‘He will,’ vowed Wymarc. ‘He will.’
‘Seek him out. That is my counsel.’
‘It will be done, Baldwin.’
‘Do you have any idea who he might be?’
Wymarc did not hear him. His mind was seven miles away in Oxford Castle, watching a handsome man on a black stallion, preening himself as he waited to talk to Helene.
Milo Crispin was less than pleased to see his uninvited guests riding into Wallingford Castle but neither his expression nor his manner hinted at annoyance. Ralph Delchard and his men were given a courteous welcome and offered refreshment after their journey from Oxford. While his six knights were taken off to be fed in the kitchen, Ralph himself was conducted to the hall where he accepted a cup of wine and picked at a bowl of fruit set out on the table in front of them.
They soon dispensed with conversational niceties.
‘You have come to talk about Woodstock,’ guessed Milo.
‘Yes,’ admitted Ralph. ‘I want to hear from all four of you who were involved in that race.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it will enable me to build up a complete picture of what actually occurred.’
‘I see that, but why should you bother to do so?’
‘Why not?’
‘It is the sheriff's duty to solve the crime.’
‘I am giving him a helping hand.’
‘Even though he has not requested it?’
‘With respect to your father-in-law, he needs all the help that he can get,’ said Ralph, selecting an apple. ‘If I had not seen fit to aid him in this investigation, a blameless man would have been sent to his death for the crime. Is that what you would have preferred?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then why do you object to my involvement here?’
‘It is not so much an objection as a polite enquiry,’ said Milo smoothly. ‘When you set out from Winchester, I imagine that you had more than enough work to occupy you in Oxford.’
‘We did. Satchels full of it.’
‘Yet you somehow find the time to ride around the county and talk about a horse race. It does seem strange to me.’
Ralph grinned. ‘I have always been eccentric'
‘I hope these eccentricities will not get in the way when you sit in judgement on me at the shire court.’
Ralph's grin broadened. Milo Crispin was a more appealing man than either Wymarc or Bertrand Gamberell. The one had fawned and flattered while the other postured irritatingly. Milo had poise and self-control. Nobody could intimidate him. He would never try to curry favour with a royal commissioner. Milo Crispin and Ralph Delchard occupied the same baronial rank. In every sense, they met on equal terms.
‘Did you know Walter Payne?’ asked Ralph.
‘Yes.’
‘Very well?’
‘As well as I wished to do,’ said Milo. ‘He was a fine horseman but he was not the sort of knight I would ever keep in my retinue.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was too boorish. And too wayward.’
‘Bertrand Gamberell called him a good man.’
‘Do not trust his definition of goodness.’
‘He said that Walter was exceptionally loyal.’
‘But loyal to what?’ said Milo evenly. ‘Loyal to the Gamberell code of boasting and bullying. Those knights of his are drunken oafs. My own men have clashed with them often enough to get their measure. Walter Payne was among the worst of them. Always trespassing on my land and harassing my tenants for sport.’
‘Bertrand painted a rather different portrait.’
‘He would.’
‘You hated this Walter Payne, then?’
‘Let us say that I did not shed a tear at his funeral.’
‘Did you have a motive to kill him?’
‘Several.’
‘Were you the assassin's paymaster?’
‘No.’
‘How can I be sure of that?’
‘Because I would never have assigned the removal of Walter Payne to anyone else. I prefer to settle my own scores.’
Ralph chewed on a piece of apple and regarded him with fresh interest. Milo's composure was extraordinary.
‘Thank you,’ said Ralph.
‘For what?’
‘Giving me straight answers.’
‘It saves time.’
‘I would be grateful if you could pass on that advice to your fatherin-law. He has been less forthcoming.’ He rose from the table and wandered idly to the window, gazing down into the courtyard. ‘I rode through Wallingford once before,’ he continued. ‘Some twenty years ago when we were still trying to acquaint the Saxons with the concept of defeat. They took time to accept it, especially in this area. King Edward kept a garrison of his housecarls here. I seem to remember that they gave us stiff resistance for a while.’
