The Stallions of Woodstock

by Edward Marston

  ‘Would you want to see him in that state?’

  ‘I'd want to ask him how he came by his injuries.’

  ‘He seemed to have been beaten close to death,’ said Gervase. ‘Who could hate him enough to do that?’

  ‘There is one obvious suspect,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘My lord Wymarc.’

  ‘No,’ said Gervase thoughtfully. ‘I doubt if this is his work. When the fury was really on him, he came after Bertrand Gamberell but not to batter him like that. He would have killed him outright.’

  ‘Death might have been more merciful, Gervase.’

  Golde shuddered. ‘No mercy was shown to him today.’

  ‘There is another thing,’ said Gervase. ‘If my lord Wymarc had delivered this beating, he would hardly have sent his victim back to the sheriff with his signature all over him. That would render him liable to instant arrest.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Ralph.

  ‘When I spoke with him, my lord Wymarc was more preoccupied with grief than with revenge. This deed must be laid at someone else's door.’

  ‘It is one step short of murder,’ observed Golde.

  ‘A dire warning, my love.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘We shall see. But one crime has been solved.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The theft of Hyperion. It is no accident that Bertrand Gamberell came in stark naked on his black stallion. There was a message in that. Whoever assaulted him must also have stolen his horse.’

  ‘It looks that way,’ said Gervase.

  ‘What other explanation is there?’

  ‘I do not know, Ralph, but the timing seems strange. Why steal a man's horse, keep it hidden for days and only then set upon him? It does not feel right.’

  ‘Neither does poor Bertrand!’

  They were in the apartment shared by Ralph and Golde. In their separate ways, each was disturbed by what they had seen. Golde was horrified, Gervase filled with compassion for the victim and Ralph obsessed with finding out the exact nature of his injuries in the belief that they themselves might be clues which would lead to the assailant. None of them was even thinking about the banquet they were due to attend that evening. Bertrand Gamberell had deprived every guest in the castle of his appetite.

  ‘We can cross one name off our list,’ said Gervase.

  ‘Yes,’ consented Ralph. ‘Bertrand is not our man. He is a victim himself. He was always an outsider on the list but had to be considered. That still leaves us four names to play with, Gervase. Can one of them really be responsible for all the crimes committed here?’

  Gervase was pensive. Doubts crowded in upon him.

  ‘I am not so certain,’ he said at length.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This latest incident breaks the pattern.’

  ‘What pattern?’

  ‘All the other events fit together.’

  ‘This is linked to them somehow.’

  ‘No, Ralph. I think not.’

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘The man who killed Walter Payne was not the one who attacked Bertrand Gamberell. Why murder a knight yet only hand out a beating to his master?’

  ‘Only!’ exclaimed Golde. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘It was a savage assault,’ said Gervase, ‘and that is what makes it so different. The assassin was quick and decisive in his work. That beating took time and deliberation.’

  ‘Not to mention strength,’ added Ralph. ‘Bertrand is in his prime. It would not have been easy to overpower him.’

  ‘He may have been taken unawares.’

  ‘And set upon by more than one assailant.’

  ‘Please do not go on about it,’ implored Golde. ‘I keep seeing that horse trotting into the castle with a bleeding carcass across its back. It was horrendous!’

  ‘We did not mean to distress you, my love,’ said Ralph. ‘Nothing can be done until we hear from Bertrand himself. He will name his attackers.’

  Covered by a sheet, Bertrand Gamberell lay on a bed while the doctor bent over him. The patient was still unconscious. His body had been washed clean and the flow of blood stemmed with heavy bandaging but there were limits to the physician's skill. He could do nothing to hide the revolting ugliness of a face which had been smashed to a pulp. The nose was broken, the eyes blackened, the lips swollen dramatically. The chin was one huge glowing bruise.

  Baldwin the Doctor stood back with a sigh of sympathy.

  ‘That is all I can do for him, my lord sheriff.’

  ‘Will he survive?’

  ‘Yes. But only because he is young and strong. Most men would have died from such a beating.’

