Robert d'Oilly descended on his chief guest to lead him to his place. The steward was meanwhile directing other guests to their seats in strict hierarchical order. Long tables had been arranged in a giant horseshoe so that the central area was left free for the entertainment. Rushes covered the floor. Herbs sweetened the air. Music played on. Two hundred candles shed a fluctuating brilliance over the scene.
Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances was in the place of honour in the centre of the main table. Robert d'Oilly sat beside him on his right and Edith was on the bishop's other flank. Ralph sat next to his hostess with Golde, then Gervase, next to him. It was a good position from which to view the whole room, though Ralph wished that he could keep Milo Crispin under closer surveillance. The latter was seated on the sheriff's right hand. Maud was between them, separating her husband from her father. She was an arresting figure even in such a glittering array.
Ralph leaned behind Golde to speak to Gervase.
‘They are all here,’ he said.
‘Yes, Ralph.’
‘Milo, Wymarc, Ordgar and the sheriff.’
‘Which one should we watch?’
‘All four.’
His gaze switched to Ordgar. Occupying a humble position at the foot of a side table, the old Saxon was seated between his son and Edric the Cripple. In an almost exclusively Norman gathering, they looked out of place, and their attire was shabby against the bright tunics of the men around them. Ordgar was neither hurt nor insulted by his position at the feast. He was there to enjoy his daughter's contribution and that put him in a mood of quiet elation.
A fanfare sounded and serving men entered in procession to display some of the dishes that were being served. As they paraded the boar's head, the side of pork, the salmon, the venison, the spiced rabbits and the other delights around the hall, they drew gasps of pleasure from the women and approving thumps on the table from the men. There were six choices for the first course alone. Wine flowed plentifully. Ale was set out before the Saxon contingent. The whole assembly was soon drinking heartily and eating their frumenty.
The one person who was holding back from the wine was Brother Columbanus. Seated opposite Ordgar, he tucked into his food with relish but put a hand over his cup whenever someone tried to pour wine into it. Arnulf the Chaplain watched him from the doorway. He had been sitting with Bristeva in an ante-room, trying to still her anxieties and prepare her mind for the test ahead. He now slipped into the hall to check that everything was in order. Walking up behind the monk, he lifted the man's cup and filled it from a flagon on the table.
‘No, no,’ protested Columbanus. ‘I must not.’
‘Join in the revelry, Brother Columbanus,’ urged the other. ‘You are an honoured guest. No man can come to a banquet such as this and refuse a drink.’
‘Will you lead me astray, my friend?’
‘I wish merely to see you enjoy yourself.’
When the cup was pressed firmly into his hand, Columbanus relented. He beamed at his neighbours.
‘One taste, perhaps.’
Ordgar raised a hand to catch the chaplain's attention.
‘How is Bristeva?’ he asked.
‘Nervous but confident.’
‘When will she sing?’
‘Not for some while yet.’
‘May I speak to her beforehand?’
‘It might be better if you did not,’ said Arnulf. ‘She needs to settle before she can perform in front of such an assembly. I will get back and help her through the tension of this long wait.’
He poured more wine for Columbanus then withdrew.
Entertainment soon began. The musicians struck up a lively tune and a dozen dancers came gliding into the room, moving with grace and verve as they weaved intricate patterns in front of the spectators. The applause was long and loud. When the guests looked down at the table again, they saw that a new course had been served. Gloom and despondency had been completely banished. A spirit of joy prevailed.
Tumblers came next, sprinting into the hall and thrilling everyone with their acrobatic feats. They were followed by a man who put a flaming brand into his mouth before blowing fire in the air like a human dragon. The dancers returned for a second display then made way for a magician in a long black robe. His performance imposed a hush on the room. They watched in amazement as he made a bunch of flowers vanish before their eyes, and they gasped in unison when he folded his hands in prayer, then opened them to release a white dove into the air. It flew twice around the room before obeying his whistle and returning to perch on his shoulder.
