The Stallions of Woodstock E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Domesday
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 428

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Three powerful Norman lords and a dispossessed Saxon thegn watch their steeds race close to the forest of Woodstock, each lusting for a win. But the first horse past the post has an empty saddle and his rider is lying in a copse with a knife in his back. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret, Domesday commissioners on behalf of the King, are guests of the Sheriff of Oxford while they settle a land dispute. But soon their attentions are focused on a stretch of grass outside Woodstock where a murderer's secrets are to be found. The solution will not be easy; from the powerful lords with their dynastic ties, to the downtrodden Saxons, living beneath the heavy Norman yoke, Oxfordshire is teeming with malice, hatred and struggles for power. More than one man has reason to wise the rider of the black stallion unseated from his horse. But who would go so far as murder?

Leseprobe

4PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON

‘A master storyteller’

Daily Mail

‘Packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful [and] well-written’

Time Out

‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’

Sunday Telegraph

‘Filled with period detail, the pace is steady and the plot is thick with suspects, solutions and clues. Marston has a real knack for blending detail, character and story with great skill’

Historical Novels Review

‘The past is brought to life with brilliant colours, combined with a perfect whodunnit. Who needs more?’

The Guardian

5

THE STALLIONS OF WOODSTOCK

EDWARD MARSTON

7To my son, Conrad, in the hope that this novel will rekindle memories of his study of medieval history at Oxford8

9

The speaker observed in the disgusting lechery of the one, the chaste intention of the other, and he saw in that act not the conjunction of their bodies but the diversity of their minds. ‘There were two persons involved and only one committed adultery.’

De Civitate Dei

Augustine of Hippo (AD 354–430)10

Contents

Title pageDedicationEpigraphPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenEpilogueAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

11

Prologue

Most of the riders were there well before the race was due to begin. They wanted to walk the course in search of potential hazards and have time to prepare their horses for the test ahead. All would be decided by a hell-for-leather gallop over uneven ground. It was no friendly contest. Far too much was at stake for that. A large amount of money and an even greater amount of pride were invested in the race. One of the parties involved was also prompted by a lust for revenge.

Wymarc made no effort to hide his bitterness.

‘Let us start without him,’ he declared.

‘That would be unfair,’ said Milo Crispin.

‘When has he ever been fair with us?’ argued Wymarc with 12sudden vehemence. ‘His name is a byword for unfairness. He will seize any advantage in the most ruthless and unjust way. Bertrand Gamberell is not here at the appointed time and that is that. His horse must be disqualified. His share of the purse goes to the winner.’

‘Not so fast, my friend,’ cautioned the other.

‘But he has failed to appear.’

‘Be patient a while longer. The race is set for noon and we have not yet heard the bell for Sext. Until we do, we may not in all honesty proceed.’

‘Even when it serves our purpose?’

‘Even then, Wymarc.’

‘But it would be a means to strike back at Bertrand.’

‘We will do that in the race itself,’ said Milo calmly. ‘And without Bertrand, there is no race. He threw down the challenge and we accepted it. As we have done on three previous occasions in the last six months.’

‘Always to our cost!’ said Wymarc ruefully.

‘Fortune has favoured him thus far. His luck will not hold for ever. Win today and your losses are restored. That is the only way to strike back at Bertrand Gamberell. By beating that black stallion of his.’

‘But Hyperion runs like the wind.’

‘So do my horses, Wymarc. They have been in training.’

‘Mine, too.’

‘Then one of us will be the victor.’

A long sigh. ‘I hope so. I would dearly love to wipe that arrogant smile from Bertrand’s face and send him home with an empty purse. It would gall me to see him win again.’ 13

‘That will not happen today.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Rest assured of it,’ said Milo with quiet confidence. ‘This race will certainly not go the way of the others. Bertrand will be the loser here today.’

Milo Crispin was a slim, well-groomed, dignified man with an air of easy authority about him. A scion of the ancient aristocracy of Normandy, his military prowess and loyalty to the Conqueror had been richly rewarded. He was one of the major landholders in the county with over thirty manors in his strong grasp. The king had also given him the charge of Wallingford Castle, a key fortress in the south of Oxfordshire. So accustomed was Milo to the unimpeded exercise of power that he found any resistance to his will, however trivial, highly vexatious and swept it instantly aside.

Even in a horse race, he felt entitled to be the winner.

Unlike his companion, Wymarc was not able to hide his disappointment beneath a mask of composure. He wore his heart and his resentment on his sleeve for all to see. A short, stout man of thirty with piggy eyes set in a flabby face, Wymarc yielded to none in his appreciation of horses and he was forever trying to improve the quality of his stable. He had reason enough to dislike Milo Crispin but felt a kinship with him now, united as they were by a common hatred of Bertrand Gamberell and by a determination to humble him in the race.

‘He is not coming,’ said Wymarc irritably.

‘Nothing would keep him away.’

‘Why is he making us wait like this?’

‘It is all part of his strategy,’ decided Milo. 14

‘Where is the man?’

Bertrand Gamberell gave his own answer to the question. Flanked by two of his knights, he came trotting briskly along on his destrier, towing the black stallion behind him on a lead-rein. He was an arresting figure, tall, rangy and possessed of a dark handsomeness that he knew how to exploit to the full. Over his hauberk he wore a white tunic emblazoned with the head of a black stallion. As he closed in on them he gave a cheerful wave of greeting.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Milo. ‘Bertrand is here.’

