The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Judge for yourself.’

  Ralph listened intently as Gervase recounted all that he had heard. Arnulf had gleaned his information from Wymarc himself and it had the ring of truth about it. As the story unfolded, the cruel treatment of the prisoner took on a new meaning though Ralph could still not condone it and he knew that his wife would never forgive or forget it.

  ‘Who is the man?’ he asked.

  ‘A slave called Ebbi.’

  ‘And is he guilty?’

  ‘So it is claimed.’

  ‘Where was he taken?’

  ‘In the forest of Woodstock,’ said Gervase. ‘After a long search they eventually picked up his trail and ran him to earth. He denied all knowledge of the murder but they pinioned him at once.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ebbi was carrying a knife in his belt, not unlike that which was thrown at the rider on the black stallion. That was proof enough for the posse.’

  ‘Do they have no other evidence?’

  ‘They will look to beat a confession out of him in time.’

  ‘And I am sure they will succeed,’ said Ralph with a rueful sigh. ‘Whether he is guilty or not. He was a small, skinny fellow in tattered clothing. I marvel that such a creature would have the boldness to commit this crime. What motive could he possibly have?’

  Gervase shrugged. ‘He is a Saxon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look in the returns for this county and you will see motive enough for every Saxon to raise his hand against a Norman knight. They have been dispossessed, Ralph. Before the Conquest, this Ebbi was probably a bordarius, a smallholder. Or even a villager. Now he is a mere slave.’

  ‘That may give him cause to resent us but it does not necessarily turn him into an assassin.’ He became pensive. ‘And why choose one of Gamberell's knights as his victim? A fitter target might have been Bertrand Gamberell himself. Or Milo Crispin. Or even Robert d'Oilly. They rule the roost in this shire. What could Ebbi hope to gain by killing this Walter? It does not make sense.’

  ‘There is another question to ask.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Consider the race itself,’ said Gervase. ‘Six horses galloping hellfor-leather. Flashing through those trees in a matter of seconds. It would have taken great skill to pick out the right man and hurl a dagger between his shoulder blades. Why choose such a difficult target when far easier ones must have presented themselves?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I have grave doubts, Ralph.’

  ‘You think that Ebbi is innocent?’

  ‘I would need much more convincing that he is guilty.’

  ‘The sheriff clearly does not,’ said Ralph, recalling the scene he had witnessed. ‘It will be a short trial, I fancy. All that we can do is await its outcome.’

  ‘That is the last thing we must do,’ argued Gervase.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we are involved here, Ralph. Look at those who entered a horse in that race. Wymarc. Gamberell. Milo Crispin. All three are at the heart of our investigations here. They are contesting ownership of the same property near Wallingford. Could it not be that this murder is in some strange way linked to our business in Oxford?’

  ‘That had not occurred to me.’

  ‘Weigh the notion in the balance.’

  Ralph pondered. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘It could be, Gervase. I am at a loss to see quite how. But it could be.’

  ‘That would rule out Ebbi completely, unless he was hired by one of the others. It's conceivable, Ralph, but it seems unlikely. He has no place in our considerations. Put him aside for a moment.’

  ‘Then you would have to find another assassin.’

  ‘Consider what happened. Who stood to gain most by the death of Gamberell's rider?’

  ‘Everyone else in the race.’

  ‘That gives us five suspects immediately.’

  Ralph was incredulous. ‘One of the other riders was the assassin? Are you insane, Gervase? That is arrant nonsense.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes – and plainly so!’

  ‘Six men rode into that copse: only five rode out. Why?’

  ‘Someone hurled a dagger at one of them in the trees.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It is the only explanation.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Gervase, rising to his feet as he thought it through. ‘A dagger can be used to stab as well as to throw. When a horse is running alongside you, it is more than possible to thrust a blade into its rider's back.’

  ‘But according to you, most of the other horses were ahead of Gamberell's stallion at that point.’

  ‘Most but not all.’