  Robert d'Oilly smouldered. ‘The villain who did this will rot in my dungeon!’ he vowed. ‘I will never forgive him for the way he humiliated me in front of the bishop. Bertrand's wounds demand a heavy punishment for the rogue but I have my own wounds to salve as well!’

  As he washed his hands, Baldwin was tentative.

  ‘There is one person who must, alas, be suspect here.’

  ‘I know,’ said the other grimly, ‘and I have already sent men to arrest Wymarc. If this is his work, he will regret it for the rest of his days.’

  ‘He was deeply upset by his sister's suicide.’

  ‘That is no excuse.’

  ‘It may be part of the explanation, my lord sheriff.’

  ‘I want no explanations. I seek revenge!’

  Robert d'Oilly paced the little chamber like a caged lion. Planned with so much care and arranged with such precision, the lavish welcome for the Bishop of Coutances had been turned into a spectacle of sheer horror, and the sheriff knew that the King would hear of the outrage in due course. It would be one more stain on a shrievalty which had already been blackened enough that week. Reputation was everything to d'Oilly. He was eager to retrieve his lost respect.

  When the patient stirred, the sheriff darted across.

  ‘Bertrand!’ he hissed. ‘Can you hear me, Bertrand?’

  ‘Do not harass him,’ advised the doctor.

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘He may not recover for hours yet.’

  ‘Can you not administer something to revive him?’

  ‘I have given him a healing elixer.’

  ‘I want him awake now.’ The sheriff took the patient by the shoulder and shook him. ‘Bertrand! Talk to me, man!’

  Baldwin protested feebly but his words went unheard. The sheriff could wait no longer. His urgency eventually brought a response. Gamberell groaned with pain as he was jostled. His lids half opened, his eyes mere slits in dark sockets.

  ‘Who did this to you, Bertrand?’ asked d'Oilly.

  ‘Leave him be, my lord sheriff,’ whispered the doctor.

  ‘Who did this?’

  Bertrand Gamberell looked up at the face hovering over him. Searing pain shot through him and he convulsed in agony.

  ‘Who was it?’ pressed the sheriff.

  Gamberell saw the two men with staves in his mistress's bedchamber. He felt the first vicious blows all over again. He could still hear the woman's screams and her husband's loud exhortations. The ordeal returned.

  ‘Who was he, Bertrand?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said.

  Then he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  Ordgar adjusted the brooch on his mantle then reached for his small, pointed cap and pulled it over the silver locks. He was in his finest garb for the banquet at the castle. Bristeva would see her father consorting with the most important men in the county. Proud of her, he wanted his daughter to take an equal pride in him.

  When Ordgar came out of the house, Amalric was waiting for him. Seated astride Cempan, he wore a knee-length outer tunic of linen with a decorated hem and gartered trousers. Like his father's, the brooch on his mantle was fastened on his right shoulder. Ordgar saw the dagger in his belt.

  ‘You will not need that,’ he said sharply.

  ‘It
is for defence, father,’ said the boy. ‘We ride home at night. It would be folly to travel without a weapon.’

  ‘I will keep it for you.’

  He held out a hand. Amalric resisted at first but his father was determined. Only when the boy had surrendered his dagger did Ordgar climb into the saddle of his own horse.

  ‘Before we leave, a word of warning.’

  ‘Edric has already told me,’ said Amalric sulkily.

  ‘Do nothing to disgrace this family.’

  ‘It is Bristeva who is doing that.’

  ‘Amalric!’

  The boy nodded. ‘I will obey,’ he sighed.

  ‘I expect more than obedience.’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Think of your sister for once.’

  ‘That is what Edric said. And I will try.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ordgar. ‘Let us go. We need to be at the castle well in advance. We will meet Edric there.’

  ‘Will he not ride with us?’ said Amalric in surprise.

  ‘No. He went on ahead.’

  Edric the Cripple took his horse at walking pace down the hill towards Grandpont. Most of the traffic was going in the other direction as guests headed towards the castle for the banquet. When Edric went over the bridge, he swung to the right and picked his way slowly along the southern bank of the river. It was a warm evening. A few boats were gently spearheading their way through the water. Ducks paddled aimlessly. Geese honked menacingly in the rushes.