Bristeva heard the thunderous clapping from the hall. She was in the adjoining room with Arnulf and the delay was telling on her already frayed nerves.
‘When do I go in?’ she asked.
‘You are next, Bristeva.’
‘I will never get applause like that.’
‘They will love you, Bristeva. So will I.’
He embraced her fondly and she felt a glow of pleasure.
Her spirits lifted. ‘Is my father there?’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘and Amalric.’
‘I so want to please them.’
‘You will please everybody,’ he said. ‘As long as you remember what I told you. Stand still. Keep your head up. Take a deep breath before you start. Then let your voice fill the hall with sweetness. They will be captivated.’
‘Will I be as good as Helene?’ she wondered.
Arnulf felt his stomach lurch for a moment.
‘Every bit as good.’
The steward gave a signal and Arnulf guided her towards the door of the hall. Her moment had come. Bristeva was about to sing the two songs they had rehearsed.
The room was still buzzing with wonder at the performance of the magician. When they saw that he was followed by a young girl, they gave her an encouraging clap. With Arnulf at her side, Bristeva moved to the centre of the hall with a poise and confidence that impressed even her brother. She wore a blue gunna over a white kirtle. A circlet of gold held her wimple in place. Bristeva's face had the bloom of innocence upon it. She compelled a respectful silence.
When he had positioned her, Arnulf withdrew to the side of the hall. She was on her own now. There was no hesitation. Shaking off all her apprehension, Bristeva took a deep breath and sang in a voice that seemed to fly around the room with as much delight as the white dove. The songs were simple but melodious, touching refrains which plucked at the emotions. Arnulf was delighted, Ordgar was thrilled, Amalric gave a grudging approval, Brother Columbanus wept with joy and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances was entranced. There were no tricks or clever illusions this time. She did it all with the purity of her voice and the quiet power of her presence.
Bristeva was the real magician. When she finished, the applause was sustained and deafening. She curtseyed in acknowledgement. Almost everybody in the room acclaimed her. Ralph Delchard was one of the exceptions. While others were looking at the girl, his attention was caught by the man with the crutch who was hobbling to stand beside a window at the other end of the hall. Edric the Cripple identified himself by his gait. He took no interest in the girl herself. His gaze was fixed on the guest of honour.
A series of images flashed through Ralph's mind. He thought about the skill of an assassin at Woodstock. The soldiering days of his victim. The round indentations in the ground under the ash. The theft of a spirited black stallion. A housecarl in Wallingford. A revolt in Herefordshire. The loss of a leg amid brutal reprisals.
He moved just in time. When Ralph saw the dagger in Edric's hand, he jumped to his feet and leant over to grab the bishop and pull him sideways in his chair. The dagger was already spinning through the air. It missed the guest of honour by inches and buried itself in the back of the chair.
Pandemonium ensued. Men yelled, women screamed, everyone jumped up in alarm and swirled around the room in a panic. Ralph let go of the bishop and fought his way down the hall to the window but Edric had planned his escape on this occas
ion as on the last. Having flung himself from the keep, he landed in the middle of the river and was now swimming to the bank with his crutch floating behind him. His horse was tethered to a nearby tree.
Enraged to a new pitch, Robert d'Oilly pointed an accusatory finger at Ordgar and his son, roaring above the tumult in a voice of doom.
‘This is a conspiracy! Arrest them!’
Four guards pinioned the two men before they could move.
Bristeva screeched with fear before Arnulf swept her up in his arms and carried her away from the scene of confusion. Ralph darted across to her father to begin an immediate interrogation.
‘Where has he gone?’ he demanded.
‘I do not know, my lord,’ said Ordgar, quivering.
‘You planned this assassination with him!’
‘No, my lord!’
‘The pair of you will hang alongside him.’
‘Please!’ begged Ordgar. ‘My son and I are innocent. We knew nothing of this. Bring a Bible and I will swear to it, my lord. We came only to hear my daughter sing.’