‘More’s the pity!’ groaned Wymarc, raising his voice as the newcomer rode up to them. ‘You’re late. That is unforgivable. I had half a mind to start without you.’

Gamberell grinned. ‘You certainly have only half a mind. It is your most distinctive feature, Wymarc. But I beg leave to disagree about being late. I am here exactly on time.’ He beamed at his black stallion. ‘And so is Hyperion.’

On a nod from his master, one of his men dismounted from his own horse and hauled himself up into Hyperion’s saddle. The stallion responded with a snort and some spirited prancing, then headed for the starting point at a gentle canter. Gamberell watched him with a proprietorial smile. Wymarc looked on with a mixture of envy and apprehension but Milo seemed unperturbed by the arrival of the celebrated Hyperion. He had faith in his own horses.

‘Well, my friends,’ teased Gamberell, gazing from one to the other. ‘How much will I win off you today?’

‘Nothing!’ vowed Wymarc.

‘You say that every time.’ 15

‘I have brought swifter legs with me today.’

‘No horse can outrun Hyperion.’

‘We shall see,’ said Milo levelly.

‘Do you really believe that you have a chance?’ mocked Gamberell. ‘In that case, you will be ready to increase the size of your wager. Is that not so, Milo?’

‘Let it stand at the amount on which we settled,’ replied the other. ‘And let the race begin at the agreed time.’

‘Hyperion is ready.’

‘So are we, Bertrand.’

Milo Crispin gave a signal to the soldier who was acting as the starter and the latter began to marshal the runners into line. There were six horses in the race. Milo and Wymarc had entered two apiece against Hyperion. The other horse was owned by Ordgar, a Saxon thegn who had been robbed of most of his land after the Conquest and reduced to the status of a subtenant on Milo’s estates, an ignominy he bore with surprising grace. Ordgar was a silver-haired old man, forced to come to composition with the invaders yet still ready to offer any legitimate check to their primacy if the opportunity arose.

Lacking the money for his share of the purse, Ordgar had collected it from a group of friends who were equally keen to see a Saxon competing with Norman riders, especially as the Saxon in question was Ordgar’s son, Amalric, barely sixteen but with the determination of a grown man. Young, strong and sinewy, Amalric was a fine horseman astride a speedy mount and his participation in the race had brought out a small and vocal group of supporters. The animal was a chestnut colt, stringy in appearance but pulsing with energy and lithe in movement. 16

When Gamberell saw him, he gave a derisive laugh.

‘What, in God’s name, is that?’ he said.

‘Ordgar’s horse,’ explained Milo.

‘That creature intends to race against Hyperion?’

‘Indeed he does. Ordgar’s son is in the saddle.’

Gamberell sniggered. ‘The boy would stand more chance of winning if he carried the horse instead of expecting that ridiculous skeleton to bear him. Is that foolish old Saxon so eager to throw away his money?’

‘He is looking to increase it threefold, Bertrand.’

‘Then he had better hobble Hyperion and the other runners because that is the only way he will have a hope of success. The horse is so thin and undernourished.’

‘Yet hungry for victory,’ observed Milo.

‘Just like us,’ added a scowling Wymarc.

The sound of a distant chiming silenced them. Midday was marked by the bell for Sext. The horses were prancing in a ragged line, but each time the starter raised an arm to set them off one or two broke mutinously away and had to be coaxed back into position. With each nervous second, the tension grew among riders and spectators alike.

Milo Crispin, Wymarc and Bertrand Gamberell were on a hillock a small distance away from the course. Each of the Norman lords was astride his destrier, sturdy animals bred for stamina, strength and reliability, but none had entered a warhorse in the race. They had carefully selected their best coursers, smaller horses with greater pace and nimbleness. Five riders had shed their armour to lighten the load on their mounts. Amalric, the sixth, wore his customary tunic and 17gartered stockings. He was the only bearded rider.

They were on the edge of the forest at Woodstock, part of a thick band of luxuriant woodland which extended almost without interruption from the hills above Burford to the forest of Bernwood in the neighbouring county of Buckinghamshire. Woodstock was part of the royal demesne and, as such, protected by savage forest laws. Only the privileged standing of the Norman lords allowed them to hold a race on land where anyone else would be accused of trespass and punished with severity.

As the riders struggled to bring their horses into line at the start, the noonday bell continued its sonorous boom in the background as if registering its disapproval of anything so frivolous as a mere horse race. The course was a straight mile long with enough undulations to test any rider. There was a leafy copse some two hundred yards before the halfway point. Onlookers had an excellent view of the race except for the fleeting seconds when the horses would be invisible in the trees. Two wooden stakes, set wide apart, marked the finishing line. Milo and Wymarc had each provided a man to act as judges in the event of a close finish. Ordgar and his friends also waited near the end of the course.

Recent rain had left the ground soft and treacherous. When the starter eventually brought down his raised arm to set the race in motion, two of the horses slithered in the mud before they sped away. Hyperion, by contrast, neighed loudly and rose up on his hind legs to pummel the air with shining hooves. By the time he condescended to join the race, he was thirty yards adrift of the others. Neither his rider nor his owner was alarmed by this state of affairs. They 18knew Hyperion’s mettle. He would soon overhaul his rivals.

