‘No, my lord,’ said Gervase. ‘We have only watched the opening skirmish. The battle will not be properly joined until we have viewed all the documentary evidence from both sides.’
Maurice gasped. ‘Documentary evidence?’
‘I have brought a deposition from Abbot Gilbert himself,’ said Timothy, patting the satchel beside him, ‘and a collection of charters from our archives. They need the most careful perusal by you.’
‘I, too, have royal charters to present,’ said Azelina, not to be outdone.
‘My steward has them. He stands without.’
‘Then we will be pleased to have them along with the documents from the abbey,’ said Ralph, on his feet again. ‘All will receive our close attention before we can proceed. That being the case, I thank you both for appearing before us and adjourn this session until the same time tomorrow morning.’
Gervase escorted Azelina out of the hall while Brother Columbanus relieved Timothy of his satchel. Several hours of work remained for the commissioners. Maurice was dejected.
‘Will every case be as interminable as this?’ he moaned.
‘No,’ said Ralph with a grin. ‘Most will be much longer.’
‘This is Purgatory!’
‘I thought we had a profitable day in here, Maurice.’
‘Listening to that mad monk preaching a sermon?’
‘He marshalled his argument well.’
‘Yet Islip patently belongs to the lady Azelina.’
‘That is a matter of opinion,’ said Ralph, moving away, ‘and I have no time to discuss mine with you now. I want to make best use of the light while I can. It is a tidy ride.’
‘Ride?’
‘To Woodstock.’
Chapter Four
It was late afternoon before Arnulf the Chaplain was able to fulfil the promise he had given to Golde the previous night. They met at the castle gates.
‘I am sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said. ‘It must have been very tedious for you to be cooped up here all day without amusement or female companionship.’
‘It was rather dull,’ she admitted, ‘but I cheered myself with thoughts of this walk through Oxford with you.’
‘What would you like to see, my lady?’
‘Everything.’
‘Then let us begin.’
He led her out of the castle then swung right towards the centre of the town. Golde felt an immediate sense of release. All that she had learned about Robert d’Oilly made her want to keep well away from him and she could, in any case, never be entirely comfortable in a Norman garrison. Pungent smells from assorted trades wafted into her nostrils but it was still refreshing for her to be mingling with the ordinary citizens in the street even if her fashionable apparel set her apart from the Saxon womenfolk and induced some hostile glances.
Oxford was a loud, lusty, bustling town with a population of over three and a half thousand, enlarged by those who streamed in from the outlying areas to its thriving market. Dogs barked, children cried, horses whinnied and carts rolled to add to the general pandemonium.
Arnulf had to raise his voice to be heard above the din of a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil.
‘What do you think of Oxford?’ he asked.
‘It is much bigger than I expected,’ said Golde. ‘It makes my own home town seem very small.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Hereford.’
‘How many inhabitants do you have?’
‘Barely a thousand.’
‘Only London, Winchester and York are substantially larger than us,’ he said with evident pride, ‘and we think that Oxford is prettier than all three. I was born and brought up in Falaise myself but I have been here long enough to take the town to my heart. In time, I trust, we will come to blend in more harmoniously.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Look around you, my lady. Most of these people still view us as an army of occupation rather than as a source of protection for the whole community. After all these years, they have the same suspicion and resentment. That is why I have tried so hard to reach outside the castle walls to the local people.’
‘In what way?’
‘Visiting them, talking to them, helping them with their problems, showing fellowship, even nursing them through injury and illness on occasion, for I have some skill as a doctor. In short, my lady, doing exactly what a parish priest should be doing for his flock. Then, of course, there is the church choir.’
‘Choir?’
‘Yes,’ he said, face aglow, ‘it is a labour of love. Choral singing is the true perfection of Christian worship. I have devoted much time and effort to it. And since the garrison can hardly provide me with my choristers, I have come out in search of them.’
‘Boys from the town?’
‘Boys and girls, my lady. The female voice is every bit as beautiful as that of the young male. I had to endure much criticism when I first introduced girls as choristers but they have won over all but the most narrow-minded.’
‘A mixed choir,’ said Golde, excited by the notion. ‘I wish I had been able to sing in church when I was a girl. I would have adored it.
But it was not considered proper in Hereford.’
‘Some of my young ladies sing like angels.’
She was drawn to him even more. Arnulf was a considerate man with natural charm. His easy companionship was the perfect antidote to her poisonous memories of Robert d’Oilly. The chaplain was the human face of Oxford Castle.
When they reached the crossroads, he guided her down the hill towards Grandpont, the stone bridge over which she had ridden on her arrival. Initiated by the sheriff, it was a solid structure which spanned the river at a critical point and provided a vital link with southern England. Traffic was crossing the bridge in both directions.
Golde admired the work of the stonemasons then lent over the parapet to watch the rippling waters of the Thames. A rowing boat went past beneath her. Fishermen were walking along the bank. Birds abounded.
‘A pretty place, indeed,’ she remarked.
‘And peaceful now, thank heaven! Oxford has had more than its share of bloodshed and suffering. All that is past.’
They went back up the hill and turned into the straggling High Street which ran eastwards down the slope. The crowd had thickened even more now and they had to dodge the jostling elbows with the same adroitness they showed in stepping over the occasional piles of refuse or excrement. Arnulf pointed out all the buildings of interest, especially the churches, but Golde was curious about those which were no longer there. Down each street and lane, she caught a glimpse of derelict houses and empty shops.
‘Why are so many houses in decay?’ she wondered.
‘The scars of war, alas!’
‘Here are some more,’ she noted as they passed a row of five abandoned dwellings in the High Street. ‘Did nobody think to rebuild these homes?’
‘It takes time, my lady,’ said Arnulf sadly. ‘But your husband will be in the best position to tell the full extent of the spoliation here.’
‘My husband?’
‘Written in the Domesday Book, as it has come to be known, are the sorry details of the town’s plight. There are almost a thousand houses in Oxford but you can see for yourself that a sizeable number are in such poor condition that no taxes can be levied upon them.’
‘Were they in this state when Robert d’Oilly first came?’
‘I was not myself here then,’ he said evasively.
‘Was he not responsible for some of this destruction?’
Arnulf became defensive. ‘My lord sheriff has done a great deal for Oxford. He built the castle, constructed Grandpont and set in motion a number of other important projects.’
‘Yet he allows these ruins to disfigure the town. What happened to all the people who once lived in these houses?’
‘They moved out.’
‘Or died in their homes,’ she concluded.
Golde was in a more solemn mood as they headed towards the church of St Peter’s-in-the-East. Oxford had clearly suffered greatly.
The chaplain sought to rekindle her good humour.