‘I think there is another reason, my lady.’
‘What is that?’
‘Our steward is known as Edric the Cripple,’ said the other. ‘Hereford has unhappy memories for him. That is where he lost his leg.’
Towing his own horse on a lead-rein, Edric the Cripple gave himself the pleasure of riding Hyperion for the last time. The moon was hidden behind the clouds. He hugged the trees for additional cover. When he got close to the house, he tethered his own horse to a bush and eased Hyperion forward at a walking pace. A dog began to bark but the clank of a chain showed that he was not at large. Edric waited until the barking stopped then nudged the black stallion on.
It was over in a matter of minutes. When he closed the stable door, Edric looked up at the house where a contented man slept unwittingly with a wayward wife. Edric smirked. He took pleasure in being able to destroy their marital harmony. He used his crutch to hop away through the shadows. Hyperion was no longer his problem. The stallion would cause worries for somebody else now. Mounting his own horse, he was soon making his way back home at a steady trot.
When the dog barked again, Edric was miles away.
She was still in her night attire. Sitting on a chair in the bedchamber, she combed her hair with languid strokes and imagined the pleasure of having her lover's fingers running through her tresses. He had liberated her as a woman. After years in a stale bed with an older man, she had finally found someone who could ignite her passion until it crackled with delight and burned itself out in an explosion of pure ecstasy. She knew that he would come to her again. Her letter had been sent in the code which he had given her. Meaningless to anyone else, it held a promise of utter bliss for them.
She cocked an ear to listen for the departing hoofbeats. Her husband would be away in Oxford for the whole day. Having left a bored and unsatisfied wife, he would return to a woman whose every desire had been fulfilled by her lover. The beauty of it was that her husband would observe no difference. He had long ago stopped looking at her with any interest. She was completely safe. He would never know.
When the hoofbeats did not come, she crossed to the window to investigate. They should have left by now. Her lover would be concealed nearby, waiting in the trees for her husband and his reeve to ride past him on the road to Oxford. Until that happened, he would not come near the house. She grew fretful. What was causing the delay?
The door burst open and her husband stormed in.
‘Why is his black stallion in my stables?’ he demanded.
‘Whose stallion?’ she asked.
The blow sent her reeling to the floor.
‘Bertrand Gamberell. Everyone in the county knows that horse of his.’
Arnulf the Chaplain was heartened to see so many communicants in church that morning. He did not flatter himself that they came in response to his own efforts to build a congregation. Shock and uncertainty had brought many of them there. The suicide of a girl in Woodstock had stirred them deeply and reminded them of the need to keep their spiritual lives in repair. They came in search of guidance and reassurance. They wanted to be told how Christians ought properly to view the tragedy and to be reaffirmed in a faith which Helene had so conspicuously betrayed. Arnulf was tolerant of their shortcomings. He put bread on their tongues and held the chalice to their lips without discrimination.
When the service was over, he went quickly back to the chamber where Bristeva was lodged. He tapped on the door but there was no reply. Inching the door ajar, he saw that the girl was still fast asleep. Bristeva lay on her back. He was struck by how beautiful she looked with her hair loose and her face brushed by the light from the window. It was a peaceful slumber. The girl was completely at ease in the strange surroundings and he knew that Golde was partly responsible for that. She had helped Bristeva to relax and settle in.
Arnulf was about to step into the room when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Brother Columbanus had come out of his own chamber and now stood behind him. Over the chaplain's shoulder, he looked down at Bristeva.
‘She is an angel at rest,’ he said.
‘Bristeva worked hard yesterday. It tired her.’
‘Then let her sleep on.’
‘I will.’
‘This is a big day for her, Arnulf. Do not bring her into it until she is ready to come. Let her awake in her own time.’
‘You are right, Brother Columbanus.’
He stepped back and closed the door gently behind him.
Bertrand Gamberell began to wonder if there had been a mistake. Having waited in his hiding place for the best part of an hour, he could still see no sign of a departing husband. Had the woman sent him the wrong message? Or had there been a change of plan? He felt certain that she would have sent a second message if there was any serious problem, and he could not believe that she had dragged him all the way there in order to humiliate him by keeping him at bay. Was it possible that her husband had left even before he arrived?
Gamberell wondered if he should approach the house. A cautious reconnaissance would establish if its master was still at home. He decided against the idea. If she was already alone, she would surely have found a means to signal to him. All that he could do was to sit and wait. It was a small price to pay for the delights which lay ahead.
Relief eventually came. He heard the distant clack of hooves on the road and two horsemen appeared from the direction of the house. Gamberell walked up the slope once again to make sure that they would not turn back. From his lofty perch, he saw the pair of them riding at a steady canter. Husband and reeve were clearly in a hurry to get to Oxford. Gamberell slapped his thigh and retrieved his own mount. He rode down to the house.
Recalling his last visit, he skirted the stables and instead concealed his horse in some thickets, looking around to make sure that he was unobserved. He did not want the same embarrassment again. When he was certain that nobody had seen where the animal was hidden, he crept back towards the house. From the edge of the stables, he could see the window of her bedchamber. She was there. A simple gesture from her hand was enough. Gamberell broke into a gentle run.