One of Wymarc’s horses, a bay mare, was the early leader and it made him yell with joy. Milo was pleased to see his two runners close behind. Amalric’s colt was also giving a good account of itself, covering the ground with long, graceful strides that belied its spindly appearance. After his delayed start, Hyperion was narrowing the gap remorselessly.

Wymarc only had eyes for the bay mare in the lead.

‘I’m going to win!’ he shouted, slapping his thigh.

‘Do not celebrate too soon,’ warned Gamberell.

‘I’ll beat you at last, Bertrand.’

‘The race is not over yet. My money still rides on Hyperion. He will not let his master down.’

Milo Crispin said nothing. His face remained impassive.

When they reached the copse, Hyperion had almost caught up with them. The six horses plunged into the trees and were briefly lost from sight. Radical changes occurred before they reappeared. The bay mare had dropped back to third position. One of Milo’s horses, a sleek grey with a slashing stride, now led the pack with Amalric’s chestnut colt on his heels. Wymarc was distraught and let out a moan of disappointment as his mare lost even more ground.

But the most dramatic change concerned Hyperion. He flashed out of the copse with such speed and purpose that it was only a matter of time before he passed the others. The black stallion, however, had an advantage denied to his rivals. After his dash through the trees, he was now without a rider.

Bertrand Gamberell was jerked out of his complacence.

‘My man has been thrown!’ he protested. 19

‘Then he is out of the reckoning,’ said Milo.

‘No! The race is void!’

‘You have lost, Bertrand. Take defeat with good grace.’

‘Hyperion has not been beaten fairly.’

‘He has been beaten,’ gloated Wymarc. ‘That is what matters most. Your black stallion is not invincible after all.’

‘I demand another race!’ insisted Gamberell.

‘Let us see who wins this one first,’ said Milo.

They were approaching the last furlong now. The grey was still leading but the chestnut colt was slowly drawing level. Wymarc’s bay mare was completely out of it. Surging past all three of them, Hyperion then swung off the course and galloped crazily towards the forest. Fearful that the animal might injure itself, Gamberell dispatched a man after him at once.

Under his skilful control, Amalric’s mount was now racing neck and neck with the grey. From their vantage point on the hillock, it was impossible for the three men to tell which of the horses would pass the wooden stakes first, but Ordgar and his friends had no doubts. Exhorting their champion on over the final hundred yards, they let out such a collective cry of triumph that the result was all too evident. The chestnut colt had won the day. Five experienced Norman riders had been beaten by a Saxon youth.

Torn between delight at Gamberell’s defeat and annoyance at his own, Wymarc did not know whether to grin or glower. Milo was irked by losing but gave no outward sign of this. Their companion ignored the result of the race. He was much more concerned to establish why Hyperion had thrown his rider and besmirched his hitherto spotless record. Kicking his destrier into 20life, Gamberell cantered towards the copse. Milo and Wymarc went after him at a more leisurely pace.

The sun was warm on their backs, the birdsong melodious in their ears. As they picked their way through the trees, they saw that Gamberell had already dismounted. He was standing beside the fallen rider in a clearing. The man was lying on his back with his head at an unnatural angle to his body. His neck had patently been broken in the fall. Even Wymarc found sympathy stealing into his heart.

Bertrand Gamberell stared angrily up at them.

‘The race is void!’ he snarled. ‘I refuse to pay.’

‘It is a matter of honour,’ reminded Milo.

‘Honour!’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘What honour is there in this? My man was given no chance to win.’

Wymarc shrugged. ‘He was thrown, Bertrand. It is very unfortunate but it does not invalidate the race. Your rider should have stayed in the saddle.’

‘He did – until someone knocked him out of it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Milo.

Gamberell indicated the stream of blood that was trickling from beneath the prostrate figure, then used a foot to turn the man over. Milo and Wymarc reacted with horror at the sight. Gamberell cursed. The rider had clearly not been thrown by his horse in the copse.

Embedded in the middle of his back was a dagger.

21

Chapter One

They could not believe that it was still afternoon. It was more like the dead of night. The sky was so dark and menacing that it seemed as if it would drop down at any moment like a gigantic blanket to smother them in its unforgiving blackness and wipe out all memory of their existence. It was the worst possible time to be caught in open country. Ralph Delchard was leading the cavalcade at a brisk pace but there was no way that they could outrun the storm that was coming.

‘How far is the next village?’ asked Golde.

‘Too far,’ said Ralph, glancing up at the swirling clouds. ‘We are going to get wet, I fear. Thoroughly and horribly wet.’

‘Is there nowhere to shelter?’ 22

‘None that I see, my love.’

The first rumble of thunder set off a flurry of neighing among the horses. Their eyes rolled in alarm and their ears twitched apprehensively. When forked lightning suddenly ripped open the sky and caught them in the devastating brilliance of its glare, the animals were even more disturbed. Two bucked violently, a third tried to bolt and all had to be brought under control by their riders.

There were nineteen in the party. Behind Ralph and Golde were Gervase Bret, Maurice Pagnal, a new commissioner, and Brother Columbanus, their scribe. Ten of Ralph’s knights rode in pairs with four from Maurice’s personal retinue bringing up the rear. The escort was there to provide safety on the journey to Oxford and visible testament to the importance of the visitors once they reached it, but the soldiers had no wish to ride into the town like so many drowned men on horseback. When Ralph increased his speed, they responded willingly.