  ‘It is a ludicrous idea.’

  ‘Not if you are Wymarc or Milo Crispin. Not if you have placed a heavy wager on your own horses. Not if you are resolved that the black stallion will not beat them yet again.’ Gervase spread his palms. ‘Is it really so ludicrous?’

  Ralph pondered afresh. ‘No,’ he conceded after a long pause. ‘Not ludicrous, perhaps. But highly unlikely. How could the assassin know that he would be alongside the black stallion as they plunged into those trees? How could he be sure that the other riders would be ahead of him and thus blind to his villainy?’

  ‘He could not.’

  ‘Then your argument must be discarded.’

  ‘Must it? Could not this other rider simply have seized the opportunity when it offered itself? In a hectic race like that, his rivals would have no time to look back at him. Their eyes would have been fixed on the course ahead of them. I still contend that Gamberell's man may have been stabbed.’

  ‘Then we must agree to differ.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Gervase. ‘Let us move on.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘The winner of the race. The chestnut colt.’

  ‘That belonged to Milo's subtenant.’

  ‘Ordgar. Once a proud thegn in this county. Reduced from his former glory. He might have the strongest reason of all to take the black stallion out of the race.’

  ‘You surely cannot accuse him,’ said Ralph with a mocking laugh as he got up from the bench. ‘By all accounts, his horse was vying for the lead when they came out of that copse. Are you seriously suggesting that Ordgar's son tossed a dagger over his shoulder and that it somehow landed conveniently in the back of Gamberell's man?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It was a race. The son needed both hands on the reins.’

  ‘All I am saying is that Ordgar may somehow be implicated. He stood to forfeit a lot of money if Gamberell won the race. Money which he could ill afford to lose. And he has twenty years of resentment against his Norman overlord to assuage. I think we should look closely at this Ordgar.’

  ‘That brings us back to Ebbi then.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Perhaps he really did commit the murder. Perhaps we have been too quick to absolve him of guilt. Ebbi may have been Ordgar's hired assassin. Wymarc and Milo Crispin would hardly employ a creature like that to serve their ends. Besides,’ he added, ‘we should not be maligning respected men with our suspicions. On the evidence we have so far – and I know that it is patchy – there is no reason whatsoever to accuse either Wymarc or Milo. If they were ready to stoop to villainy in order to win that race at Woodstock, they would somehow have disabled Gamberell's black stallion instead of killing its rider. I rely on my instinct here, Gervase.’

  ‘And what does it tell you?’

  ‘Ordgar paid Ebbi to do the deed. That is my guess.’

  ‘It would not be mine.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Ebbi was caught too easily,’ said Gervase. ‘If you can plot such a cunning murder, you will also plan your escape with equal care. I do not believe that the man locked up in that dungeon is the assassin.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Ralph wearily. ‘We shall see. One thing is certain. We will not s
olve this crime by staying up all night and talking about it. We have shot enough arrows in the dark for now. Let us get some sleep. All may become clearer in the morning.’

  ‘I hope so. But I doubt it.’

  His companion gave a soulful nod.

  ‘So do I,’ he sighed.

  ‘Still here?’ gasped Milo Crispin. ‘Did the man not go home?’

  ‘He stayed here all night, my lord.’

  ‘Where did he sleep?’

  ‘We found him huddled on the staircase.’

  ‘Old fool!’

  ‘He is determined to see you, my lord.’

  ‘I am far too busy to listen to his ramblings.’

  ‘Ordgar will not be sent away.’

  ‘Then he must be thrown out by force.’

  ‘Is that your order?’

  The steward waited patiently while his master took time to reflect. Milo Crispin had no wish to start the day by arguing with one of his subtenants. Ordgar was a nuisance and deserved to be turned away without compunction. At the same time, the problem which had brought the Saxon to Wallingford Castle had to be resolved sooner or later. Ordgar was persistent. He would lurk and harry until he was granted an audience with his overlord. One short discussion now might obviate a lot of irritation in the future.

