The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  When a grisly tranquillity settled on the house, Arnulf found a moment to steal quietly upstairs to her bedchamber. He let himself in and recoiled at once from the nauseous smell that was easily winning the battle against the sweet herbs strewn around the floor. Helene lay on the bed beneath a shroud. The sheets were still stained by the posthumous effusions from her body.

  Arnulf moved up to the side of the bed and lifted the shroud to take a look at her face. His stomach turned. What he remembered was the beautiful young girl with soft skin, who looked and sang like an angel in his choir at the church. Helene was no angel now. Rigor mortis had set in, freezing her expression of agony and robbing her of all grace and charm. It was a cruel transformation.

  Falling to his knees beside her, Arnulf prayed with his hands clasped tight together. When he rose, he bent over the corpse to make the sign of the cross on her forehead as if baptising her afresh. He pulled the shroud over her face again and went out. As he descended the stairs in a daze, he could hear the haunting sound of a fourteenyear-old girl singing joyously in an empty church.

  On the journey back to Oxford, they made a detour in order to pay a second unheralded visit. Ordgar was in the house when he heard Ralph Delchard and his men ride up. The old man came out to give them a wary greeting. Over by the stables, Amalric reached instinctively for a wooden hayfork, fearing that the soldiers had come to take possession of his colt, but he put the improvised weapon aside when he realised that they were not Milo Crispin's men.

  Ralph dismounted to be taken into the house by Ordgar. It was a typical Saxon dwelling, long and low in design, divided into a series of bays and with a sunken floor that was covered with rushes. The thatched roof harboured spiders, mice and other denizens. Light was frugal. After the timbered splendour of Wallingford Castle, the place seemed small and dismal. Ralph did not care for the faint smell of damp. He lowered himself on to the stool to which he was politely waved.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, my lord. I was at the castle when you walked into the courtroom and stopped the trial. You saved a man's life.’

  ‘Ebbi was innocent.’

  ‘But unable to prove his innocence without your help.’

  ‘I am glad I got there in time,’ said Ralph. ‘We went to a lot of trouble to establish that he could not possibly have been the assassin. We wanted our evidence heard. The poor man was arrested and charged on insufficient grounds.’

  ‘My lord sheriff felt he had grounds enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know the law as well as I,’ said Ordgar without bitterness. ‘When a Norman soldier is slain, the murderer is always presumed to be a Saxon. If he is not caught or turned in, the district surrounding the place where the crime occurred is amerced for a substantial fine. We have lived with that law for a long time now.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘My lord sheriff wanted a Saxon killer. His soldiers found one.’

  ‘It was not as simple as that,’ said Ralph. ‘The law of which you speak was brought in as a protective measure after the Conquest. England was not easily subdued.’

  ‘Did you expect it to be, my lord?’

  ‘Not at all. People are entitled to defend what they believe is theirs. Until it is taken away from them. That is when it is time to sue for peace.’

  ‘Peace without honour.’

  ‘Peace with land to work. Peace with food in your belly.’

  ‘Imposed from above.’ He gave a philosophical smile. ‘But you are right, my lord. Peace is better than war. Even a lesser existence is better than death. I accept that.’

  ‘Many did not, Ordgar,’ said Ralph. ‘Rebellions, ambushes, brutal assassinations. On and on they went. The law was enacted to protect us from those Saxons who still thought they ruled this island. And they do not,’ he reminded his host. ‘The killing which has brought me here today is of a very different order.’

  ‘Is it, my lord?’

  ‘Walter Payne was murdered to pay off an old grudge.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I do not know yet.’

  ‘Supposing that you never find out?’ asked Ordgar. ‘If my lord sheriff also fails to track down the assassin, he will invoke the law of which we just talked. A Saxon hand will be presumed to have thrown that dagger. A murder fine will be levied on those who dwell near Woodstock.’

  ‘It will not come to that. I'll catch the villain.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With your help, Ordgar.’

  The old man gave a weary smile and sat on the bench opposite him. Ralph studied him in the gloom. His assessment of Ordgar was favourable. The latter had a quiet pride which even the indignities forced upon him had not extinguished. He showed respect but not fear. There was a pleasing absence of rancour in him.

  ‘Let us talk about the race,’ suggested Ralph.

  ‘If you wish, my lord.’

  ‘I have spoken with Wymarc, Milo Crispin and Bertrand Gamberell. They gave me varying accounts of what took place at Woodstock that day. I wanted to hear your version.’

  ‘I doubt that I will have anything new to add.’

  ‘Describe the race.’

  Ordgar collected his thoughts then gave his version of events. He spoke slowly, honestly and with a pervading regret. When the old man stopped, Ralph had the first question ready.

  ‘How did your colt win the race?’

  ‘Fairly, my lord.’

  ‘Hyperion lost his rider.’

  ‘Even with a man in the saddle, he would have lost.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cempan is better.’

  ‘Better bred? Better trained? Better ridden?’

  ‘All three.’

  ‘Who deserves the credit for that?’

  ‘Edric the Cripple and my son,’ explained the other. ‘Edric is my steward but his knowledge of horses is second to none. He raised and trained Cempan. He also taught my son how to ride him properly.’