There were no first warning drops of rain. The deluge was instantaneous. Stinging sheets of water fell out of the heavens, drenching them within seconds and turning the track over which they rode into a squelching quagmire. They splashed their way on until a stand of trees came into view. There was some cover under the branches but danger, too, from the lightning as it dazzled murderously again directly overhead. Spurning the dubious protection of the trees, Ralph took them round a bend and down a gentle slope. It was only then that hope beckoned.

The hamlet nestled in a hollow less than a quarter of a mile away. It was only a small cluster of mean houses but it held a promise of welcome hospitality to the travellers at that moment. With their spirits lifted, they quickened their pace even more 23and tried to ignore the driving rain and the capricious wind which had sprung up to torment them. Shelter was their sole concern. Relief was at hand.

As they got closer to the hamlet, however, they realised that it was a cruel illusion. Glimpsed through the downpour, it had looked like a dry haven in the midst of a roaring tempest. They now saw that it was a crumbling ruin, long deserted by its inhabitants and inconsiderately left to fend for itself against the depredations of time and sustained assaults from inclement weather.

Golde sighed with disappointment and resigned herself to a continued soaking but Ralph spied some comfort. Bringing the bedraggled column to a halt, he took a quick inventory of the settlement. Thatch on the hovels had perished or been burnt but there was still a vestigial roof over the small barn, and, though many walls had started to tumble, enough remained to provide a modicum of defence against the storm.

Ralph barked a series of peremptory orders and jabbed at the buildings with his finger. Riders dismounted, horses were tethered, cover was sought. An arm around her shoulders, Ralph conducted Golde into the barn. When they were joined by Gervase and the grumbling Maurice, there was barely enough of the roof left to shield them all. Brother Columbanus stood in the open a few yards away with a benign smile of acceptance on his cherubic features. His tonsure glistened and raindrops ran freely from his nose, chin and ears.

‘Come in under the roof,’ invited Gervase.

‘I am happy enough where I am,’ said the monk.

‘You will be soaked to the skin.’ 24

‘It will refresh me, Gervase. Rain is a gift from God and He does not mean us to flee from it in terror. It is something to be savoured.’ He turned his face upward. ‘We should offer a prayer of thanks for this blessing.’

‘The fellow is mad!’ exclaimed Ralph.

‘Or downright stupid,’ said Maurice. ‘Look at the fool!’

‘Come over here, Brother Columbanus,’ urged Golde, moving closer to the barn wall. ‘We have made room for you.’

‘There is no need,’ the monk assured her, closing his eyes as the water cascaded off his face. ‘This rain brings joy. It will enrich the soil and stimulate new growth. It is all part of Nature’s pattern. Even the thunder and lightning are sent by God for a purpose.’

‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘To frighten the horses.’

‘To signal His displeasure, my lord. We should take note of God’s rebuke and strive to mend our ways.’

‘We would rather strive to keep dry.’

‘And so must you,’ added Gervase.

Darting out into the rain, he took the monk by the arm and pulled him back under the roof. Brother Columbanus did not resist. He was a short, stocky man in his thirties with an unassailable buoyancy. While others might complain about the setbacks on their journey, Columbanus somehow managed to view them in a kindly and uncensorious light. Gervase liked him but Ralph was irritated by the monk’s unrelenting optimism.

The other new member of the commission took a more sceptical view of the world. Maurice Pagnal looked out at the storm and shook his head in bewilderment.

‘What on earth am I doing here?’ he wondered. 25

‘Serving the king,’ said Ralph.

‘How can I serve anyone in weather such as this?’

‘You are grown soft, Maurice. Have you so soon forgotten? We came to this country as soldiers, ready to fight in wind, rain, sleet or snow to achieve victory over our enemies. When did we let the weather get the upper hand over us?’

‘Never, Ralph,’ said the other with a chuckle. ‘I recall a time in Yorkshire when we battled in a hailstorm. But my soldiering did not end here in England like yours. I saw service in Sicily and beyond. A helm and hauberk are rough companions in the baking heat. The sun roasted us like chickens on a spit.’

Maurice Pagnal was a grizzled warrior, a wiry man with a craggy face, who had spent most of his adult life in one army or another and had finally retired to his honour in Dorset. He had been asked to join the commissioners when Canon Hubert, their appointed colleague, was indisposed and, for all his protests, Maurice was a willing member of a team sent out to enforce the king’s writ. Ralph found his cheerful gruffness infinitely preferable to the pomposity of the canon but Gervase was reserving his judgement on their new fellow. Maurice was a little too rough-hewn for him.

Deprived of the pleasure of attacking them on the open road, the storm intensified its fury, rattling the rafters with a fierce wind and blowing the rain vengefully in at them. Thunder and lightning tortured the horses afresh, and they grew ever more restless. Dispersed throughout the hovels, the soldiers found what cover they could. The hamlet was a poor refuge but it saved them from the worst of the wild afternoon.

Ralph moved his head to avoid a drip through the roof. 26

‘What a dreadful place in which to lodge!’ he said.

‘I fear that you must take some blame for that,’ observed Gervase softly.

‘Me?’

‘Indirectly.’

‘I have never been near this godforsaken spot before.’

‘I think you have, Ralph,’ said Gervase. ‘Did you not tell me that Duke William led his invading army west along the Thames and crossed the river at Wallingford?’

‘Why, so we did,’ recalled Maurice. ‘Cutting down everyone who stood in our way. Laying waste. You and I were comrades-in-arms, Ralph. We did our share of destruction.’

