‘About what?’
‘This church choir. I think he should stop you going.’
‘But I get so much pleasure out of it,’ she said with a vehemence that surprised even her. ‘Father Arnulf has been wonderful to me. He has taught me to appreciate music. He has turned me into a chorister.
Nobody bothers with me here but he has shown a real interest in me.’
‘I wish that were true,’ said Edric, turning to look at her, ‘but you are deceiving yourself, Bristeva. The chaplain is looking down his nose at you. Yes, he may have one or two Saxon children in this choir of his but not because he cares about you. To him, you are just performing bears hauled in to amuse the garrison.’
She was wounded. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say!’
‘I’m only trying to warn you.’
‘Father is glad that I’m in the church choir.’
‘We’ve had many arguments on that subject. I see it very differently from Ordgar. He, too, is being misled.’
‘Father Arnulf is my friend!’
‘Then I will say no more.’
Amalric came trotting up to them and brought the horse to a halt.
He looked at his sister’s flushed cheeks.
‘What ails you, Bristeva?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘We had an argument,’ confessed Edric. ‘It is over now.’
‘What was the argument about?’
‘It does not matter,’ said Bristeva but her stomach was churning. ‘I will go back indoors.’
‘Wait!’ said Edric, wanting to appease her. ‘I am sorry I spoke out of turn. I had no right to do so.’ He took the horse’s reins. ‘Let me show you what Cempan can really do.’
Amalric dismounted and the steward handed him his crutch.
Grasping the pommel, Edric bounced on his foot then hauled himself into the saddle with remarkable ease. He disdained the stirrup and used his knees to control the horse. They set off across the field. It was no steady canter in a wide circle this time. Edric the Cripple was putting on an exhibition for them, zigzagging at a gallop and showing a control over Cempan that even Amalric could not match.
He brought the horse to a skidding halt then made it spin sharply on its heels three times before urging it on again. Cempan was soon racing once more and describing complex patterns in the field. The horse made so many sudden switches of direction that they felt giddy watching it.
Amalric was suffused with enthusiasm.
‘I will ride like that one day!’ he boasted. ‘Edric will teach me. I want to be as good as him. I know I can do it.’
‘Then you will be able to show off in the same way.’
‘That is horsemanship of a high order, Bristeva.’
‘Edric is making sure that we know it.’
He looked at her. ‘What did he say to you just now?’
‘I would rather forget it.’
‘Do not fob me off,’ he said. ‘I could see that he upset you. Edric speaks his mind. What did he say to offend you?’
‘He does not think I should be in the church choir.’
‘No more do I.’
‘Amalric!’
‘Why do their bidding at the castle?’
‘I enjoy singing.’
‘You are out of place there, Bristeva. They laugh at you.’
‘That is not so!’ she said hotly. ‘I am respected. Father Arnulf told me that I have improved beyond his expectations.’
‘I am at one with Edric on this. Leave the choir.’
‘Never! It is the most important thing in my life. I will never give it up. If you and Edric think it clever to ride a horse around a field, then go to it. I will not stand in your way. So please do not stop me doing what I want.’
‘I am entitled to an opinion.’
‘And I am just as entitled to ignore it, Amalric,’ she said with her eyes flashing. ‘The choir means much to me. I have been given an education at the castle far beyond anything I could have hoped for.
Father Arnulf now wants me to lead the choristers. That is a real honour. Think of it.’ Her face shone with pride. ‘I have been chosen to take over from Helene.’
Helene waited until the house was completely empty before slipping quietly upstairs again. It had been an effort to make conversation with the others and she was relieved to be on her own once more so that she could lose herself in her thoughts. She had already decided what she must do. When she got to the bedchamber, she locked the door then dragged the heavy wooden chest against it to barricade herself in. Then she closed the shutters and flicked the latch into place.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brooded endlessly in sombre silence. Weeks before, she had danced around the room and sung at the top of her voice but all that was in the past. There was no choir in her life any more. It could never be the same again. As memories crowded in upon her, she became more convinced that her decision was the correct one. There was no alternative. Helene was trapped.
She crossed to the chest and lifted the lid to examine her wardrobe.
Her brother was a reluctant guardian but not without impulses of generosity. As she sifted through the various garments in the chest, she saw how much he had spent on her to turn her into an elegant young woman. But the very apparel which was intended to enhance her had proved her downfall. In a fit of sudden anger, she grabbed a tunic and tore it into shreds before being seized by a burning regret at what she had just done and trying, pointlessly but with pathetic determination, to stick the strips of material back together again in order to recapture associations which she had so recklessly destroyed.
It was hopeless. She discarded the torn fragments and slammed the lid of the chest shut once more. Then she moved to the bed and knelt down to feel beneath the mattress. Her hand closed on a tiny stone jar. It was cold to the touch. Helene brought it out to examine it, rubbing it between her palms for several minutes before removing the stopper and holding it beneath her nostrils. It had no aroma.
She looked around the bedchamber for the last time. A tide of regret swept over her. Helene closed her eyes tight and lifted the bottle to her lips. She had bought it from an apothecary in Oxford, telling him that she needed a strong poison to kill vermin. The contents of the bottle were drained in a second and her tribulations were almost at an end.
They were all there. Milo Crispin sat in the front row and waited with unruffled patience. Wymarc was a more restive spectator, shifting about on his seat as if it were on fire and darting glances at every person who entered the hall. Ordgar was not invited but came along as an interested party nevertheless. Still fuming at the loss of his horse and still harbouring grudges against all three of the others, Bertrand Gamberell stood at the window to catch an early glimpse of the man who had first set his misery in motion. When he saw the prisoner being brought up from the dungeon, his hand went straight to his sword.
‘Take a seat, Bertrand,’ ordered a curt Robert d’Oilly. ‘And stay there throughout the proceedings. I am the judge here and you would do well to remember that.’
Gamberell schooled his rage and crossed to his seat. Milo, Wymarc and Gamberell were now in a straight line, separated by the knights who had watched the race at Woodstock and were thus additional witnesses. Ordgar sat alone at the rear of the hall, knowing that his evidence would never be sought. The fact that his horse had actually won the race was an embarrassing accident for his three rivals. They wanted a man to be convicted of the murder so that they could erase the memory of the fateful race from their minds.
The hall in the keep had been transformed into a courtroom. Robert d’Oilly sat behind the long table which had been turned sideways to face the witnesses. A scribe sat beside him to keep a record of the trial and the chaplain was next to the scribe, retained to act as an interpreter for the Saxon prisoner and looking distinctly uneasy with that role. Armed guards were on sentry duty at both doors. A room which had reverberated to the laughter of his guests on the previous night was now a chamber of death. The atmosphere was chill.