Edward Marston - The Stallions of Woodstock

A meal had been set out on the table for them and Arnulf joined in the repast, showing a genuine interest in them and supplying the cordiality that was so signally lacking in their host. Even Ralph Delchard, with his rooted distrust of all churchmen, began to warm to the chaplain. Golde found him a soothing presence and gradually pushed the memory of Robert d’Oilly’s earlier display of brutality to the back of her mind. Arnulf somehow made Oxford Castle seem a more civilised place than she had at first feared. He would be a useful friend to her while her husband was preoccupied with his work as a commissioner, and he promised to act as her guide when she wished to visit the town.

Maurice Pagnal was more interested in the food than in anything else, munching his way noisily through his chicken pasties and flatbread, and washing them down with generous draughts of red wine. Brother Columbanus was the revelation. His predecessor as scribe, the shy, unworldly Brother Simon, rarely ate with the commissioners, preferring the more frugal fare and less boisterous company of a religious house, and never daring to venture an opinion of his own in public lest it bring down ridicule upon him.

Columbanus was an altogether more convivial Benedictine, fond of his food, even fonder of his ale and ready to enter any discussion with beaming eagerness. The more he drank, the more garrulous he became, and Gervase was left to speculate on the motives which had taken such a gregarious man into a closed monastic order. He would not have such freedom of expression when he sat in the chapter house with his brothers. It was almost as if the monk were using the meal to celebrate his temporary release from the cloister.

Arnulf, by contrast, ate little and drank only water yet showed no disapproval of Columbanus’s voracious appetite. He encouraged the guests to call for anything they wanted from the kitchens. The strong ale eventually took its toll of the monk. He began to slur his words, sway on his bench and giggle ridiculously to himself. The chaplain took charge of him at once, helping him gently up and half carrying him off to his bed before another cup of ale nudged Columbanus into the realms of disgrace.

Ralph watched it all with a tolerant smile.

‘A drunken scribe!’ he said. ‘That is all we need!’

‘Columbanus will not be found wanting,’ said Gervase.

‘I am sure that he will not,’ agreed Golde. ‘Even though he differs in every imaginable way from Brother Simon.’

‘Indeed he does,’ said Ralph amiably. ‘Columbanus downed more ale in one night than Simon drinks in a decade. There is a human being inside that black cowl. Brother Simon wears his in the same way that a snail carries his shell. As a place in which to hide from the real world.’

‘I loathe monks of all kinds,’ confessed Maurice through a loud yawn. ‘They are forever trying to prick my conscience about my misdeeds. What misdeeds? Is bearing arms for my King a misdeed? I am not ashamed of anything I have done in my life. Let those sanctimonious brothers stay in their cloisters where they belong and leave us to manage the serious business of keeping the peace in this ungrateful land.’

He gave another involuntary yawn and his lids drooped. With a supreme effort, he lifted himself up from the table.

‘Pray, excuse me,’ he said to Golde. ‘I did not mean to be so unmannerly. Old age is creeping up on me. I am exhausted.’ He raised a weary arm. ‘I bid you farewell, my friends.’

They waved him off and he staggered out of the hall.

‘It is time for us to retire as well,’ said Golde.

Ralph nodded. ‘Go ahead of me, my love. I will not keep you long.

Gervase and I need to speak alone for a moment.’

‘Then I will steal quietly away.’

After an exchange of farewells, Golde went off on her own. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ralph leaned across the table towards his friend. His geniality vanished at once.

‘What is going on here, Gervase?’ he asked.

‘Going on?’

‘There was uproar down in the bailey earlier on.’

‘Yes, I heard it.’

‘Robert d’Oilly saw fit to batter some poor wretch senseless. Why?

What had the fellow done? Golde was revolted by the sight. It took me an age to persuade her to come here to the hall. Having seen the way that our host dealt with his prisoner, she was refusing even to meet Robert.’

‘I noticed that she was tight-lipped in his presence.’

‘Thank heaven he did not stay to eat with us! Or Golde would certainly have called him to account. And that would not have advantaged any of us. I love her dearly but she can be outspoken at times.’ He drained the last of the wine from his cup. ‘Do you have any idea what this is all about?’

‘Yes,’ said Gervase.

‘Well?’

‘A horse race.’

Ralph’s eyes widened. ‘Horse race?’

‘Close by the forest of Woodstock.’

‘Can this be true?’

‘I had it from Arnulf the Chaplain and have been biding my time until I could divulge all the details to you. It is too soon to be certain but they may well have a bearing on our work here.’

‘How so?’

‘Judge for yourself.’

Ralph listened intently as Gervase recounted all that he had heard.

Arnulf had gleaned his information from Wymarc himself and it had the ring of truth about it. As the story unfolded, the cruel treatment of the prisoner took on a new meaning though Ralph could still not condone it and he knew that his wife would never forgive or forget it.

‘Who is the man?’ he asked.

‘A slave called Ebbi.’

‘And is he guilty?’

‘So it is claimed.’

‘Where was he taken?’

‘In the forest of Woodstock,’ said Gervase. ‘After a long search they eventually picked up his trail and ran him to earth. He denied all knowledge of the murder but they pinioned him at once.’

‘Why?’

‘Ebbi was carrying a knife in his belt, not unlike that which was thrown at the rider on the black stallion. That was proof enough for the posse.’

‘Do they have no other evidence?’

‘They will look to beat a confession out of him in time.’

‘And I am sure they will succeed,’ said Ralph with a rueful sigh.

‘Whether he is guilty or not. He was a small, skinny fellow in tattered clothing. I marvel that such a creature would have the boldness to commit this crime. What motive could he possibly have?’

Gervase shrugged. ‘He is a Saxon.’

‘So?’

‘Look in the returns for this county and you will see motive enough for every Saxon to raise his hand against a Norman knight. They have been dispossessed, Ralph. Before the Conquest, this Ebbi was probably a bordarius, a smallholder. Or even a villager. Now he is a mere slave.’

‘That may give him cause to resent us but it does not necessarily turn him into an assassin.’ He became pensive. ‘And why choose one of Gamberell’s knights as his victim? A fitter target might have been Bertrand Gamberell himself. Or Milo Crispin. Or even Robert d’Oilly.

They rule the roost in this shire. What could Ebbi hope to gain by killing this Walter? It does not make sense.’

‘There is another question to ask.’

‘Go on.’

‘Consider the race itself,’ said Gervase. ‘Six horses galloping hell-for-leather. Flashing through those trees in a matter of seconds. It would have taken great skill to pick out the right man and hurl a dagger between his shoulder blades. Why choose such a difficult target when far easier ones must have presented themselves?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I have grave doubts, Ralph.’

‘You think that Ebbi is innocent?’

‘I would need much more convincing that he is guilty.’