took his hands away from her.

  ‘Is your father looking forward to the banquet?’ he said.

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘The hall will be crowded with guests.’

  ‘I hope I am not too nervous.’

  ‘You will have no problems.’

  ‘But there will be so many distinguished guests there,’ she said. ‘I have never performed in front of such a large gathering before. Was Helene ever nervous?’

  ‘No, Bristeva.’

  ‘Did she ever let you down?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I asked father if Helene might be at the banquet but he seemed to think she would not be. Is that right?’

  He nodded ruminatively. ‘My lord Wymarc confirmed it. He was here even before you this morning, Bristeva.’

  ‘What did he say.’

  ‘Helene is indisposed. She will not be coming.’

  ‘I am disappointed to hear that.’

  ‘We all are.’ He became brisk. ‘Now that I have shown you where you will sleep, let me take you to the hall where you will sing. We need to rehearse in there while we may. There will be little opportunity once the guests arrive.’

  ‘I'm ready,’ she said.

  ‘Thus far, you have only sung in the church. Your voice will sound very different in the hall. You need to get used to that difference. Come, Bristeva,’ he said, taking her out into the passage. ‘We will make a start. When we have earned a rest from our rehearsal, I will bring you back here to introduce you to Brother Columbanus.’ He remembered something. ‘If we can actually find him, that is.’

  Brother Columbanus opened a preliminary eye in the firm conviction that he would find himself in his chamber. He expected to see a finger of light poking in through the little window and pointing reverentially at the crucifix on the wall above his head. But he saw nothing. No wall, no window and no crucifix. He was in the pitch dark. Could it still be the middle of the night? A second eye joined the first in a vain attempt at probing the gloom. Where was he?

  When he shifted his bulk, he felt something hard and uncomfortable beneath him. He was not lying on his mattress. Instead, he seemed to be propped up against a wall in a room that was thick with dust and devoid of any furniture. How had he got ther
e? Columbanus racked his brain to tease out every detail of the meal in the hall. He recalled the vigorous debate about suicide and the words of St Augustine came back to him with reassuring exactness. Beyond that, however, all he could remember was that the food had been delicious.

  Had he eaten to excess? Had he so disgraced himself that he had been cast into outer darkness? Or had he wandered off into some remote part of the castle and simply got lost? Brother Columbanus was totally perplexed. He was about to offer up a prayer for guidance when he felt something in his lap. He reached down to discover that he was holding a flagon of wine. It was still half full. Its contents swished around delightfully. He put the flagon to his lips.

  Columbanus was soon fast asleep again in the undercroft beneath the church. He no longer cared how he had got there. The wine was as sweet this morning as it had been the previous night. There was another bonus. St Augustine was waiting in his dreams to welcome him once more.

  Ralph Delchard was intrigued to hear what Gervase had gleaned.

  ‘Wymarc came here?’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘He felt the need for spiritual comfort.’

  ‘Then why not go to the nearest church? Why ride all the way into Oxford before dawn?’

  ‘Arnulf is here. Wymarc holds the chaplain in high regard.’

  ‘So does the sheriff,’ noted Ralph. ‘When Wymarc and his men rode in here last night, our host was able to shout them down but it was Arnulf who really subdued the vengeful lord. This chaplain is a useful man to have around the castle.’

  ‘Much more than useful, Ralph. He is invaluable.’

  ‘And blessed with astonishing tolerance.’

  ‘Tolerance?’

  ‘Yes, Gervase. What other man of God would put up with such a bellicose master as Robert d'Oilly?’

  ‘Arnulf will hear no criticism of the sheriff. He is blind to the man's faults.’

  Ralph pointed to the river which ran below them.

  ‘Can one look at the Thames and be blind to the water?’

  They shared a wry laugh. They had left the castle to walk down to Grandpont for a combination of exercise and privacy. Resting against the parapet of the stone bridge which Robert d'Oilly had built over the river, they were enjoying a quiet moment together. The drizzle had stopped now and sunshine was giving the water a bright sheen. Accustomed to spending their days in musty shire halls, Ralph and Gervase were grateful for the enforced respite though still wounded by the disclosures which had prompted it.

  ‘Do you think that Canon Hubert will come?’ said Gervase.

  ‘We will know soon enough. The messenger we dispatched to Winchester should return later today. However ill Hubert is, he will not desert us in our hour of need.’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘As for Maurice Pagnal, he will have the King's displeasure visited upon him. I look to find him behind bars when we return.’

  ‘He took me in completely.’

  ‘I, too, was fooled, Gervase.’

  ‘But for Brother Timothy of Westminster, we might never have uncovered the deceit. Islip would have been awarded to Roger d'Ivry's wife, Maurice would have pocketed his bribe and we would have been none the wiser.’ Gervase gave a rueful sigh. ‘Brother Timothy was our salvation.’

  ‘Alas, yes. I hate to be beholden to a monk.’

  ‘Would you rather sit alongside a corrupt judge?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  Gervase watched a kingfisher skim over the river.

  ‘What is our next move to be, Ralph?’