He let himself in by the rear door which had been left open for him then headed for the staircase. Surging up the steps, he went straight to her door and knocked on it with a proprietorial firmness. Before she could answer, he flung it open and stepped in to claim her. The woman was standing against the wall beside the bed. Gamberell beamed at her. In a moment he would saunter across and take her in his arms.
Then he saw the bruise on her temple and the blood that trickled from her mouth. He took a worried step towards her.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
The door slammed shut behind him. Gamberell swung round to find himself staring at her enraged husband. Two other men stood with him, each armed with a wooden stave. Gamberell recovered his poise with remarkable speed.
‘I can explain all this,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Do,’ said the husband coldly. ‘Afterwards.’
Before the secret lover could even move, he was felled by a blow from a stave. Both men belaboured him without mercy. The woman screamed at the top of her voice and begged them to stop but the husband urged them on.
Bertrand Gamberell writhed in pain.
Ralph Delchard remained sceptical about what he had heard.
‘This is her husband's work,’ he decided.
‘I think not,’ said Gervase.
‘He told her to plead on his behalf.’
‘That is unlikely, Ralph.’
‘I agree,’ said Golde. ‘He may have asked her to sound me out because he assumed I would be an easier target. But he could hardly expect such an approach to work with Gervase.’
The three of them were sitting over the remains of breakfast in the hall. Having risen late, they were enjoying a leisurely start to the day. Gervase had told them of his conversation outside the church with Edith.
‘That is the other thing,’ he argued. ‘It was a chance enco
unter.’
‘Was it?’ wondered Ralph. ‘Perhaps she saw you go into the church and lurked outside in readiness.’
‘For a whole hour?’
‘That is a ridiculous idea,’ said Golde. ‘Besides, my lady Edith said nothing about her husband which is going to alter Gervase's mind. It sounds to me as if she were merely trying to answer the question we have all posed. Why did she marry Robert d'Oilly?’
‘A death wish!’ declared Ralph.
‘Expediency,’ she said.
‘My lady Edith was at pains to suggest there was more to it than that,’ remembered Gervase. ‘To her, he is not the ogre he may appear to others.’
‘Appear!’ repeated Ralph with a snort. ‘Appear, Gervase? He is. When a man taxes you out of your home, or beats you senseless, he does not appear to be an ogre. He is one.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Speak to Ebbi. Ask him if Robert d'Oilly appeared to be cruel when he struck Ebbi down.’
‘Let us not bring that up again, Ralph,’ said Golde.
‘Let us not forget it either.’
‘I was pleased that my lady Edith spoke to me the way that she did,’ said Gervase. ‘She was not trying to excuse or offer extenuation. She wanted me simply to understand her position.’
‘We do,’ concluded Ralph. ‘She is married to an ogre.’
‘Who happens to be our host,’ reminded Golde.
‘An hospitable ogre, then.’
The three of them laughed and rose from the table. Tension evaporated. They strolled across to the door. Ralph turned back and waved an expansive arm.
‘This place will be full to the ceiling tonight,’ he warned. ‘And the noise in here will be deafening.’
‘Until Bristeva sings,’ noted Golde.
‘Is that the young Saxon girl you mentioned?’
‘Yes, Ralph.’
‘She is Arnulf's prize chorister,’ said Gervase.
‘I can see why,’ said Golde. ‘I heard her practising in here yesterday. She is a charming girl and deserves her chance to shine. Her father will be here to support her.’
‘We have met Ordgar,’ said Ralph.
‘Have you met his steward? Edric the Cripple?’
‘No, my love. But Ordgar talked at length about him.’
‘Did he say how the man lost his leg?’
‘In combat.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘We have not yet managed to find it,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘We have searched everywhere for that missing leg.’
Gervase grinned. ‘Ignore him, Golde.’
‘It was such an odd coincidence,’ she said.
‘Coincidence?’ said Gervase.
‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘Edric was once in Hereford. At a time when I lived there myself. He was in the service of Roger of Breteuil, once the Earl of Hereford.’
Ralph looked startled. He shot a glance at Gervase.
‘Is that not a coincidence?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Ralph. ‘It certainly is.’
Robert d'Oilly posted men on the northern road to Oxford so that he could have advance warning of the bishop's approach. Geoffrey of Coutances was an important visitor who needed to be welcomed in style and looked after with the utmost care. When he left Oxford, the bishop would ride south to Winchester where he would doubtless give a full account to the King of his time with the sheriff. It was vital that that account was wholly complimentary.
Edith had helped to supervise the banquet itself. He had no qualms about that. It would be a splendid occasion. Once the bishop and his entourage were feasting in the hall, they would notice none of the problems which were besetting the town, and they would ride away with pleasant memories and a high opinion of Robert d'Oilly's cordiality. All that the sheriff had to do was to greet his distinguished visitor with the pomp and pageantry that he would expect.
The preparations were thorough. Guards were doubled on the ramparts. Banners were trailed over the walls. A flag was hoisted up each pole. Every man in the garrison was on parade in the bailey, lined up in readiness to impress the newcomers. Oxford Castle exuded a sense of order, alertness and power.
