Edward Marston - The Stallions of Woodstock

Most of the riders were there well before the race was due to begin.

They wanted to walk the course in search of potential hazards and have time to prepare their horses for the test ahead. All would be decided by a hell-for-leather gallop over uneven ground. It was no friendly contest. Far too much was at stake for that. A large amount of money and an even greater amount of pride were invested in the race. One of the parties involved was also prompted by a lust for revenge.

Wymarc made no effort to hide his bitterness.

‘Let us start without him,’ he declared.

‘That would be unfair,’ said Milo Crispin.

‘When has he ever been fair with us?’ argued Wymarc with sudden vehemence. ‘His name is a byword for unfairness. He will seize any advantage in the most ruthless and unjust way. Bertrand Gamberell is not here at the appointed time and that is that. His horse must be disqualified. His share of the purse goes to the winner.’

‘Not so fast, my friend,’ cautioned the other.

‘But he has failed to appear.’

‘Be patient a while longer. The race is set for noon and we have not yet heard the bell for Sext. Until we do, we may not in all honesty proceed.’

‘Even when it serves our purpose?’

‘Even then, Wymarc.’

‘But it would be a means to strike back at Bertrand.’

‘We will do that in the race itself,’ said Milo calmly. ‘And without Bertrand, there is no race. He threw down the challenge and we accepted it. As we have done on three previous occasions in the last six months.’

‘Always to our cost!’ said Wymarc ruefully.

‘Fortune has favoured him thus far. His luck will not hold for ever.

Win today and your losses are restored. That is the only way to strike back at Bertrand Gamberell. By beating that black stallion of his.’

‘But Hyperion runs like the wind.’

‘So do my horses, Wymarc. They have been in training.’

‘Mine, too.’

‘Then one of us will be the victor.’

A long sigh. ‘I hope so. I would dearly love to wipe that arrogant smile from Bertrand’s face and send him home with an empty purse.

It would gall me to see him win again.’

‘That will not happen today.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Rest assured of it,’ said Milo with quiet confidence. ‘This race will certainly not go the way of the others. Bertrand will be the loser here today.’

Milo Crispin was a slim, well-groomed, dignified man with an air of easy authority about him. A scion of the ancient aristocracy of Normandy, his military prowess and loyalty to the Conqueror had been richly rewarded. He was one of the major landholders in the county with over thirty manors in his strong grasp. The King had also given him the charge of Wallingford Castle, a key fortress in the south of Oxfordshire. So accustomed was Milo to the unimpeded exercise of power that he found any resistance to his will, however trivial, highly vexatious and swept it instantly aside.

Even in a horse race, he felt entitled to be the winner.

Unlike his companion, Wymarc was not able to hide his disappointment beneath a mask of composure. He wore his heart and his resentment on his sleeve for all to see. A short, stout man with piggy eyes set in a flabby face, Wymarc yielded to none in his appreciation of horses and he was forever trying to improve the quality of his stable. He had reason enough to dislike Milo Crispin but felt a kinship with him now, united as they were by a common hatred of Bertrand Gamberell and by a determination to humble him in the race.

‘He is not coming,’ said Wymarc irritably.

‘Nothing would keep him away.’

‘Why is he making us wait like this?’

‘It is all part of his strategy,’ decided Milo.

‘Where is the man?’

Bertrand Gamberell gave his own answer to the question. Flanked by two of his knights, he came trotting briskly along on his destrier, towing the black stallion behind him on a lead-rein. He was an arresting figure, tall, rangy and possessed of a dark handsomeness that he knew how to exploit to the full. Over his hauberk he wore a white tunic emblazoned with the head of a black stallion. As he closed in on them he gave a cheerful wave of greeting.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Milo. ‘Bertrand is here.’

‘More’s the pity!’ groaned Wymarc, raising his voice as the newcomer rode up to them. ‘You’re late. That is unforgivable. I had half a mind to start without you.’

Gamberell grinned. ‘You certainly have only half a mind. It is your most distinctive feature, Wymarc. But I beg leave to disagree about being late. I am here exactly on time.’ He beamed at his black stallion.

‘And so is Hyperion.’

On a nod from his master, one of his men dismounted from his own horse and hauled himself up into Hyperion’s saddle. The stallion responded with a snort and some spirited prancing, then headed for the starting point at a gentle canter. Gamberell watched him with a proprietorial smile. Wymarc looked on with a mixture of envy and apprehension but Milo seemed unperturbed by the arrival of the celebrated Hyperion. He had faith in his own horses.

‘Well, my friends,’ teased Gamberell, gazing from one to the other.

‘How much will I win off you today?’

‘Nothing!’ vowed Wymarc.

‘You say that every time.’

‘I have brought swifter legs with me today.’

‘No horse can outrun Hyperion.’

‘We shall see,’ said Milo levelly.

‘Do you really believe that you have a chance?’ mocked Gamberell.

‘In that case, you will be ready to increase the size of your wager. Is that not so, Milo?’

‘Let it stand at the amount on which we settled,’ replied the other.

‘And let the race begin at the agreed time.’

‘Hyperion is ready.’

‘So are we, Bertrand.’

Milo Crispin gave a signal to the soldier who was acting as the starter and the latter began to marshal the runners into line. There were six horses in the race. Milo and Wymarc had entered two apiece against Hyperion. The other horse was owned by Ordgar, a Saxon thegn who had been robbed of most of his land after the Conquest and reduced to the status of a subtenant on Milo’s estates, an ignominy he bore with surprising grace. Ordgar was a silver-haired old man, forced to come to composition with the invaders yet still ready to offer any legitimate check to their primacy if the opportunity arose.

Lacking the money for his share of the purse, Ordgar had collected it from a group of friends who were equally keen to see a Saxon competing with Norman riders, especially as the Saxon in question was Ordgar’s son Amalric, barely sixteen but with the determination of a grown man. Young, strong and sinewy, Amalric was a fine horseman astride a speedy mount and his participation in the race had brought out a small and vocal group of supporters. The animal was a chestnut colt, stringy in appearance but pulsing with energy and lithe in movement.

When Gamberell saw him, he gave a derisive laugh.

‘What, in God’s name, is that ?’ he said.

‘Ordgar’s horse,’ explained Milo.

‘That creature intends to race against Hyperion?’

‘Indeed he does. Ordgar’s son is in the saddle.’