  ‘Very well,’ said Milo, relenting. ‘Send him in.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘But warn him to expect no more than a few minutes.’

  ‘That is all he craves.’

  The steward went out and Milo pored over the accounts on the table in front of him. He was in the hall, a long, low room whose timbered floor creaked beneath any footsteps. He did not look up when Ordgar shuffled into the room. An uncomfortable night had left the old man aching all over but he bore himself with as much dignity as he could muster. To remind him of his subordinate place, Milo kept him waiting for a long time.

  ‘Well?’ he said, finally turning his gaze on his visitor. ‘Why have you come to bother me so early in the morning?’

  ‘You refused to talk to me yesterday, my lord.’

  ‘We had nothing to talk about.’

  ‘But we did,’ insisted the other. ‘The race.’

  ‘It has been declared void.’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘I ask you to think again, my lord.’

  ‘There is no need.’

  ‘But my colt won that race.’

  ‘Only because Hyperion lost his rider.’

  ‘We might still have beaten him,’ urged Ordgar. ‘Even if there had been no mishap, my colt might still have won. You saw the way he edged out your own horse. I think he would have beaten Hyperion as well.’

  ‘That may be so,’ admitted Milo, ‘but it was not a fair race. A man was murdered in that copse. One of Bertrand Gamberell's knights. That was no mere mishap but a planned attack. Someone lay in wait for him among those trees.’

  Ordgar weighed his words before speaking. He had learned the language of his masters but felt at a severe disadvantage when using it. His position was delicate. He had somehow to press his argument without upsetting his overlord. He ran a nervous hand through his silver beard.

  ‘I regret what happened as much as anyone,’ he said with slow deliberation. ‘It was a vile murder. I hope that the killer is soon made to pay for his crime. I will do all I can to help to track down the man. But I am bound to ask myself this.’ He licked his lips, then drew himself up to his full height. ‘If my son, Amalric, had been the victim at Woodstock yesterday and one of your horses had won, would the race still have been declared void or would you have claimed the purse?’

  Milo smouldered inwardly but kept his poise. There was a grain of truth in the accusation that made it sting even more. Much as he resented the charge, he had a sneaking admiration for the old man who made it. It took courage and that was a quality he acknowledged whenever he met it. At the same time, he was not going to be insulted by one of his subtenants.

  ‘I will not even deign to answer that question,’ he admonished. ‘For the sake of amity between us, I would prefer to forget that I heard you put it to me.’

  Ordgar backed away at once. By offending his overlord, he only weakened his case still more. In all their dealings, Milo Crispin would hold the upper hand. Nothing would change that. Ordgar's voice took on a placatory tone.

  ‘All that I am asking for is fair treatment, my lord.’

  ‘The race is void.’

  ‘I accept that now. I was wrong to criticise your decision.’

  ‘Then why waste my time arguing about it? And why did you spend a night on my stairs?’

  ‘In order to reclaim my share of the wager,’ said Ordgar, eager to get some recompense for his aching bones. ‘You hold the purse for the race. Please return my stake and I will trouble you no further. Those who helped me to raise the money will want it back now.’

  ‘Then they will have to be disappointed.’

  ‘But we are entitled to the amount we wagered.’

  ‘I will be the judge of any entitlement here, Ordgar. And I will not yield up one solitary coin from that purse. It stays under lock and key here in my castle.’

  ‘But we need it, my lord,’ pleaded the other, stepping forward. ‘Desperately. We are men of limited means.’

  ‘Then you should not have made such a rash investment.’

  ‘It was a risk worth taking. Our horse won the race.’

  ‘But lost his stake.’

  ‘That is unjust, my lord!’

  ‘The real injustice took place in those trees,’ said Milo icily. ‘A man was murdered. Bertrand Gamberell's knight may have been killed but his black stallion lives on to run another day. If you wish for your money, you will have to win it in the second race.’