‘They were doughty warriors.’
‘Just like those who fought against us at Hastings.’ He swung round. ‘But I did not come to reminisce. I am here to find the man who killed Walter Payne and you have already helped me in that search.’
‘Have I?’
‘By eliminating yourself as a suspect.’
Milo was firm. ‘My horse took part in that race in order to win. No other business drew me to Woodstock that day. My sole aim was to beat Hyperion in a fair contest.’
‘Hyperion has been a thorn in your flesh.’
‘My hope was to pluck it out.’
‘Who stole the horse from Bertrand?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Then it was not you, I take it?’
‘No,’ said Milo patiently. ‘I am a busy man, my lord. You have ridden across my land and seen how much responsibility all those acres place upon me. I simply do not have the time to hire an assassin or to steal a horse. Nor would I demean myself by sinking to such depths.’
Ralph walked back to the table and stood close to him.
‘Who did kill Walter Payne?’
‘Someone who despised the man enough.’
‘Was the assassin really striking at Bertrand Gamberell?’
‘No.’
‘That was my feeling.’
‘Why go to such trouble to kill a servant when the same guile would enable you to kill his master? Bertrand was not the target. Walter Payne was the intended victim. His murder was carefully planned.’
‘Who contrived it?’
‘That is for you to find out.’
‘I Would be grateful for some more help.’
‘All that I can offer is a wild guess.’
‘There will be nothing wild about anything you say, my lord. I am certain of that. You are one of the most deliberate men I have ever met. Now, sir. What is this guess?’
Milo kept him waiting. Getting to his feet, he crossed to the door and opened it to indicate that the discussion was being terminated. His tone was neutral.
‘Ride north again,’ he advised.
‘Why?’
‘The man you are looking for had a grudge against Walter Payne because he was riding Hyperion. Why kill him during a race if not to disable him from winning yet again? Who knows, my lord? With another rider in the saddle, Hyperion might not be quite so invincible.’
‘Give me a name.’
‘I could easily be wrong.’
‘You know the parties involved far better than I.’
‘Then talk to the man who lost most heavily in the previous races,’ said Milo calmly. ‘Talk to the one who took his defeat most to heart. Talk to the one whose younger sister was plagued by the attentions of Walter Payne. Talk to the one who would do anything to preserve the girl's virginity. Talk to someone with real cause to fear Walter Payne.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Wymarc.’
Exhausted, dishevelled, unshaven and half asleep, Wymarc was slumped in a chair in his parlour. His wife flitted around him like a demented butterfly, anxious not to upset him yet eager to say something which might comfort him and relie
ve her own mind. She did not yet understand the enormity of what had happened in an upstairs room. A tragedy which had crushed her husband's spirit and reduced him to an inert mass was still making her twitch violently and grasp feverishly at non-existent solutions to their plight.
‘The doctor may have made a mistake,’ she said nervously. ‘It was late when he arrived. Baldwin was weary and overwrought. His diagnosis was wrong. It has to be wrong. Helene would never do such a thing. It is unthinkable. Helene was a good girl. We brought her up with true Christian precepts. She could not do this to herself.’ A Shockwave made her whole body shake. ‘Or to us. Helene would never hurt us. She loved us. She had to love us. We were her family. Helene was part of a loving family.’ Her voice trailed to a whisper. ‘These things do not happen in … Loving families.’
There was a long pause as she gathered her strength for a second burst of self-delusion. Wymarc was motionless. When there was a loud banging on the door, he did not even blink. A servant answered the door and the visitor was admitted.
Arnulf the Chaplain darted across to her at once.
‘I came as soon as I got your summons!’ he said.
‘We prayed that you would.’
‘Tell me everything. Can this hideous news be true?’
‘Ask my husband,’ she said, indicating Wymarc. ‘He spoke with the doctor. He knows the details.’
Arnulf had not even noticed Wymarc when he first arrived in the room. He now went over to the crumpled figure and saw the deep distress he was suffering. The chaplain put out a gentle hand to touch his bowed head.
