Domesday Books
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret are commissioners, appointed by William the Conqueror, to look into the serious irregularities that come to light during the compilation of Domesday Book, the great survey of England. Delchard is a Norman soldier who fought at the Battle of Hastings, and who does not suffer fools gladly. Bret, a talented lawyer, comes from mixed Saxon and Breton parentage. They make a highly effective crime-fighting team in a violent and unstable period of history. Each of the books in the series takes them to a different English county.
Edward Marston was born and brought up in Wales. He read Modern History at Oxford then lectured in the subject for three years before becoming a full-time freelance writer.
www.edwardmarston.com
Domesday Books:
The Wolves of Savernake
The Ravens of Blackwater
The Dragons of Archenfield
The Lions of the North
The Serpents of Harbledown
The Stallions of Woodstock
The Hawks of Delamere
The Wildcats of Exeter
The Foxes of Warwick
The Owls of Gloucester
The Elephants of Norwich
The Stallions of
Woodstock
Edward Marston
Domesday Book 6
Ostara Publishing
Copyright © 1997 Edward Marston
The right of Edward Marston to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Originally published in 1997
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP reference is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781906288419
Printed and Bound in the United Kingdom
Ostara Publishing
13 King Coel Road
Lexden
Colchester CO3 9AG
www.ostarapublishing.co.uk
To my beloved son
Prior Conrad
of the Abbey of St Catherine
Dominus illuminatio meo
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)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
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 sudden 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.’
‘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 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.
‘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 st
allion. ‘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.’
‘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 silverhaired 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.
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 gartered 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 knew 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.
‘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 th
e 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 life, 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.
The Stallions of Woodstock Page 1