In her finest attire, Edith stood beside her husband.
‘How long will they be, Robert?’
‘A matter of minutes.’
‘It will be good to see the bishop again.’
‘I could wish the circumstances were more propitious,’ he said. ‘He will be riding into a castle that is besieged with all kinds of difficulties.’
‘Rise above them,’ she said, squeezing his arm.
‘I will try, Edith.’
A warning cry from the top of the church tower told him that the travellers were at hand, their cavalcade swinging right at the crossroads to make the short journey westwards to the castle. The sheriff signalled to his captains and orders were shouted. The ranks straightened. The rows of helms glinted in the sunlight. The flags fluttered in the wind. It was a fitting tribute to the arrival of one of the wealthiest, most celebrated and most ostentatious of Norman prelates.
Ralph, Gervase and Golde watched from windows in the keep. Brother Columbanus took up his position in the bailey. Arnulf the Chaplain brought Bristeva out from the church so that she could witness the magnificence of the bishop's train. Ostlers and servants made sure that they did not miss the moment of arrival. The whole castle quivered in anticipation.
Through the castle gates came the leading horse, ridden by a soldier who bore the banner of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances. Six more knights came next in pairs, followed by the august person of the bishop himself on a white horse, flanked by four outriders and trailed by two monks, two priests and ten more armoured knights in a winding procession. They clattered into the bailey like members of a conquering army and the bishop acknowledged the assembly with a condescending wave.
Bristeva's mouth went dry and her heart pounded. She had never seen anything like it. The sight of Robert d'Oilly always impressed her, but Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances made him seem small and insignificant. Erect in the saddle of his white charger, and wearing a scarlet robe that was trimmed with ermine, he was a huge, hunched, red-faced man who exuded an extraordinary amalgam of power and religiosity. Bristeva was so overwhelmed by him that her legs began to tremble and she feared that she would never be able to sing in front of someone so terrifyingly eminent. She leaned against Arnulf for support and he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Robert d'Oilly stepped forward to welcome the bishop with a short, flowery but reverential speech and Edith added her own greeting with a low curtsey. Geoffrey remained in the saddle to preserve his authority and to run a satisfied eye around the bailey. He liked to feel expected. His voice was deep and commanding.
‘It is good to be in Oxford again, Robert.’
‘You are always most welcome here, your grace.’
‘It has been a tedious journey from Warwickshire.’
‘We will help you to shake off the dust.’
‘I hear that you have commissioners in the town.’
‘That is so.’
‘I served in that office myself when the first circuits were drawn up,’ boasted Geoffrey. ‘This second team only looks under the stones that we lifted for them. I will be glad to meet them and give them the benefit of my advice.’
‘They await your company.’
‘What else awaits me, Robert?’
‘A banquet in your honour, your grace.’
‘I like the sound of this.’
‘You will feast royally at my table.’
Geoffrey was content. He took his horse in a wide circle to inspect the parade which had been laid on for his benefit and then he signalled to one of the soldiers. The man ran forward to help him dismount, offering his shoulder for support to the episcopal hand as the bulky frame was heaved out of the saddle. Even on foot, the Bishop of Coutances still towered over most of those around him.
‘How do I find Oxford?’ he asked.
‘In good or
der,’ lied the sheriff manfully. ‘You find it well governed and well maintained.’
‘We heard rumours of trouble as we rode south.’
‘They were only rumours, your grace.’
‘I knew that they were,’ said Geoffrey with a grin. ‘Robert d'Oilly would never allow anything to upset the even tenor of his county.’ He turned to Edith. ‘Would he?’
‘No, your grace,’ she said.
‘Oxford is an example to every town in the realm.’
‘I strive to make it so,’ said d'Oilly.
‘You succeed, Robert,’ confirmed the bishop, gazing around once more. ‘This castle is a symbol of your governance. I am truly glad to be within its comforting walls.’
‘Your peace will not be disturbed here, your grace.’
It was an unfortunate prediction. No sooner had it left the sheriff's mouth than it was contradicted in the most striking way. Another visitor came trotting in through the castle gates but with far less ceremony. Hyperion, the black stallion, scattered the other horses as he came to the centre of the bailey and halted in front of the bishop.
Tied across his saddle, covered in bruises and dripping with blood, was the naked body of Bertrand Gamberell.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, the gruesome sight still vibrated in the memory of all who witnessed it. Hyperion had been stabled, his cargo lifted off, the bishop and his entourage bestowed in their lodgings, the bailey cleared, the garrison returned to its quarters, the servants and ostlers restored to their duties, the watching faces removed from the windows and the whole scene of pageantry wiped away as if it had never existed. Yet it remained as fresh and vivid as ever in the mind.
Even viewed from a distance, it had been horrific.
‘It was hideous!’ recalled Gervase.
‘I still shake at the very thought of it,’ said Golde.
‘Hardly the best welcome for a bishop,’ said Ralph drily.
‘Can my lord Bertrand still be alive?’ she asked.
‘Apparently, my love. The doctor is still with him. I managed to grab a brief word with the sheriff but he would not let me into the room to see the patient.’
The Stallions of Woodstock Page 25