‘Is she part of the conspiracy as well?’
The old man was distraught. ‘Bristeva?’
‘Distracting us with her songs while Edric lurked.’
‘No, no,’ said Ordgar with patent sincerity. ‘We are as shocked as you by what has happened. Edric must pay for his crime. I will do all I can to help you catch him.’
‘Then tell me where he will go. At once!’
‘I have no idea, my lord. That is the truth. I simply do not know.’ He turned to his son. ‘And neither does Amalric.’
But a telltale glint had come into the boy's eye.
By the time he escorted her back to her chamber, Arnulf had managed to convince her that her father and brother were not in danger. If they were innocent – as she averred – they would come to no harm. Edric the Cripple would bear all the blame. Bristeva was terrified that some responsibility would attach to her. If she had not sung in the hall, the steward would never have been allowed inside the place. Unwittingly, she had given him the cover he needed. It was horrifying.
Arnulf slipped his arms around her to comfort her and she laid her head on his shoulder as she wept. The room was quiet and secluded. They were far away from the chaos in the hall. His soothing words slowly calmed her down. His warm embrace made her feel loved and protected. Bristeva was gradually lulled into a mood of unquestioning compliance.
‘I wanted it to be so different,’ he whispered.
‘So did I.’
‘I wanted you to have your triumph in the hall then return here with me to celebrate it. Just the two of us, Bristeva. You and me. We earned that celebration.’
‘We did, Father Arnulf!’
‘Do you feel better now?’ he said, stroking her back.
‘Much better.’
‘Do not worry about anything. I will take care of you.’
‘Thank you.’
She nestled into his shoulder and did not object when his caresses grew more intimate. When he removed her wimple and dropped it on the mattress, her plait uncoiled down her back. His hand stroked it then he wound it playfully around his fingers. He brushed her head with his lips.
Bristeva was in a complete daze. She was both inebriated by her success in the hall and stunned by the murderous attack which had followed it. She needed sympathy and reassurance. Father Arnulf was providing it for her. When his hands ran down her back to caress her buttocks, she made no complaint. When he rubbed himself against her thighs, she felt no alarm. It was only when his fingers worked their way up to her breasts that she tried to pull away.
‘What are you doing!’ she said, blushing deeply.
‘Comforting you, Bristeva.’
‘You frightened me.’
‘Then I will do it more gently this time,’ he said, reaching out to take the full breasts in the palms of both hands before squeezing them softly. ‘I have wanted to do this for so long, Bristeva. You are beautiful. You asked me if you would be as good as Helene and I told you the truth.’ He pulled her hard against him. ‘Every bit as good.’
The first kiss took her breath away. Crimson with shame and pulsating with fear, she did not know what to do. Arnulf was her friend and protector. She loved him. Yet he was doing things which made her feel hurt and abused. During the second kiss, he eased her down on the mattress and rolled on top of her. There was no uncertainty now. As soon as she pulled her mouth free, she shrieked aloud. The voice which had delighted with its sweetness now became an hysterical cry.
‘Nobody will hear you, Bristeva,’ he said. ‘Be mine.’
He stopped her mouth with another kiss but it was short-lived. Gervase opened the door and dashed in to haul the chaplain off her. Arnulf was strong but he had nothing like Gervase's anger and determination. While the two men struggled. Brother Columbanus slipped in to help Bristeva up and shepherd her out into the passage. It was he who had alerted Gervase to the danger she was in.
A relay of punches finally subdued Arnulf and he lay gasping on the floor. Gervase stood over him, dishevelled but victorious. He looked at the other with utter disgust.
‘Is this where you seduced Helene as well?’
* * *
Edric the Cripple led his horse into the abandoned mill and tethered him to a wooden spike. The animal took time to settle after the long gallop from Oxford. When he nosed the hay at last, he began to chomp it contentedly. Disappointment gnawed at Edric. His careful plan had failed at the last moment. Walter Payne had been killed but a worse enemy had escaped. The consolation was that Edric had survived to fight another day. He allowed himself a congratulatory chuckle. A man with one leg had outwitted and outrun all of them. It had cost him a ducking in the river but he did not mind. He was safe.