‘It is Arnulf,’ he said softly. ‘You sent for me, my lord. And I have come. I am here for you.’
Wymarc slowly raised his head and looked at him with no sign of recognition. It was a full minute before he realised that it was the chaplain who was standing in front of him. A sudden fit of anguish coursed through Wymarc and he flung himself on his knees, gibbering pathetically and clutching desperately at Arnulf.
‘Help us!’ he implored. ‘In the name of God, help us!’
Chapter Eleven
Rumour swept through the castle like wildfire. What first reached the privileged ears of the sheriff was soon in the mouths of his underlings. Hardly a soldier or servant in the place had not picked up and passed on the sensational gossip. Even the guests caught wind of it. The story took on new shape and force each time it was told. A paucity of facts did not hamper its narrators in any way. It merely permitted greater invention. Endlessly embellished, the tale was soon vaulting over the high walls of the fortress into Oxford itself to be used as common coinage in the market before being dispersed breathlessly throughout the whole community.
It was Gervase Bret who gave the sad tidings to Brother Columbanus. Shaken to the marrow, the monk crossed himself by reflex and offered up a silent prayer. The shining face was now a wrinkled map of concern.
‘This is dreadful intelligence!’ he wailed.
‘It has shocked everyone, Brother Columbanus.’
‘How certain are you of the facts?’
‘I had them from Arnulf the Chaplain,’ said Gervase. ‘He was sent for by the family because he knows the girl so well.’ He winced slightly before correcting himself. ‘Did know her.’
‘What age would this Helene be?’
‘But fourteen.’
‘God in heaven! A child! A mere child!’
‘Her life over before it had really started.’
‘By choice, Gervase,’ mourned the other. ‘Her life is over by choice. That is the tragedy here. The girl chose to do this terrible thing. With a whole bright future stretching out in front of her, Helene went down this irrevocable path. Why?’
‘She did not see her future as altogether bright,’ said Gervase sadly. ‘If the rumours are to be believed, she had some cause for pessimism.’
‘What was it?’
‘She may have been with child.’
Columbanus goggled. ‘Spare her that, please!’ he gasped. ‘To take her own life is a black enough sin in itself. Do not let us hear that she also committed infanticide. The very thought unseats my brain, Gervase. To kill an innocent babe in the womb? Helene would have to be deranged to do that.’
‘Or driven to despair.’
‘Did the chaplain confirm this gruesome detail?’
‘He confided simply that suicide was confirmed,’ said Gervase. ‘The rest I have gathered from a dozen or more tongues and less credence can be placed in it. What is beyond dispute is that, some time yesterday, my lord Wymarc's sister ended her days on this earth.’
‘With a virulent poison, you say?’
‘That is what I was told.’
Brother Columbanus took refuge once more in prayer. He had been returning to the church of St George's-in-the-Castle when he was intercepted by Gervase. If anyone had to break such heart-rending news to him, he was glad that it had been his young friend. With a careful use of words, Gervase had softened the impact of his report. Elsewhere in the town, the storytellers were doing the very opposite, garnishing the bare facts with spicy details to give them more flavour and pungency.
The monk reached into his memory for guidance.
‘I call to mind the words of St Augustine of Hippo,’ he said. ‘He rightly argues that Christians have no authority to commit suicide in any circumstances.’
‘I know, Brother Columbanus. I have read De Civitate Dei.’
‘An inspiring text. Inscribed upon my soul.’
‘Canon Hubert often quoted it to us.’
‘Were he here now, he would doubtless remind us of St Augustine's argument that it is significant that nowhere in any of the sacred canonical books can be found any injunction or permission to commit suicide either to attain immortality or to avoid or escape any evil.’ His eyebrows soared. ‘The sixth commandment is clear: “Thou shalt not kill.” We must not kill another person but, equally, we are forbidden to kill ourselves. That is God's law.’ He gave a shudder. ‘And if the murder of an unborn child is involved here …’
‘We are not certain of that,’ Gervase reminded him, ‘and it might be safer not to speculate until we have more facts.’