‘Perhaps we did,’ admitted Ralph, uneasy about a topic of conversation which would unsettle his Saxon wife. ‘But I do not see why we should drag up such memories now. That is all in the distant past.’

‘Not to us,’ said Golde quietly.

Gervase took in the hamlet with a sweep of his arm.

‘Here stands the evidence. Wallingford is no more than a mile or two away. This place must have been raided and its inhabitants killed or driven out. We shall find many such places in Oxfordshire, I believe.’

Golde nodded. ‘And in my own county of Herefordshire.’

‘War is war,’ said Maurice dismissively. ‘Resistance had to be put down and that is what we did. It needs no apology.’ His face crinkled into a smile. ‘And there were benefits to you as well, Golde. If you take the long view. Thanks to the ambition of Duke William, as he then was, you are now married to a Norman lord with fine estates in Hampshire. 27In some sense, you are a true beneficiary of the Conquest.’

‘In some sense,’ she confessed. ‘But not all.’

Ralph shifted his feet. ‘Enough of this idle banter.’

‘Gervase has made a fair point,’ said Brother Columbanus seriously. ‘You and my lord Maurice were part of an army which left a trail of destruction across England. I sincerely hope that both of you did penance for the sins you committed during that time.’

‘What sins?’ said Maurice defiantly. ‘We committed no sins, Brother Columbanus. We merely obeyed orders.’

‘You cannot shuffle off responsibility like that.’

‘We can do as we wish.’

‘Bishop Ermenfrid imposed a series of penances,’ said the monk with disarming mildness. ‘Slaughter on such a scale could not be ignored by the Church. That would be a sin in itself. Anyone who killed a man in the great battle of Hastings, for instance, was required to do penance for one year for each man he slew. Anyone who wounded a man—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Ralph. ‘We know all this and do not need your recitation. Why talk of things which happened twenty years ago when we have enough to preoccupy us in the present?’

‘Past and present meet in this hamlet,’ said Gervase.

Ralph grew testy. ‘If it is the only way to shut you up, I will concede your argument. Because a Norman army may – just may, mark you – have once marched through this place, we now have nowhere properly to shelter. If Maurice and I and the rest of us had had the sense to spare this hamlet, we would all be warm and dry at this moment in one of these dwellings. Will that content you, Gervase?’ 28

‘Admirably!’

Ralph’s outburst broke the tension and they all laughed aloud at the absurdity of his words. He hugged Golde to him and she squeezed his arm affectionately. Marriage to a Saxon woman had made him see his earlier years in England in a different light and he did not like to reflect on them. Gervase was pleased with the way that Brother Columbanus had supported him but unsurprised by Maurice’s blunt attitude. All shades of opinion were covered by the makeshift roof.

The five of them shook with inexplicable mirth. Huddled in corners or tucked hard against walls, the rest of the party looked on in blank amazement. What could anyone find to laugh at in the middle of a pelting storm?

Ralph’s arm was still around his wife’s shoulders.

‘Your mantle is sodden, my love,’ he noted. ‘We really need a fire to get ourselves dry.’

‘The sun will do that office in time,’ said Columbanus, searching the clouds. ‘It will not be long before it peeps through at us again, I fancy.’

Another rumble of thunder seemed to undermine this prediction but there was no lightning this time and the rain was slowly easing. The wind began to lose its bite. The horses were gradually calming down.

‘I will be glad to get to Oxford,’ said Maurice.

‘So will I, my lord,’ agreed Gervase, ‘but I doubt if they will be as glad to see us.’

‘Nobody likes tax-gatherers.’

‘We are much more than that, Maurice,’ corrected Ralph with a touch of pride. ‘We are royal commissioners, empowered 29to investigate a number of irregularities in the returns from this county. Our task is to root out fraud and felony as well as to assign taxes to their rightful place. It is crucial work but it will not win us many friends.’

‘What sort of town is Oxford?’ asked Golde.

‘A dull one, I hope,’ said Maurice with a yawn. ‘Dull and dreary. I am so desperately tired of excitement. From what I can judge, our work should be completed in less than a week. Then I can ride back home to Dorset where I belong.’

‘Do not count on that,’ said Ralph.

‘But everything seems so straightforward.’

‘It always does. But it never is.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Ralph Delchard grimaced and heaved a deep sigh.

‘Experience, my friend,’ he said. ‘Bitter experience.’

Hours later, Bertrand Gamberell was still seething with rage.

‘The villain must be caught!’ he exclaimed.

‘He will be,’ said Robert d’Oilly.

‘It was foul murder.’

‘The crime will be answered, Bertrand.’

‘I will tear him to pieces with my bare hands!’

‘That would be a ruinous folly on your part.’

‘But he killed one of my men.’

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘and I appreciate how you must feel. But do not let anger outweigh common sense. You will not cancel out one murder by committing another. It might assuage your ire but it will also bring you within the compass of the law. Leave this matter in my hands, Bertrand. 30I will deal with the assassin when he is apprehended.’

‘If he is,’ said Gamberell sourly.

Robert d’Oilly bristled. ‘Do you question my ability and my strength of purpose?’

‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Do you presume to teach me my office?’

‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Then let us hear no more of your complaints.’

Bertrand Gamberell bit back a reply and lapsed into a brooding silence. The two men were riding side by side on their way to Oxford. Behind them was the rough cart on which the dead man lay, his body covered by some sacking, stained with blood from his wound. Six of the sheriff’s knights were in attendance and at the rear of the party, still shocked by the murder of his companion, Gamberell’s other soldier pulled Hyperion along on a lead-rein.