  ‘We do not make one. Golde agrees with me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Biding our time, Gervase,’ he said. ‘We have spoken to the four men whose horses ran in that race. Wymarc, Ordgar, Milo Crispin and Bertrand Gamberell. And let us not forget that three of them are involved in another kind of contest – the dispute over that property near Wallingford. Four men with good reason to hate each other. I have come to believe that one of them has outwitted us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘In the same way as Maurice. By being too plausible. By telling us exactly what we wished to hear at the time we needed to hear it. Maurice Pagnal stood right in front of us yet we could not discern his villainy. One of those four men has done precisely the same. And I would add a fifth name.’

  ‘Robert d'Oilly?’

  ‘He is involved in everything in this town,’ said Ralph. ‘We may yet find that the murder has some connection with him. Five names, Gervase. Which one would you choose?’

  ‘I am not sure. But I would eliminate one already.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Bertrand Gamberell.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He would never set up the murder of his own man.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened in this shire.’

  ‘It meant that he lost the race,’ said Gervase, ‘and that went hard with him. Besides, what motive would he have?’

  ‘He and Walter Payne may have fallen out. Over the girl, perhaps. We know that Gamberell lusted after her as well. If he learned that his own man had seduced Helene in his stead, he would have been enraged.’

  ‘Then he would have taken revenge in private and not in such a public way. Walter Payne's involvement with Helene is only speculation. Even if there had been a relationship between them, Payne would have made certain that his master never found out about it.’ Gervase pursed his lips in thought. ‘No, Ralph,’ he decided. ‘I do not believe that Gamberell fell out with his rider. He was too anguished by the killing.’

  ‘Gamberell made a lot of noise about it, that is true. But he also led the search for the assassin in the copse. That was the perfect way to turn suspicion away from himself.’ He scratched his head. ‘I know that it seems unlikely but we must keep his name on the list.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘For the rest, we wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘The banquet, Gervase,’ he explained. ‘All of our five men will probably be there. The only possible absentee is Wymarc and even he may find it politic to be in Oxford to lick the episcopal arse of Geoffrey of Coutances.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Our man is among them somewhere.’

  ‘All we have to do is to pick him out.’

  ‘Yes. It is that simple.’

  Gervase laughed. ‘If only it were!’

  Bertrand Gamberell returned home that morning at a sedate trot. He had spent an uneasy night at Wallingford Castle but it had been a sensible precaution. Wymarc's fury would have spent itself in a fruitless search, he decided, and the coast would now be clear. When he reached his own land, he felt no watching eyes upon him and feared no ambush. Wymarc and his men were not lying in wait to wreak vengeance. The danger was past.

  The fact was confirmed by his steward when Gamberell strode into his home. There had been no angry callers during his absence. His whereabouts had not been sought.

  ‘Has nobody at all been here?’ he said.

  ‘Not until this morning, my lord,’ replied the steward.

  ‘Someone from Wymarc, by chance?’

  ‘The messenger would not name his master.’

  ‘What letter did he bring?’

  ‘It is here, my lord.’

  The steward handed it over then withdrew to the other side of the parlour so that Gamberell could read the missive in private. Breaking the seal, the latter unfolded the parchment and read the two evocative lines penned there. The letter was in the code which he had taught her to use and its meaning would be beyond anyone else. It made Gamberell grin with pleasure. She had written with a flowing hand which showed character and urgency. He longed to have those same fingers practising their calligraphy on him again.

  Her timing was perfect. After the storm he had just weathered, he felt the need of safe harbour in which to lie gloriously at anchor for a few hours. His last visit had been marred by the theft of Hyperion but that was not her fault. She had given him all that he wanted and was now o
ffering more. Gamberell could not refuse her. The generous body would be a partial recompense for the loss of his stallion. After reading the letter once again to savour its promise, he folded it and stuffed it into his belt.

  He had forgotten that his steward was there. In the background, the man coughed discreetly to attract attention. His master looked sharply across at him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will there be a reply, my lord?’

  ‘I will deliver it in person.’

  Edric the Cripple was working at the accounts when he heard the boy come into the house. Amalric's jaunty tread showed that he was still nursing happy memories of his midnight race against Hyperion. It also suggested that the gossip from Oxford had not yet worked its way through to him. Edric had been into the town that morning and found that its interest in the suicide of a young girl had in no way faded.

  When Amalric came into the bay where the steward sat at a table, he was grinning broadly. Victory had been dear to him. A sudden yawn proved that it had not been without cost.

  ‘A boy of your age should get more sleep,’ said Edric.

  ‘Who needs sleep when they can ride a horse?’

  ‘I do, Amalric. But my bones are older than yours.’

  ‘Shall we race again tonight?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You can ride Cempan this time.’

  ‘The issue has been decided. Ours is the better horse.’

  ‘That was never in doubt.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Edric. ‘But we enjoyed good fortune last night. Nobody saw us. Nobody interrupted our contest. We might not be so lucky a second time. It is foolish to take any more unnecessary risks. That is why I will return Hyperion.’

  ‘Return him?’ gasped Amalric.

  ‘After dark.’

  ‘But that would be madness,’ argued the boy. ‘You stole him in order to prevent another race taking place and thus stop my lord Milo from seizing Cempan. If you restore the black stallion to his master, the race will surely be set up.’

  ‘Not for some while at least.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because they would not run without my lord Wymarc's horses in the contest to swell the purse. They are not like us, Amalric. Cempan against Hyperion. They will want more horses in the race.’