‘Your husband is a remarkable man,’ he observed.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Ralph is quite unique.’
‘How did you first meet?’
‘In the course of his visit to Hereford. He came to the town with the other commissioners to investigate some abuses that had come to light. Our paths crossed.’
‘A fortunate encounter. You are well matched.’
Golde smiled. ‘It did not seem so at first. I found him arrogant and uncaring beyond measure.’
‘And now, my lady?’
The smile broadened out into an unashamed grin.
‘I am married to the finest man in the world.’
Ralph Delchard enjoyed the ride to Woodstock. He and his two knights covered the seven miles at a steady pace, moving through open countryside that was dotted with small herds of sheep or cows. Men toiled in fields or tended animals or worked in watermills. Laden with salt, a cart trundled past them on its way to Oxford. After the mouldy atmosphere of the shire hall, Ralph found the keen air bracing.
When they were close to their destination, they left the road to cut across the fields and were soon accosted by four armed knights from Wymarc’s retinue, demanding to know why they were trespassing on private property. Ralph introduced himself and told them that he was staying with Robert d’Oilly in Oxford Castle. The sheriff’s name was a ready passport and the men became more amenable. At Ralph’s suggestion, one of them went to summon his master from his nearby manor house while the others obligingly conducted the strangers to the edge of the forest where the race had taken place.
Seizing on the unexpected opportunity to ingratiate himself with one of the commissioners, Wymarc spurred his horse into a gallop.
Ralph Delchard would preside over the property dispute in which Wymarc was involved and the latter was keen to gain any advantage over his rivals. He never stopped for a moment to question Ralph’s motives for wanting to examine the scene of the crime. When he greeted his visitor, his manner verged on the obsequious.
‘How may I help you, my lord?’ he asked, grinning helpfully. ‘I understand that you have taken an interest in the foul murder that was committed here yesterday.’
‘That is so,’ said Ralph.
‘How much do you know of what happened?’
‘Little beyond the bare facts and those were third-hand. The account came indirectly from Bertrand Gamberell and I would appreciate another version of events.’
Wymarc glowered. ‘Bertrand’s account is not to be trusted. He is too incensed to give you a calm and accurate description of what took place.’ The slavish grin resurfaced. ‘I will be glad to correct any false information from Bertrand.’
‘Please do,’ invited Ralph.
He settled back in the saddle to listen. Wymarc launched into his account of the race, introducing a lot of new details but departing very little from the basic facts of the case as they had already reached Ralph. What was plain was Wymarc’s deep hatred of Bertrand Gamberell. At no point did he express the slightest sympathy for the dead man and he took a grim satisfaction from the fact that Hyperion had not won the race.
‘Now you know the truth of it, my lord,’ said Wymarc.
‘You have given an exact chronicle of events,’ said Ralph with submerged irony, ‘and I am grateful to you. When the race was in progress, where exactly were you and the others?’
‘I will show you.’
Wymarc took them across to the hillock from which he, Gamberell and Milo Crispin had watched the race. The posts were still in place to designate the course.
‘You had an excellent view,’ noted Ralph.
‘We always chose this vantage point.’
‘Always? Horses have raced over this course before?’
‘Yes, my lord. When Bertrand first challenged us, I claimed the right to designate a course on my land.’
‘He did not object?’
‘Not in the slightest. He was so confident of Hyperion’s ability to win over any course that he was happy to leave the task to me. And so it proved,’ he said with a frown. ‘That black stallion was unbeatable the first three times we put our horses against him.’
‘So yesterday was the fourth race over this course?’
‘It was.’
‘And the other three passed off without incident?’
‘Completely.’
‘When was the first race?’
‘Six months ago.’
‘The horses ran through that same copse?’
‘Into it and out of it, my lord, on each occasion.’
‘Who competed in the earlier races?’
‘All three of us.’
‘What about Ordgar?’
‘No,’ said Wymarc with contempt. ‘We did not bother to invite him.
We only let him run yesterday because he begged us to include his colt. Somehow he found enough for the wager so he was allowed into the race. Against my wishes, I may say.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not like the fellow.’
‘Because he is a Saxon?’
‘There are many other reasons.’
‘Did you fear that his colt might defeat your horses?’
‘Of course not!’ declared Wymarc unconvincingly.
Ralph took another long look at the course below him.
‘Where was Ordgar when the race took place?’ he said.
‘Near the finishing line, my lord.’
‘Not beside you?’
‘We did not indulge him to that extent.’
‘So he would not have had the same view of Hyperion as you did when the horse was ridden into the trees?’ Wymarc shook his head.
‘Show me where you found the murder victim.’
‘Follow me.’
Wymarc led them down the incline but Ralph asked him to dismount when they reached the edge of the copse. The two of them went on foot into the trees. Wymarc had no difficulty locating the exact spot where the body was found. On soft ground that was liberally marked with hoofprints there was a long smooth patch that came to an end in some tufted grass. Wymarc pointed to the dried blood still visible on the turf.
‘That is where he lay, my lord.’
‘But that is not where he was struck by the dagger,’ said Ralph, looking over his shoulder. ‘I think that he was back there when he was attacked, fell from his horse where we see that shallow dip in the ground and rolled along until he reached this point.’ He knelt to inspect the bloodstains. ‘You searched thoroughly for the assassin?’
‘Behind every tree and under every bush.’
‘No sign of him at all?’
‘None, my lord,’ said Wymarc. ‘Hours later, they found him in the forest. He obviously fled there after commiting the deed.’
‘Which way did he flee?’
He stood up to walk with his guide towards the rear of the copse.
They came into an open field that was a hundred yards at least from the forest of Woodstock. Ralph assessed how long it would have taken the man to run from the cover of the trees to the safety of the forest.
Doubts quickly formed.
‘Why did nobody mark his escape?’ he wondered aloud.
‘We were unsighted. From our position on the hillock, we could not see this side of the copse at all.’
‘You could not, but Ordgar might have.’
‘Ordgar?’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph, pointing to the finishing posts. ‘If he was standing there, he would have had a clear view of anyone dashing across to the forest.’
‘That is true,’ conceded the other.
‘How then did he miss seeing the villain run away?’
‘He was distracted, my lord. His colt had won the race. He did not look this way at all. We taxed him about that.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That his mind was filled with the joy of his win.’
‘But there were others at the finishing line. They were not distracted. Why did none of them descry a man scurrying across this field?’
‘I do not know.’
Ralph looked in every direction to check the sightlines. Between the copse and the forest itself, there was no means of concealment.He scratched his head in bewilderment.
‘However did the assassin avoid being seen?’