Seated beside his wife at the head of the long oak table, Robert at last began to remember the duties of a host. A convivial spirit soon spread throughout the hall.
Ralph could not resist baiting Brother Columbanus.
‘Drink your fill,’ he teased, pointing to the jugs of ale.
‘I am content with water, my lord,’ said the monk.
‘There is water enough in ale. Sample it.’
‘Do not tempt me.’
‘Last night, you needed no temptation,’ Ralph reminded him. ‘You quaffed your ale so heartily that I thought you might burst asunder.
Doff the cowl and drink until dawn. That seemed to be your rubric.
Yet tonight you are telling Satan to get behind thee.’ He gave the other a playful nudge. ‘Drink, man. We will not tell on you. Have all the ale you wish.’
‘Do not lead the poor man astray,’ said a jocular Maurice Pagnal, raising his cup. ‘You should not be thrusting ale at him. Introduce him to the taste of good French wine instead.’
Columbanus wore a brave smile but shifted uneasily on the bench.
He was grateful when the conversation moved away from him. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could still see the jug of ale and it exercised a strange fascination for him, at once attracting and repelling him, awaking a deep thirst yet frightening him with its inherent danger. The water began to taste increasingly sour upon his tongue.
Golde had no qualms about drinking the ale and she savoured its quality. Like most of those around the table, Edith sipped a cup of wine and she was intrigued by Golde’s preference.
‘Have you always had a liking for ale?’ she asked.
‘I had no choice in the matter, my lady,’ said Golde. ‘My first husband was a brewer and I was perforce apprenticed to the trade. When he died, I carried on after him and brewed ale for Hereford Castle until the day I left the town.’
‘Have you taught Ralph to enjoy English ale?’
‘Not yet, but I live in hope.’
‘Robert will not touch it while there is wine to be had.’
‘Both serve their purpose.’
‘We can all see that,’ observed Edith with a smile as Robert, Maurice and Ralph burst into laughter at a shared joke. ‘I am so glad that you decided to accompany your husband on this visit, Golde. I will make it as enjoyable for you as I may. Rely on that promise.’
‘Thank you.’
Golde had an immediate affinity with her. Like her, Edith was the daughter of a Saxon thegn who had lost his eminence and his property after the Conquest. Both had married Norman barons and learned to adjust to the new dispensation. It was a luxury for Golde to be able to talk in her own language to a woman of such rank.
‘My father was Wigot of Wallingford,’ said Edith with a wistful expression. ‘Kinsman and butler to King Edward. I was born and raised in Wallingford.’
‘We passed close by it on our journey.’
‘An important town, Golde, even more so in those days. King Edward held some land there with a garrison of housecarls to protect it. My father talked so fondly of those days.’
‘Everything has changed since then,’ said Golde soulfully. ‘In your life, as in mine. But those changes have not all been for the worse,’
she added with a fond glance at Ralph. ‘I have found a happiness that I never dared to imagine.’
‘It is so with me. Robert has been a good husband.’
Golde found it difficult to believe. She could not understand how such a kindly and mild-mannered woman could bear to live with such a brutish man as Robert d’Oilly. Their host was genial enough now but Golde could not forget his treatment of the prisoner who festered in the dungeon. Nor could she shake from her mind the image of so many ravaged houses in the town over which the sheriff held sway. Oxford was an attractive place which had been ruthlessly pillaged. Golde suspected that she was sitting at the same table as its leading persecutor.
‘Would you like to return to Herefordshire?’ said Edith.
‘I have done so a number of times,’ replied Golde. ‘My sister, Aelgar, is still there and I have many old friends to see as well.’
‘I wondered if you would prefer to live there yourself.’
‘There is no question of that. Ralph’s estates are in Hampshire and it is a most pleasant county in which to dwell. In truth, I am relieved to have left Hereford. When I lived there, I was constantly reminded of all that had been lost of my father’s manors. It must be so with you, my lady.’
‘In some sort.’
‘You live within an easy ride of Wallingford. Twenty years ago, your father was a man of great consequence. Now his lands have been completely forfeited.’
‘That is not quite true, Golde.’
‘Indeed?’
‘There are other ways to preserve an influence.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘The bonds of marriage,’ said Edith with a gentle smile. ‘Manors which formerly belonged to my dear father, Wigot of Wallingford, are now in the hands of Milo Crispin.’
‘Is that not a cause for regret?’
‘It was, Golde. Until Milo married my daughter.’
The two women remained in earnest discussion while Robert d’Oilly lapsed into soldierly reminiscences with Ralph and Maurice. Gervase Bret noted the way in which the feast had fragmented into three different conversations. He himself was seated between Arnulf and Brother Columbanus. The jug of ale was exercising a firm hold on the monk’s attention.
Gervase swallowed a mouthful of grilled quail and turned to the chaplain.
‘Golde tells me that you showed her the sights of Oxford.’
‘That is so,’ said Arnulf. ‘She is a delightful companion and it was a joy to be her guide.’
‘Where did you take her?’
‘Almost everywhere. Her curiosity was insatiable.’
‘She told me how much she enjoyed meeting the canons of St Frideswide’s. From our point of view as commissioners, it is a privileged community. Land held by St Frideswide’s is exempt from tax. It does not belong to any hundred.’
‘The canons are duly grateful.’ He looked beyond Gervase to Columbanus. ‘But I marvel that you did not choose to stay with them rather than with us. You might have found a softer lodging there than at the castle.’
‘I am happy enough here,’ said the monk.
‘You would be more than welcome at St Frideswide’s.’
‘I will pay my respects there at some point.’
‘Brother Simon would certainly have stayed with the canons while he was in Oxford,’ said Gervase. ‘He had but little tolerance of lay company.’
Columbanus grinned. ‘I have a more forgiving nature.’
‘It becomes you.’
The monk’s eye twinkled and he seemed to be emerging from his repentance. He allowed a passing servant to pour him a first cup of ale and sipped it with only the merest trace of the guilt which had afflicted him earlier.
‘Golde told me about your choir,’ said Gervase to the chaplain. ‘Is it true that you have female choristers?’
‘One or two. I hope to recruit more.’
‘From the town?’
‘From Oxford and beyond,’ said Arnulf. ‘The best girl we had came from Woodstock. As pure a voice as any I have heard. Her talent was so remarkable that it was not confined to a church service. She sang in this hall at banquets for the delight of the guests.’ He gave a sigh of regret. ‘It was a pity to lose her.’
‘Why did that happen?’
‘To be honest, I am not quite sure, Gervase. I spent hours training her voice. Helene could not have been a more apt pupil. Then, one day, she told me that she was losing interest and wished to withdraw.’
A deeper sigh. ‘I could not force her to remain with the choir.’