Death enforced a slow pace and a sombre atmosphere. No words were spoken for the best part of a mile. Gamberell was fuming inwardly. To lose the race anyway would have been a severe blow to his self-esteem: to be cheated of victory by such vile means was quite unendurable. His mind was a hissing cauldron of retribution. Yet he did not wish to offend the sheriff. Robert d’Oilly was a big, solid man with the broad shoulders and rugged features of a veteran soldier. He held sway over the whole county and was merciless with anyone who sought to question his authority.

It was the sheriff who finally broke the silence.

‘His name was Walter Payne, you say?’

‘Yes, my lord sheriff.’ 31

‘What manner of man was he?’

‘The best in my service,’ said Gamberell sadly. ‘Walter was brave, honest and loyal. A fine horseman, too. He knew how to coax the best out of Hyperion.’

‘Hyperion?’

‘My stallion. He has never been beaten in a race.’

‘Until today.’

‘Until today,’ repeated the other grimly. ‘Someone will be forced to pay for this outrage.’

‘Have you any notion who that person might be?’

‘None, my lord sheriff.’

‘Did Walter have any enemies?’

‘I’m sure he did but we do not need to search among them. We must look elsewhere. Walter’s misfortune was to be in the saddle today. He was killed in order to stop Hyperion from winning the race. The assassin was really striking at me.’

‘Why?’

‘Hatred? Envy? Malice? Who can tell?’

‘We will root out the truth of this, Bertrand.’

‘I hope so, and speedily.’

‘All that is needful has been done,’ said d’Oilly firmly. ‘My men searched the scene of the crime for clues and they are now combing the forest of Woodstock itself.’

‘A man could hide for ever in there and elude capture.’

‘We will flush him out. And then—’

‘I’ll hang him from the tallest tree.’

‘No, Bertrand. He will stand trial in a proper manner. If his guilt be proved, he will not escape the direst sentence.’ His voice darkened. ‘Nor will you, if you attempt to take the law 32into your own hands. That is no idle threat but a stern warning. I will brook no meddling. Is that understood?’

Gamberell held back another heated rejoinder. Nothing would be gained by alienating the one man in the county who might be able to track down the assassin. He gave a reluctant nod of consent. The solemn procession moved on. Hyperion let out a long neigh of sorrow by way of an epitaph on his rider.

It was late evening by the time the commissioners reached their destination and Oxford was largely in shadow. That did not dismay them. They were not in the mood for sightseeing. With their bodies weary from the long ride and their apparel damp from the thunderstorm, their main priorities were food, rest and an opportunity to change into fresh clothing. All else could wait until a fitter time.

The only building which they were able to appraise to any degree was the one which opened its huge studded gates to them. Even in hazy silhouette, Oxford Castle was an imposing structure. Like other Norman fortresses which had appeared in such giddy profusion all over England, it followed the standard motte and bailey design, but it differed from most castles in two significant respects. It was built of stone and it was not set up on a commanding height to give it prospect and natural defensive qualities.

Robert d’Oilly, its first constable, had spent over fifteen years constructing and extending Oxford Castle. It stood at the west end of the town and guarded the river approaches with chilling effectiveness. Those in its massive keep or behind its high, forbidding walls were not simply well protected. Their castle was 33a declaration of Norman intent to maintain their supremacy over the Saxon population of the area. When they looked up at the four-storeyed tower of the church of St George’s-in-the-Castle, the citizens of Oxford were not reassured by the presence of religion within a military compound. The fortress was to them a symbol of oppression and – as some of the bolder spirits in the community had discovered – a hideous place of imprisonment.

As they clattered in through the gates, the visitors paid no heed to the more sinister aspects of the castle. All that they saw was an end to a tedious and exacting journey. The steward was waiting to welcome the commissioners and to conduct them to their apartments. Brother Columbanus was taken under the chaplain’s wing and guards helped the rest of the party to stable the horses before leading them to their quarters. The newcomers were pleased with their reception.

‘This is better than being caught in a storm,’ said Ralph.

Golde smiled. ‘It is a relief to have a sound roof over our heads at last. I thought that we would never get here.’

‘I determined that we would and we did. Are you not grateful to be married to such a masterful man?’

‘Profoundly,’ she said with a laugh.

‘I have all the attributes of a perfect husband.’

‘Save one.’

‘What is that?’

‘Modesty.’

‘Perish the thought!’

‘You are too ready to trumpet your virtues when they already go before you like lighted torches.’

‘That was elegantly put, my love.’ 34

‘Take credit for that yourself, Ralph. It was you who instructed me in the finer points of your language. But only because you could not get your tongue around our Saxon vowels.’ She began to undress. ‘I so long to get out of these wet garments.’

‘I will enjoy watching you do it,’ he said with polite lechery. ‘A day in the saddle with the others has made me yearn for some privacy with my wife.’

They were in a chamber high in the keep. Fresh rushes had been spread on the wooden floor and clean linen was on the bed. It was a serviceable lodging. The window looked out on the bailey but Ralph closed the shutters on the scene below. His attention was concentrated on Golde as she removed her chemise. Even with her back to him, she could read his warm thoughts.

‘We do not have time,’ she said pleasantly.

‘Let us make time.’

‘Later.’