‘Quite so.’
‘The poor girl deserves our utmost compassion.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Columbanus. ‘But if our worst fears are realised, we must not shrink from censuring Helene. Sin is sin and it must be proclaimed as such. Suicide is a brazen act of blasphemy.’
‘My sympathy goes out to my lord Wymarc and his wife.’
‘Is Arnulf with them now?’
‘Yes, Brother Columbanus.’
‘He is a sound man.’
‘And a good friend to Helene.’
‘He will be as shocked by this as her family,’ said the monk sorrowfully. ‘But he will cope with this awful blow. Arnulf is an ordained priest. Trained to bear the weight of other people's grief and help them through their tribulation.’ And no tribulation could be worse than this.’ He nodded confidently. ‘Arnulf will know what to do.’
The house was in turmoil. When Arnulf arrived, that turmoil seemed to converge on him from all directions until he felt like an axle at the centre of a wheel that was spinning helplessly out of control. It took him over an hour to slow down the wheel and to impose a degree of calm on the abode. Wymarc made the chief claim on his attention, shifting between a morbid fear and a whining self-pity, hoping that somehow the chaplain could exonerate him from any blame whatsoever.
‘It was not my fault, Arnulf.’
‘We must all take some share of the responsibility.’
‘But I was guiltless with Helene. You saw that.’
The chaplain nodded. ‘You always did your best.’
‘What will happen to me?’
‘My thoughts lie with Helene at this moment, my lord.’
‘Mine, too,’ he said quickly. ‘She dominates my mind.’
There was a long pause. Arnulf sounded tentative.
‘Did she say anyth
ing to you before this tragedy?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘She gave no hint of the distress she was in?’
‘None.’
‘There must have been some small clue, my lord.’
‘She would not speak to us at all,’ said Wymarc. ‘She locked herself away in her room and refused even to eat. Now we realise why. If only I had known!’
Arnulf nodded sadly. ‘Try to rest,’ he counselled.
‘How can I?’
‘It has been a night of terror for you. No man could live through that ordeal without a heavy toll being taken on his mind and body.’ He eased him back in his chair. ‘Rest, my lord. Close your eyes and yield yourself up. Replenish your strength for the difficult time that lies ahead. I am here now. I will take care of everything. Share your load.’
Having placated Wymarc to the point where the latter drifted harmlessly off to sleep, Arnulf set to work on the rest of the household. The arrival of the chaplain had allowed the wife to be seized by the fit of hysteria she had kept at bay while her husband was in need of her support. Now that Wymarc had been reassured, she made her bid for consolation, weeping copiously and wringing her hands, giving full vent to her emotions.
Arnulf combined sympathy with firm action. Taking the woman by the wrists, he shook her hard until she was jerked out of her lachrymose display and stared at him open-mouthed.
‘This is no way to behave, my lady,’ he said.
‘Helene is dead and by her own hand!’
‘Then it is for the living to show her some respect.’
‘She will go down into the deepest pit of Hell.’
‘Put such thoughts aside.’
‘Helene killed herself,’ wailed the other. ‘And lost all hope of entering into the Kingdom of Heaven. That is the Church's teaching, is it not? Suicide is a sure road to damnation.’
‘God will take pity on Helene.’
‘After what she has done?’
‘Have faith, my lady. Do not despair.’
The chaplain spent even more time with her than with her husband, but she was eventually calmed enough to be left alone while he moved among the servants. Faces blank with horror, they snatched at every crumb of comfort he offered them. A suicide was not a merely personal calamity. It touched everyone in the household with its clammy fingers. Arnulf probed the servants to see if any of them had guessed at Helene's plight and foreseen the catastrophe. No suspicions of any kind had existed. The servants had been taken completely by surprise. Helene had confided in nobody. She kept sorrow penned up inside her until it burst out uncontrollably.
The Stallions of Woodstock Page 18