  ‘The second race?’

  ‘Over the same course. Under the same rules.’

  ‘We will need to think about that.’

  ‘Withdraw,’ taunted Milo, ‘if you have no stomach for another contest. Take your colt out of the race and forfeit your wager.’

  ‘That is a cruel condition to make.’

  ‘The choice lies with you.’

  ‘We will take part,’ said Ordgar bravely.

  ‘You may not enjoy such good fortune next time.’

  ‘I have every faith in my horse.’

  ‘He will certainly press Hyperion to the limit, I grant you. Especially with your son in the saddle. Amalric is a true horseman. He got the best out of his mount.’

  ‘No other horse will outrun that black stallion.’

  ‘That may be true. Your colt is fleet of foot.’

  ‘None faster in the whole county, my lord.’

  Milo sat back in his chair and regarded the old man through narrowed lids. He thought of the closing moments of the race when his own horse had been found wanting against the chestnut colt ridden by Amalric. And he remembered the size of the purse awaiting the eventual winner. An idea stirred.

  ‘There is one way you may reclaim your money at once,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, my lord?’

  ‘Take it in exchange for your colt.’

  ‘In exchange?’

  ‘I am minded to buy the animal off you.’

  ‘But he is not for sale.’

  ‘What use is a horse like that to you, Ordgar?’ said Milo smoothly. ‘He will be far better off in my stables. He will be well fed and properly trained here. I would be doing you a favour by taking him off your hands.’ He gave a smile. ‘Yes, I think the time has come for you to part with him.’

  ‘He is ours, my lord.’

  ‘You are getting a fair price for him.’

  ‘We need him to win that race for us.’

  ‘I am sure you do, Ordgar. But I, too, have my needs and I think you will agree that they take precedence over yours.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Speak to my steward on the way out. He will give you your money.’

  The old man was seized by a quiet t
error.

  Chapter Three

  Brother Columbanus was so consumed by guilt at his overindulgence during the meal that he spent an hour on his knees in the church next morning by way of atonement, vowing to fast throughout the whole day and to forswear ale in perpetuity. He was still chiding himself sternly when he stepped out into the bailey, hoping that the fresh air might bring him fully awake and help to ease his pounding headache. Through bleary eyes, he saw Gervase Bret striding towards the church. The monk's remorse took an even tighter hold on him.

  ‘Good morrow. Brother Columbanus,’ said Gervase cheerily. Then he noted the furrowed brow and the pale complexion. ‘What is amiss? Are you not well?’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘Do you need to be tended by a doctor?’

  ‘Self-denial is the only medicine I require.’

  ‘What are the symptoms of your illness.’

  ‘A blinding headache and a deep sense of shame.’

  ‘Shame?’

  ‘Yes, Gervase,’ said the other. ‘My behaviour at table last night was quite unforgivable. I ate too much, drank too much and talked your ears off in the most intolerable way. You must all have been relieved to see the back of me.’

  ‘Not at all. You were congenial company.’

  ‘Gormandising like that? Gluttony is a sin.’

  ‘You had earned a good meal after a day in the saddle. We ate and drank as heartily as you, Brother Columbanus.’

  ‘That is your privilege. You are not bound by the strict rules of the Order.’ He clutched at his breast. ‘Oh, what a poor ambassador I am for Saint Benedict! Half a pint of wine is his prescribed allowance for us yet I drank ten times that amount of ale. The only consolation is that Canon Hubert was not here to witness my derelictions. Had he still been a member of the commission, that holy man would have taken me to task for my gross intemperance.’

  Gervase stifled a smile as he recalled the numerous occasions in the course of their travels when he had seen Canon Hubert feasting enthusiastically without ever feeling a twinge of conscience about his greed. Columbanus was a more penitent sinner and this was to his credit. Gervase was glad to hear that the monk had resolved never to touch intoxicating drink again. The scribe would certainly need to be sober and clear-headed while sitting alongside the commissioners.