Edward Marston - The Stallions of Woodstock

‘Here stands the evidence. Wallingford is no more than a mile or two away. This place must have been raided and its inhabitants killed or driven out. We shall find many such places in Oxfordshire, I believe.’

Golde nodded. ‘And in my own county of Herefordshire.’

‘War is war,’ said Maurice dismissively. ‘Resistance had to be put down and that is what we did. It needs no apology.’ His face crinkled into a smile. ‘And there were benefits to you as well, Golde. If you take the long view. Thanks to the ambition of Duke William, as he then was, you are now married to a Norman lord with fine estates in Hampshire. In some sense, you are a true beneficiary of the Conquest.’

‘In some sense,’ she confessed. ‘But not all.’

Ralph shifted his feet. ‘Enough of this idle banter.’

‘Gervase has made a fair point,’ said Brother Columbanus seriously.

‘You and my lord Maurice were part of an army which left a trail of destruction across England. I sincerely hope that both of you did penance for the sins you committed during that time.’

‘What sins?’ said Maurice defiantly. ‘We committed no sins, Brother Columbanus. We merely obeyed orders.’

‘You cannot shuffle off responsibility like that.’

‘We can do as we wish.’

‘Bishop Ermenfrid imposed a series of penances,’ said the monk with disarming mildness. ‘Slaughter on such a scale could not be ignored by the Church. That would be a sin in itself. Anyone who killed a man in the great battle of Hastings, for instance, was required to do penance for one year for each man he slew. Anyone who wounded a man …’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Ralph. ‘We know all this and do not need your recitation. Why talk of things which happened twenty years ago when we have enough to preoccupy us in the present?’

‘Past and present meet in this hamlet,’ said Gervase.

Ralph grew testy. ‘If it is the only way to shut you up, I will concede your argument. Because a Norman army may — just may, mark you -

have once marched through this place, we now have nowhere properly to shelter. If Maurice and I and the rest of us had had the sense to spare this hamlet, we would all be warm and dry at this moment in one of these dwellings. Will that content you, Gervase?’

‘Admirably!’

Ralph’s outburst broke the tension and they all laughed aloud at the absurdity of his words. He hugged Golde to him and she squeezed his arm affectionately. Marriage to a Saxon woman had made him see his earlier years in England in a different light and he did not like to reflect on them. Gervase was pleased with the way that Brother Columbanus had supported him but unsurprised by Maurice’s blunt attitude. All shades of opinion were covered by the makeshift roof.

The five of them shook with inexplicable mirth. Huddled in corners or tucked hard against walls, the rest of the party looked on in blank amazement. What could anyone find to laugh at in the middle of a pelting storm?

Ralph’s arm was still around his wife’s shoulders.

‘Your mantle is sodden, my love,’ he noted. ‘We really need a fire to get ourselves dry.’

‘The sun will do that office in time,’ said Columbanus, searching the clouds. ‘It will not be long before it peeps through at us again, I fancy.’

Another rumble of thunder seemed to undermine this prediction but there was no lightning this time and the rain was slowly easing.

The wind began to lose its bite. The horses were gradually calming down.

‘I will be glad to get to Oxford,’ said Maurice.

‘So will I, my lord,’ agreed Gervase, ‘but I doubt if they will be as glad to see us.’

‘Nobody likes tax-gatherers.’

‘We are much more than that, Maurice,’ corrected Ralph with a touch of pride. ‘We are royal commissioners, empowered to investigate a number of irregularities in the returns from this county. Our task is to root out fraud and felony as well as to assign taxes to their rightful place. It is crucial work but it will not win us many friends.’

‘What sort of town is Oxford?’ asked Golde.

‘A dull one, I hope,’ said Maurice with a yawn. ‘Dull and dreary. I am so desperately tired of excitement. From what I can judge, our work should be completed in less than a week. Then I can ride back home to Dorset where I belong.’

‘Do not count on that,’ said Ralph.

‘But everything seems so straightforward.’

‘It always does. But it never is.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Ralph Delchard grimaced and heaved a deep sigh.

‘Experience, my friend,’ he said. ‘Bitter experience.’

Hours later, Bertrand Gamberell was still seething with rage.

‘The villain must be caught!’ he exclaimed.

‘He will be,’ said Robert d’Oilly.

‘It was foul murder.’

‘The crime will be answered, Bertrand.’

‘I will tear him to pieces with my bare hands!’

‘That would be a ruinous folly on your part.’

‘But he killed one of my men.’

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘and I appreciate how you must feel. But do not let anger outweigh common sense. You will not cancel out one murder by committing another. It might assuage your ire but it will also bring you within the compass of the law. Leave this matter in my hands, Bertrand. I will deal with the assassin when he is apprehended.’

‘If he is,’ said Gamberell sourly.

Robert d’Oilly bristled. ‘Do you question my ability and my strength of purpose?’

‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Do you presume to teach me my office?’

‘No, my lord sheriff.’

‘Then let us hear no more of your complaints.’

Bertrand Gamberell bit back a reply and lapsed into a brooding silence. The two men were riding side by side on their way to Oxford.

Behind them was the rough cart on which the dead man lay, his body covered by some sacking, blood still seeping from his wound. Six of the sheriff’s knights were in attendance and at the rear of the party, still shocked by the murder of his companion, Gamberell’s other soldier pulled Hyperion along on a lead-rein.

Death enforced a slow pace and a sombre atmosphere. No words were spoken for the best part of a mile. Gamberell was fuming inwardly. To lose the race anyway would have been a severe blow to his self-esteem: to be cheated of victory by such vile means was quite unendurable. His mind was a hissing cauldron of retribution. Yet he did not wish to offend the sheriff. Robert d’Oilly was a big, solid man with the broad shoulders and rugged features of a veteran soldier. He held sway over the whole county and was merciless with anyone who sought to question his authority.

It was the sheriff who finally broke the silence.

‘His name was Walter Payne, you say?’

‘Yes, my lord sheriff.’

‘What manner of man was he?’

‘The best in my service,’ said Gamberell sadly. ‘Walter was brave, honest and loyal. A fine horseman, too. He knew how to coax the best out of Hyperion.’

‘Hyperion?’

‘My stallion. He has never been beaten in a race.’

‘Until today.’

‘Until today,’ repeated the other grimly. ‘Someone will be forced to pay for this outrage.’

‘Have you any notion who that person might be?’

‘None, my lord sheriff.’

‘Did Walter have any enemies?’

‘I’m sure he did but we do not need to search among them. We must look elsewhere. Walter’s misfortune was to be in the saddle today. He was killed in order to stop Hyperion from winning the race. The assassin was really striking at me.’

‘Why?’

‘Hatred? Envy? Malice? Who can tell?’

‘We will root out the truth of this, Bertrand.’

‘I hope so, and speedily.’