‘One minute, two minutes.’ He ran his hands down her bare arms. ‘I can wait that long, Golde.’

‘You will have to be more patient than that.’

‘Three minutes would test me to breaking point.’

‘We are famished, Ralph. How can you even think about it?’

‘By looking at you now and being reminded how beautiful you are, my love. And how fortunate I was to find you. You are the one good thing to come out of this ceaseless meandering I do at the king’s behest.’ He turned her to face him and pulled her close. ‘I want you.’

‘Stifle your desire until we have eaten.’

‘Are you resisting your husband, Golde?’

‘No, I am merely putting his empty stomach before my 35satisfaction.’ Ralph gave a ripe chuckle. ‘Now change into a dry tunic and you will feel more comfortable.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘A simple request.’

He kissed her on the lips and took her by the hips to lift her in the air and twirl her in a circle. When her feet touched the floor again she pushed him playfully away. While she dressed herself in fresh apparel, he began to take off his hauberk. There was a feeling of deep contentment between them.

‘You have no regrets, then?’ he asked.

‘Regrets?’

‘About riding with us to Oxford.’

‘You invited me. I came.’

‘But willingly, I hope.’

‘Very willingly,’ she said. ‘I hate to be apart from you even for a short length of time. My only fear is that I will be a hindrance to you.’

‘A most delightful hindrance.’

‘You are here on urgent business. I am in the way.’

‘That is not true at all, Golde.’

‘Maurice Pagnal thinks so.’

‘Only because he does not yet know you well enough.’

‘Canon Hubert knows me well enough yet he is always uneasy in my company. Brother Simon is plainly terrified.’

‘Neither of them is here, my love. If you want my opinion, this illness of Hubert’s is a true benison. By losing him, we also rid ourselves of that walking cadaver, Brother Simon, who will not stir from his side. In their stead we have Maurice Pagnal and Brother Columbanus. An experienced soldier and a merry 36monk, sound fellows both, though I could do with less of that Benedictine’s affability. I take them to be improvements on the canon and that corpse known as Brother Simon.’

‘I still feel out of place, Ralph.’

‘That feeling will soon wear off. It has troubled you in the past at first. During our stay in York and then again in Canterbury. Yet in both places you proved your worth to us and rendered practical help.’

‘I pray that I may do so again.’

‘You will. I sense it.’

He reached across to cup her chin in his hand before placing another kiss on her lips. They looked deep into each other’s eyes and forgot all else but their happiness. Marriage had changed both of them in ways they did not foresee and many compromises had been made on both sides. During a tender moment like this, all those compromises seemed a small price to pay for the resultant togetherness. Ralph enfolded her in his arms and held her tight.

The mood was soon shattered. A loving impulse had taken them into the embrace but a sudden commotion forced them instantly apart. Clacking hooves, jingling harness and raised voices seemed to fill the courtyard below. Ralph opened the shutters to look down. Golde stood at his shoulder to see what had caused the untimely tumult.

The castle gates had been flung wide open. Flaming torches had been brought to illumine the spectacle. Four knights in armour rode into the bailey with a prisoner whose hands were bound fast behind his back. The man had been dragged along by ropes and was obviously racked with pain and fatigue. When 37the prisoner fell to the ground, one of the knights dismounted to haul him roughly to his feet and to spit in his face.

There was harsher treatment to come. A powerful figure in a rich tunic and mantle swept down the steps of the keep with a sword in his hand. His bellowing voice echoed around the courtyard. Shaking with fear, the prisoner fell to his knees in supplication but the newcomer showed no mercy. He grabbed the man unceremoniously to lift him upright before howling an accusation into his face. The prisoner shook his head wildly in denial of the charge. His accuser wasted no more words.

Clubbing him to the ground with the hilt of his sword, he proceeded to kick the prisoner hard until his tongue stopped groaning and his body stopped twitching. On a command from their master, the four knights dragged the captive through the dust to the dungeon.

Golde was appalled by what she had witnessed. As she watched the figure in the tunic stride towards the keep, she was positively trembling with disgust.

‘That was barbaric! Who is that man, Ralph?’

He took a deep breath before breaking the news to her.

‘Robert d’Oilly,’ he said apologetically. ‘Our host.’

38

Chapter Two

Gervase Bret was kneeling at the altar rail when he heard the noise from the bailey. The thick walls of the church partially muffled the sound but it was still loud enough to interrupt his prayers. Lifting his head, he strained his ears to listen but he could make out nothing of what was being said by the angry voices. The distant clamour ended as abruptly as it had begun. A comforting silence invaded the church. Gervase lowered his chin, closed his eyes and surrendered himself once more.

The habit of prayer had been inculcated in him during his time at Eltham Abbey and, though he had elected not to take the cowl at the end of his novitiate, he did not abjure all that he had been taught. Prayer replenished Gervase. It stilled his 39anxieties, cleansed his soul, offered guidance and allowed him personal communion with his Maker. Prayer never let him down. His simple act of faith and humility was always rewarded with peace of mind.

It was only when he rose to leave that he realised he was not alone in the church. Standing in the shadows at the rear of the nave was a tall, slim figure who seemed to blend with the dark stone itself. The place had been empty when Gervase entered it so the newcomer must have slipped in unnoticed and that made the visitor wary. How long had he been watched at prayer? Why had his privacy been intruded upon? As Gervase walked back down the aisle, the man stepped forward to greet him and flickering candles disclosed his identity at once. He wore clerical garb and moved with the measured tread of someone at ease in the house of God.