  When he reached the castle, Edric nudged his horse into the shallows so that it could stretch its neck to take a drink. The rider's attention was on the stone keep which reared up over him on the opposite bank. Through the open windows, he could hear the noisy preparations for the banquet and smell the mingled aromas which emanated from the kitchen. He could almost feel the excitement that was building inside the hall.

  Edric had seen what he wanted. It was time to go.

  The attack of nerves came when they were just about to leave her chamber. She was tingling all over.

  ‘I am afraid,’ said Bristeva, cheeks ashen with fear.

  ‘You have no need to be,’ reassured Arnulf.

  ‘I can hardly speak, let alone sing.’

  ‘You will be fine, Bristeva.’

  ‘No, Father Arnulf. I do not feel well.’

  ‘Everyone is uneasy before an occasion like this.’

  ‘I am not just uneasy,’ she said. ‘I am frightened. I cannot forget the terrible sight of that man tied to his horse. It scared me, Father Arnulf.’

  ‘It upset us all,’ he soothed her. ‘It was a dreadful thing to behold. The wounded man deserves our deepest sympathy.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It does not matter.’

  ‘But I want to know.’

  ‘The sooner you can put him out of your mind, the better.’ Arnulf took her by the shoulders. ‘Cheer up, Bristeva. This is a big occasion for you. Will it help if I tell you that the man is recovering? The doctor has tended him. I have seen the patient myself and he revives.’ He pulled her to him. ‘Now put him aside and think only of the banquet.’

  ‘I cannot sing tonight!’

  ‘Bristeva!’

  ‘I hate to let you down but I have no heart to sing.’

  ‘You are bound to feel nervous.’

  ‘They will not miss me, Father Arnulf. There is plenty of other entertainment. What are two songs in the middle of a feast such as that? Nobody will notice I am not there.’

  He stepped back to take her chin in his hand.

  ‘I will notice,’ he said firmly. ‘And your father will notice. And your brother. And my lady Golde. Will you betray us all? I expect more of you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said guiltily.

  ‘Then no more of this weakness. We have practised the songs many times. When you stand up in the hall, your fears will drop away. You will sing as beautifully as I have taught you and everyone will applaud. Do you understand?’

  She lowered her head and gave a reluctant nod.

  ‘Let me hear you say it, Bristeva.’

  ‘I understand,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good girl!’

  He lifted her chin and placed a delicate kiss on her lips. Bristeva looked up at him with her eyes shining. All her fears and reservations were suddenly receding. Arnulf the Chaplain had favoured her above all the other choristers. She could not let him down. Only by performing well could she retain his interest and his love.

  ‘I am ready,’ said a cheery voice behind them. ‘Shall we go across to the hall together?’

  They stepped instinctively apart and turned to see Brother Columbanus in the doorway. Hands hidden in the sleeves of his cowl, the monk gave them his most benign smile.

  ‘I am hungry,’ he said.

  Robert d'Oilly strove to dispel the air of gloom which hung over the hall. Ordering the musicians to play, and the cups of wine to be distributed, he strode about to greet each new guest with exaggerated affability. His wife Edith, resplendent in a garment of pale blue silk, was a more poised figure, extending her welcome with a warm smile and a friendly gesture of the hand. Between them, husband and wife slowly managed to lighten the pervading atmosphere.

  Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret watched them in action.

  ‘He is such a daunting host,’ commented Ralph.

  ‘Daunting?’

  ‘Yes, Gervase. I do not not know which aspect of Robert d'Oilly is the more unsettling, the violent sheriff or the gushing host. He fairly swooped upon me when I entered, as if I were his sworn brother.’

  Gervase smiled. ‘You are certainly not that.’

  ‘Look at him now with his son-in-law.’