  ‘A cripple riding a horse?’

  ‘He was not always disabled. Edric was once a warrior, a housecarl in the service of King Edward. He lost his leg in combat. I gave him a place here.’

  ‘He must be grateful to you, Ordgar. Not many men would employ a crippled soldier to oversee their land.’

  ‘Edric has repaid me a thousandfold.’

  ‘How did you prepare for the race?’

  ‘Prepare?’

  ‘Cempan did not win by chance,’ decided Ralph. ‘You were up against the fastest horse in the county and Hyperion had already raced on that course three times. You were at a complete disadvantage.’

  A sly grin. ‘Not quite, my lord.’

  ‘Let me guess. You took the colt to Woodstock beforehand. You let him get the feel of the course.’

  ‘We did more than that,’ admitted the other. ‘Edric and I watched an earlier race. We saw how Hyperion ran and how his rider handled him. That taught us much.’

  ‘Sensible preparations.’

  ‘My son, Amalric, then rode Cempan over the course. It has many undulations. They are deceptive and can knock a horse out of his stride. Edric showed him how to take a line that would miss the worst of the slopes and dips. They trained for hours in the twilight.’ A full smile came. ‘We borrowed money from many people, my lord. We had to be sure to win.’

  ‘Your victory was obviously deserved.’

  ‘But not upheld.’

  ‘Something puzzles me,’ said Ralph. ‘Edric the Cripple had an important role in your success yet you never mentioned him during your account of the race.’

  ‘He was not there.’

  ‘Not there? After all that effort he put in, he was not there to see the results?’

  ‘Edric was invited to the wedding of his kinsman. He was away in Warwick for three or four days. He offered to miss the wedding in order to watch the race but I urged him to go.’

  ‘Would not his presence have helped your son?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. But there was anothe
r consideration.’

  ‘What was that?’

  Ordgar became uneasy. ‘Edric finds it hard to accept the changes that have come about. You talked earlier of those who refused to surrender. Edric is one of them. Something of the warrior still burns inside him.’ He blurted out the truth. ‘To be candid, I was glad that he was not at the race because he might have said something out of turn.’

  ‘A Saxon hothead upsetting a trio of Norman lords.’

  ‘There are times when the loss of his leg rankles. It makes him lash out wildly and not always wisely. Besides,’ said Ordgar, ‘we won the race without him. If not the prize.’

  ‘Was your stake returned?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Held over until the race is run again?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what is the situation?’

  ‘I do not wish to speak ill of my lord Milo,’ began the other cautiously, ‘but he has been vindictive. He is very eager to win the race against Hyperion. Because our colt is the only horse likely to do that, he wants to buy him from us.’

  ‘You would be mad to sell him.’

  ‘We may be given no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Milo would force you to sell?’

  ‘He offered to exchange our stake money for Cempan.’

  Ralph was shocked. ‘I thought better of him.’

  ‘Needless to say, I refused such a corrupt bargain but I fear that he will come for Cempan one day.’

  ‘Only when the race is run again and that cannot happen until Hyperion is found. Bertrand Gamberell has shed more tears over that animal than over Walter Payne. You would think that it was Hyperion who was killed at Woodstock.’

  ‘His reputation was, my lord. By us.’

  Ralph tried to catch him unawares with a blunt question.

  ‘Who murdered Walter Payne?’

  ‘I do not know, my lord.’

  ‘Would you tell me, if you did?’

  Ordgar took much longer to find an answer this time.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Edric the Cripple was riding across the fields towards the house when he saw them depart. As their horses cantered back to Oxford, they left a cloud of dust in their wake. Edric went straight to the stables and dismounted. He found the boy lifting a saddle on to Cempan and gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘I thought they had come to take him away,’ he said.

  ‘So did I,’ confided Amalric. ‘But they only wished to talk to father. They were complete strangers to me. I will have to ask him who they were.’

  ‘What mood were they in when they left?’

  ‘Friendly.’

  ‘Normans are never friendly. Unless they are trying to trick something out of you. What were they after?’

  ‘I do not know, Edric. Only one of them went into the house with father. When they came out together, they were smiling.’

  ‘Ordgar is too easily taken in.’

  ‘You know what he always says,’ the other reminded him as he tightened the girth. ‘Better to work with them than against them.’

  ‘Look where it got him with Milo Crispin!’

  The chestnut colt whinnied. Cempan was keen to be ridden out. Edric patted the animal's neck affectionately. Amalric adjusted the stirrups. The boy seemed relaxed and happy. The steward decided to broach an important topic with him.

  ‘We need to talk about Bristeva,’ he began.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think we have both been unkind to her, Amalric'

  ‘What does it matter? She is only a girl.’

  ‘She's your sister. You should love her.’

  ‘I do,’ said the other defensively. ‘But she can be very silly at times and I've no patience with her. Neither have you, Edric. You're sharper with Bristeva than I am.’

  ‘It was wrong of me.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘To speak so harshly about this choir of hers.’

  ‘She talks about nothing else. It vexes me.’