It did not take him long to start the fire. Holding a long, straight twig between his palms, he rotated it quickly until the friction produced a spark and the other twigs ignited. He now had a source of light in his refuge and a means of drying his wet apparel. After feeding the fire, he began to remove his tunic. Nobody would find him there. Before dawn, he would have left the county.
‘Edric the Cripple!’
The voice cut through the stillness like an axe.
‘Come on out!
Edric peered through the gap between the timbers and saw a solitary man, sitting astride a horse some twenty yards away. There was enough moonlight for him to pick out the sword in his visitor's hand.
‘My name is Ralph Delchard!’ called the other. ‘I am here to arrest you for the murder of Walter Payne and for the attempted murder of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.’
Edric looked around in despair. There was no way out. His horse was tired. If one man had found him, there would be others nearby. Resistance was useless. He might prevail in combat against most opponents but there was something in Ralph's voice and the way that he held himself in the saddle which suggested a fearsome adversary.
‘You hid in the ground at Woodstock,’ said Ralph. ‘You cower in a mill here. Come out and fight in the open like a man, Edric. I am ready for you.’
The challenge awakened the warrior in him but Edric still held back. He foresaw only too clearly the gruesome fate he would meet if he was taken prisoner. It was futile to lie low and hope that Ralph would go away. The fire gave him away. Ralph could see its glow and knew that he was in there.
‘I know why,’ shouted Ralph, circling the mill on his horse. ‘You were a mercenary in the pay of Roger of Breteuil. You fought for him during the revolt of the three earls. But you picked the wrong side, Edric. You lost. The uprising was put down by an army led by Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.’
‘He is an animal!’ howled Edric.
‘He was short on mercy that day,’ admitted Ralph. ‘When he overpowered your army, he ordered his men to cut off the leg of every soldier who raised a weapon against him.’
‘I was crippled for life!’
‘So was your mind, Edric' Ralph was worki
ng himself closer. ‘Walter Payne served under the bishop. He took part in that hideous mutilation. You waited a long time for your revenge on him.’
‘It was worth it!’
‘Come out now! I will not ask again.’
There was a long silence. Ralph's patience snapped and he nudged his horse forward. He did not get far. The door of the mill opened and Edric's horse came out, slapped on the rump to make him run. The door shut again but not before Ralph had seen a glimpse of the fire. Fed by Edric, it started to crackle and blaze. Ralph's horse shied and backed away. He rode it across to a tree and dismounted before tethering it. When he turned back to the mill, he saw that the fire had taken a real hold. Sword in hand, he ran towards the building until he was stopped by a wall of heat. It sent him reeling.
Coughing in the acrid smoke, he made one last appeal.
‘Come out, Edric! This is madness.’
But there was no reply. Edric reserved the right to quit the world in his own way. As the blaze lit up the night sky and the heat pushed Ralph further back, there was a loud cackle of triumph from inside the mill.
Edric the Cripple had eluded them all again. They found the charred remains of his crutch beside the body.
Epilogue
There was a full congregation in the church of St George's-in-theCastle next morning. The service was taken by Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances and he preached a sermon of thanksgiving for his narrow escape from death. All those present were acutely aware that the chaplain who normally presided at the altar was now lying in one of the dungeons to face a charge of attempted rape. Arnulf had readily confessed to the paternity of Helene's child and was tortured with contrition. When the service came to an end, the bishop felt that he had not so much officiated in the church as conducted an exorcism. A resident devil had been put to flight.
Thoroughly chastened, the congregation trickled out of the building and dispersed throughout the castle. Ralph Delchard was among the last to leave. Golde was beside him. Gervase Bret and Brother Columbanus soon joined them. The monk came over to congratulate Ralph.
The Stallions of Woodstock Page 27