  Milo Crispin had come into the room with his wife, Maud, on his arm. They were a striking couple. Milo was as stately as ever and his wife, in a mantle of olive green over a white gown, had a dignified beauty. When she embraced her mother, the resemblance between them was clear. The sheriff greeted them both effusively as if he had not seen them for several years. Then his manner changed in a flash as he took Milo aside for a moment to whisper in his ear.

  ‘We know what the sheriff is telling him,’ noted Ralph.

  ‘But does he need to be told, Ralph?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Milo Crispin does not seem at all surprised to hear about the beating that Bertrand Gamberell took,’ observed Gervase. ‘It is the sheriff's face that is grim.’

  ‘Milo has hardly raised an eyebrow, let alone blenched.’

  ‘He will repay careful watching.’

  The next guest who came through the door astonished them both. Wymarc looked furtive and self-conscious but he forced a smile when he was greeted by his hosts. The wine that was put into his hand was immediately gulped down.

  ‘He is the last person I expected to see,’ said Gervase.

  ‘Yes. And he would rather be anywhere else but here.’

  ‘What brought him?’

  ‘Six of the sheriff's men.’

  ‘By force?’

  ‘Originally,’ said Ralph. ‘I saw him when he was escorted into the castle earlier. My guess is that our genial host had him arrested on suspicion of assaulting Bertrand Gamberell. He obviously proved his innocence and was released.’

  ‘Released from custody but not from his guilt. He still frets over Helene's suicide. You can see it clearly.’

  ‘Yes, Gervase, but he may have taken consolation from the news about Bertrand. It did not cause a ripple on the surface of Milo's face but I wager that it raised at least a smile of satisfaction on Wymarc's.’

  Guests surged through the door in greater numbers and the hall began to fill rapidly. The plaintive sound of rebec and harp were drowned beneath the tidal murmur. Ralph looked around for Golde and saw her talking with Brother Columbanus. When he turned back to Gervase, he saw that they had company. Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances was bearing down on them.

  In
a convivial setting, he somehow exuded an even greater sense of power. They were highly aware of his standing with the King. He was one of William's chief advisers and had played a major part in the ecclesiastical reforms which had followed the Conquest. In both Church and State, he was an influential figure. Ralph was acquainted with his military exploits while Gervase remembered him for his judicial role.

  The bishop's smile was shared evenly between them.

  ‘You are the commissioners, I believe,’ he said, sizing each man up at a glance. ‘Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret.’

  ‘That is right, your grace,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Three of you set out from Winchester.’

  ‘You are well informed,’ noted Gervase.

  ‘I have to be,’ boasted Geoffrey. ‘My intelligencers are everywhere. Where is the third member of your tribunal? I wish to meet Maurice Pagnal as well.’

  ‘You will have to wait until you reach Winchester,’ said Ralph sadly. ‘And you may need to crack the whip over your intelligencers, your grace. They obviously failed to tell you that my lord Maurice was dismissed from his office and sent away in disgrace.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Geoffrey, eyes bulging in dismay. ‘What was his offence?’

  ‘He succumbed to bribery, your grace,’ said Gervase.

  ‘A corrupt judge! Unforgivable!’

  ‘His substitute is even now on his way to Oxford.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ rumbled the bishop. ‘Nothing is as vital as the incorruptibility of those in a judicial position. Several years ago,’ he recalled, grasping at a memory which could inflate his selfimportance, ‘I presided over a land dispute between Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury and Odo, Bishop of Bayeux and Earl of Kent. The trial was held at the shire court in Penenden Heath. As a lawyer, Master Bret, you will know the case. It stands as an example of judicial impartiality. The King's archbishop or the King's halfbrother? Whom should I have favoured?’ He clenched a fist. ‘Neither! Had an Emperor and a Pope stood before me, I would have been uninfluenced by their rank. Justice was my only concern.’ He pointed to Ralph. ‘I will see that Maurice Pagnal does not escape lightly for this.’

  ‘That would please me, your grace,’ said Ralph.

  ‘It will be done,’ promised Geoffrey, letting a glaucous eye rove around the room. ‘I will have much to report to the King about Oxford. It will not be complimentary.’