  ‘You talk about nothing but Cempan,’ the other pointed out, ‘and Bristeva must be equally vexed, but does she rail at you? Does she mock the horse the way you mock her choir?’

  Amalric was surprised by the steward's change of tone.

  ‘Has father been speaking to you about me?’ he guessed.

  ‘We exchanged words.’

  ‘Did he order you to keep me on the bit?’

  ‘No!’ said Edric hotly. ‘He would never order me to do anything. I am my own man. You should know that.’ He took a moment to calm down. ‘I offered to sound you out in order to save you from being excluded.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘The banquet at the castle. Ordgar is afraid to take you. He fears that you will somehow prevent Bristeva from singing.’

  ‘I will!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are the last person who should need to ask that,’ said the boy with feeling. ‘Think of the people she would be entertaining at the banquet. Robert d'Oilly. Milo Crispin. Bertrand Gamberell. And many others.’

  ‘Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances among them,’ said Edric.

  ‘Him, especially. Look who those men are. Remember what they have done to us. I'm not going to let my sister perform in that hall for their benefit. Just imagine, Edric. She will be singing to please Milo Crispin – the man who is trying to steal Cempan from us! I have to stop her.’

  ‘No, Amalric.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I say so.’

  The dark menace in his eyes made the boy's anger dissolve at once. Amalric was suddenly afraid and confused. Edric the Cripple had always encouraged him to resent and to subvert. Now he was insisting on Amalric's good behaviour and backing up that insistence with a naked threat. The boy was unsettled.

  Edric chuckled and punched him playfully on the arm.

  ‘Let us stay friends, Amalric.’

  ‘Yes. We will.’

  ‘Forget your sister,’ advised the other. ‘Her ambition is clear. Tell me this. What would you most like to do?’

  ‘Win a second race against Hyperion.’

  ‘Are you sure that Cempan will beat him?’

  ‘Certain!’

  ‘Then you will have your wish.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Amalric. ‘Milo Crispin will take him from us so that Cempan runs for him. I will not be allowed to ride in that race at all.’

  ‘Then we must arrange another one.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Two horses. Head to head. Cempan against Hyperion.’

  ‘But that is impossible!’

  ‘Is it?’

  Edric grinned and the truth slowly dawned on the boy. The two of them were soon shaking with a silent laughter that bonded them together.

  Robert d'Oilly was in a bad temper and even the presence of his wife did not calm him down this time. Edith and Golde were in the hall at the castle, making a provisional seating plan for the banquet, when the sheriff stormed in through the door. His steward and two of his soldiers were close behind him and their grim expressions showed that they had already felt the lash of their master's tongue.

  Edith's greeting died on her lips as she saw his face.

  ‘What ails you, my lord?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything!’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘It never stops happening, Edith!’ he complained. ‘There are times when the office of sheriff is too great a burden for any one man. I am the agent of the Crown in Oxfordshire. I collect taxes. I administer justice. I raise and lead any militia that is needed. In short, I receive the King's writ in this county and execute his instructions.’

  ‘And you do so with great efficiency,’ agreed Edith.

  ‘When I am not troubled by other matters.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This week has been a nightmare for me, Edith,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Gamberell's man is murdered. The wrong suspect is arrested and tried. When we search afresh for the
killer, the trail has gone cold. A black stallion is stolen and we find no trace of that either. Wymarc's sister commits suicide. I have another crisis on my hands. What else will descend out of the skies to plague me?’

  Edith traded a worried glance with Golde before speaking.

  ‘This may not be the ideal moment to mention the banquet,’ she said sweetly, ‘but it may provide the rest that you so surely deserve.’

  ‘It only increases my problems.’

  ‘How so, my lord?’ asked Golde.

  ‘We will take care of all the arrangements,’ added Edith.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you cannot take care of the murder, the theft of Gamberell's horse and this turmoil in Wymarc's family. How can I enjoy a banquet when all this is hanging over me? What opinion will the Bishop of Coutances form of me if he sees me so fretful and oppressed?’

  ‘The bishop knows your qualities well enough.’

  ‘I need to impress him, Edith.’

  ‘You will, my lord. No question of that.’

  ‘The banquet will be sumptuous,’ promised Golde. ‘Your wife will see to that. It will be fit for the King himself.’

  ‘But what about Oxford itself?’ he growled, beyond all reassurance. ‘When the bishop rides in with his entourage, he will expect a town that is firmly under control. Instead of that, he will find himself in a madhouse that is buzzing with tales of murder, theft and suicide. I wanted everything in its place when he arrived here. That is why I brought the trial of the prisoner forward. I wanted to clear some of the stink out of the way so that it would not offend the bishop's nostrils. But now,’ he said, ‘he will hardly be able to breathe for the stench.’

  Edith let her husband rant on for a few more minutes before signalling discreetly to Golde. The two women slipped out of the hall. When they closed the door behind them, they could still hear the sheriff in full flow.

  ‘Take no notice of that,’ said Edith smoothly. ‘Robert sometimes has to let his feelings show through. He is a most able sheriff and keeps a firm grip on the shire.’