‘We will find that out from the rogue himself,’ vowed Wymarc. ‘My lord sheriff will squeeze the truth out of Ebbi. It pains me that this crime took place on my land, but I am not entirely surprised that Ebbi is the culprit.’
‘You know the fellow?’
‘He is a slave on one of my holdings. A surly creature, according to my reeve. Lazy and embittered. Quick to show his temper. We will be well rid of such a man.’
‘What quarrel did he have with Bertrand Gamberell?’
‘None that I know of, my lord.’
‘Why, then, single out his rider for the dagger?’
‘I am as anxious to learn that as you,’ said Wymarc. ‘It will lift the shadow of suspicion that hangs over me.’
‘You?’
‘Ebbi is one of my slaves. Bertrand has accused me of hiring him to commit this murder in order to prevent Hyperion from winning the race. It is a preposterous charge but that will not deter Bertrand from making it. That is why I am so relieved that Ebbi is now in the sheriff’s hands.’ He gave a grim chuckle. ‘Robert d’Oilly will get at the truth if he has to cut it out of the man’s heart.’
Ralph was still puzzled. Walking back into the copse, he tried to decide the most likely spot from which the fatal dagger was thrown.
He took up a number of positions and imagined the six horses thundering past him. The killer would have only a second to discharge his weapon. He would need a hiding place from which he could emerge unencumbered in an instant. Searching through the undergrowth, Ralph did his best to put himself into the mind of the assassin.
‘What are you looking for, my lord?’ asked Wymarc.
‘Clues.’
‘But we already have the man in captivity.’
Ralph ignored the remark and moved slowly on. The copse consisted largely of hazel, cherry, maple and wych elm but it was beside an ash that he eventually paused. A man concealed behind it would have a good view of the horses from the start of the race to the moment they plunged into the copse. Ralph stepped behind the tree into the shadow of its overhanging boughs. He felt certain that he had the right place.
As he glanced down, he noticed some strange marks on the ground.
He was still wondering how they had got there when Wymarc’s podgy face came round the tree.
‘What have you found, my lord?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘We have been over every inch of the copse.’
‘Then I will waste no more of my time here.’
Ralph led the way back to the horses. He was glad that he had responded to the impulse to ride out to Woodstock. The visit had yielded far more than he had dared to hope.
Gervase Bret was given a chance to meet the prisoner much sooner than he expected. An hour after his return from the shire hall, he was summoned by a message from Arnulf and hurried down to the bailey to meet the chaplain. The latter was carrying a leather satchel over his shoulder.
‘I have been asked to visit Ebbi again,’ he explained. ‘To tend his wounds.’
‘Wounds?’
‘My lord sheriff has been interrogating him.’
Gervase winced but made no comment. He could imagine what form the interrogation had taken. Arnulf touched the satchel.
‘I have water to bathe and linen to bandage him.’
‘What do you have to medicine his mind?’
‘The mercy of God.’
Gervase doubted if it would be an adequate remedy. Ebbi was in a state of abject terror. Assurances from the chaplain would not calm his fears. He needed more practical help.
‘Did you ask that I should go with you?’ said Gervase.
Arnulf nodded. ‘My lord sheriff opposed the idea at first but I represented how useful you might be to me and to him.’
‘To him?’
‘Yes, Gervase. Though I am an ordained priest, Ebbi will never fully trust me. In his eyes, I am a servant of Robert d’Oilly. You are not. If you win his confidence, you may be able to unearth facts which even my lord sheriff’s close examination of the prisoner could not.’
Gervase contained his anger. The last thing he intended to do was to carry out an interrogation of the prisoner by more subtle means in order to assist Robert d’Oilly, but he knew how foolish it would be to make that declaration. Access to the prisoner had been granted. That was all that mattered.
Arnulf led the way to the dungeons.
‘Did you have a profitable day at the shire court?’
‘Interesting rather than profitable,’ said Gervase.
‘How did Brother Columbanus acquit himself?’
‘Extremely well.’
‘Still writhing with self-disgust?’
‘He has shaken off his sense of guilt and returned to his more usual joviality. But he did spurn the jug of ale that was set out for us.’
They traded a quiet smile then descended the stone steps that led to the dungeons. The passageway at the bottom was lighted by a series of torches set in iron holders and an acrid stink pervaded the whole area. A guard rose from behind a rough table and took them across to the first of the cells. Opening the door with a key, he ushered them into the cell before locking them in with the prisoner.
The first thing which hit Gervase was the appalling stench. Thick straw covered the ground and it was clotted with the accumulated filth of previous occupants. No fresh air and no natural light reached the dungeon. Incarceration down there was like being buried alive.
Arnulf was less troubled by the noisome atmosphere. Two small candles flickered in the cell and he set them either side of the prisoner so that he could examine the man’s wounds. Gervase recoiled when he saw the extent of the injuries. Ebbi lay motionless in the straw, hardly breathing. Blood streamed from his nose, his mouth and a gash on his temple. One cheek was hideously swollen. Dark bruises were a vivid reminder of his earlier beating by Robert d’Oilly.
The chaplain worked gently but firmly, bathing the wounds with a piece of linen which he soaked with water from the flagon in his satchel. It took time to stem the bleeding and to bind the wounds.
Flinching from the pain, Ebbi rolled frightened eyes at them. Arnulf offered comforting words as he worked away but the prisoner did not even seem to hear them. It was only when the chaplain finished that Ebbi found the strength to murmur his thanks.
Arnulf introduced Gervase and the latter crouched down beside the figure in the straw. Ebbi eyed the newcomer with frank apprehension, like a desperate animal caught in a trap and at the mercy of his hunters.
‘How do you feel now?’ asked Gervase softly.
The man was surprised to hear his own language spoken so well but it did not diminish his suspicion of Gervase. He feared that this soft-spoken man was only a more cunning interrogator.
‘I would like to help you, if I may.’
Studied silence. Ebbi’s suspicion became a sullen glare.
‘This may be your last chance to say what really happened in Woodstock,’ continued Gervase. ‘We would like to hear your side of the story.’
The prisoner closed his eyes and pretended to doze off.
‘He will say nothing in front of me,’ whispered Arnulf. ‘I am the sheriff’s man. That makes me tainted. Let me contrive to leave you alone with him awhile.’
‘Thank you.’
Arnulf called through the grille in the oak door. The guard let him out and talked with him for a minute before agreeing to lock Gervase in alone with the prisoner. There was an air of finality about the thud of the door and Gervase had to remind himself that he would soon be released again. That was not the case for Ebbi. His situation seemed hopeless.
Gervase wasted no time. Kneeling beside the prisoner, he put out a friendly hand to touch the other’s arm. The man drew back and opened his eyes once more.
‘Leave me alone!’ he hissed.
‘I have come to help you.’
‘Go away!’
‘You need me, Ebbi,’ said Gervase quietly. ‘I am on your side. I do not believe that you committed this crime.’