‘I am Arnulf the Chaplain,’ he confirmed in a low and melodious voice. ‘You, I believe, are Gervase Bret.’

‘That is so.’

‘Brother Columbanus spoke fondly of you. He much enjoyed your company on the ride to Oxford. You talked at great length together, I understand.’

‘Brother Columbanus thrives on conversation.’

‘So I have discovered. I look to have much debate with him myself. He holds you in high esteem.’

‘I am flattered.’

‘His portrait of you was clearly accurate.’

‘In what way?’

‘He told me what an unusual person you were.’

‘Unusual?’ 40

‘Nineteen of you rode into the castle this evening. Tired, damp and hungry after your arduous journey. Apart from Brother Columbanus himself, you are the only member of the party who thought to come here in order to thank God for your safe arrival. That marks you out as very unusual.’

‘Most of my companions are soldiers.’

‘Say no more. This is a garrison church. I am acquainted with the difficulty of luring soldiers here for regular devotions. It is a problem with which I contend every day.’

He spoke without rancour. Arnulf the Chaplain accepted the role assigned to him and sought to discharge his duties as conscientiously as he could. There was no trace of reproach or self-pity in him. He was a pragmatic Christian.

Gervase’s first impressions of the man were wholly favourable. Behind the chaplain’s friendly smile, he sensed a keen intelligence and a deep commitment to his ministry. Arnulf had a long, thin, clean-shaven face that tapered towards the chin and positively glowed in the candlelight. Large, kind, watchful eyes were set beneath a high, domed forehead. Though in his early thirties, the chaplain retained an almost boyish enthusiasm. He was neither pious nor judgemental.

‘Did you hear the disturbance?’ said Arnulf, glancing over his shoulder. ‘There was quite a commotion out there earlier on. It was deafening.’

‘The noise reached me in here.’

‘I thought that it might.’

‘Do you know what caused it?’

‘Yes. I was in the bailey when they brought him in.’

‘Him?’ 41

‘The assassin,’ explained Arnulf. ‘Or so it is alleged. Earlier today, a man was murdered near the forest of Woodstock. My lord sheriff sent out a posse in search of the killer and they have captured him. The fellow now lies in the dungeon, awaiting his fate. If his guilt be established, no mercy will be shown to him.’

‘And if he is proved to be innocent of the charge?’

‘That seems unlikely. The posse are convinced that they have apprehended the man responsible for this heinous crime.’

‘Who was the victim?’

‘One of Bertrand Gamberell’s knights.’

Gervase raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Gamberell?’

‘You know him?’

‘Only by name. He is to appear before us at the shire hall.’ He ran a pensive hand across his chin. ‘The timing of this murder is curious. It occurs on the very day that we arrive in Oxford.’

‘An unfortunate coincidence.’

‘Probably so.’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Nothing,’ said Gervase. ‘Nothing at all.’

But his mind was already grappling with another faint possibility. Bertrand Gamberell was locked into an acrimonious property dispute with two rival claimants, Wymarc and Milo Crispin. Gervase was bound to wonder if the murder was in some way connected with that fraught situation. He was not ready to confide in Arnulf until he knew the man better and until more facts about the crime were at his disposal. His suspicion might yet prove to be completely unfounded.

‘I would hear more about this,’ he said at length. 42

‘Then I will tell you all I know,’ offered the chaplain, putting a hand on his sleeve. ‘But let us adjourn to the hall while we talk. A meal is waiting for you. Brother Columbanus tells me that you are all starving. You should not deny yourself a moment longer.’

He opened the door and led Gervase out into darkness.

Robert d’Oilly made only the briefest of appearances in the hall to welcome his guests and to assure them that they would want for nothing while they were in his care. He promised to spend more time with them on the morrow when his wife would return from a visit to her relatives and he himself might not be so weighed down with the cares of office. The castellan was unfailingly civil but there was little warmth behind that civility. When he took his leave of them, he did so with an undue alacrity. They felt unwanted.

A meal had been set out on the table for them and Arnulf joined in the repast, showing a genuine interest in them and supplying the cordiality that was so signally lacking in their host. Even Ralph Delchard, with his rooted distrust of all churchmen, began to warm to the chaplain. Golde found him a soothing presence and gradually pushed the memory of Robert d’Oilly’s earlier display of brutality to the back of her mind. Arnulf somehow made Oxford Castle seem a more civilised place than she had at first feared. He would be a useful friend to her while her husband was preoccupied with his work as a commissioner, and he promised to act as her guide when she wished to visit the town.

Maurice Pagnal was more interested in the food than in 43anything else, munching his way noisily through his chicken pasties and flatbread, and washing them down with generous draughts of red wine. Brother Columbanus was the revelation. His predecessor as scribe, the shy, unworldly Brother Simon, rarely ate with the commissioners, preferring the more frugal fare and less boisterous company of a religious house, and never daring to venture an opinion of his own in public lest it bring down ridicule upon him.

Columbanus was an altogether more convivial Benedictine, fond of his food, even fonder of his ale and ready to enter any discussion with beaming eagerness. The more he drank, the more garrulous he became, and Gervase was left to speculate on the motives which had taken such a gregarious man into a closed monastic order. He would not have such freedom of expression when he sat in the chapter house with his brothers. It was almost as if the monk were using the meal to celebrate his temporary release from the cloister.