‘No,’ added Ralph. ‘Whatever her shortcomings, she has spoken with great sincerity and her evidence clears Ebbi.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said the sheriff.
‘You have examined her at length,’ said Gervase.
‘True. But I am not entirely satisfied with her answers.’
‘Then press her even more on the subject.’
‘What else can she tell us?’
‘The situation is plain,’ said Ralph, trying to nudge the sheriff towards a decision. ‘Leofrun’s evidence has changed everything. She has provided Ebbi with an alibi. You can either exercise your right to act upon her testimony and release the prisoner forthwith, or reconvene the court tomorrow and call her as a witness. Then we will have to go through the whole thing again.’
Robert d’Oilly contemplated the idea without enthusiasm. Ralph pressed home the advantage he felt that they had gained. He first nodded to Gervase and the latter took Leofrun out of the room. Then Ralph moved in close to his host.
‘Well, my lord sheriff,’ he asked, ‘which is it to be? A quick decision in private or a long and tedious trial in public that will end in an acquittal? Set the prisoner free. Then we can join forces to hunt down the real killer.’
Ebbi was more confused than ever. Resigned to his fate, he had fully expected the trial to end in his conviction. Ralph Delchard’s intervention had delayed the proceedings and even raised the faint possibility of a reprieve. According to the chaplain, there were definite grounds for hope. Yet Ebbi was still shut away in a reeking cell, denied food, daylight and companionship, and treated in every way like a condemned man. The hope which had stirred in the courtroom was soon supplanted by his earlier despair.
When he heard the sound of voices, he did not even look up. Guards might be coming to mock him again, or Robert d’Oilly to interrogate him with even more ferocity. His body would not be able to withstand further torture. If confession would spare him, he was now ready to offer it without resistance. A key scraped in the lock and the door swung open. Footsteps rustled in the straw. The prisoner shrank defensively into a corner.
‘Do not be afraid, Ebbi,’ said Arnulf softly. ‘It is over.’
‘Over?’
‘Your ordeal. The sheriff has signed your release.’
‘Can this be true?’ cried Ebbi, clutching at him.
‘God has answered our prayers.’
‘But what has changed the sheriff’s mind?’
Arnulf helped him to his feet and guided him out.
‘Her name is Leofrun. She is waiting for you.’
Chapter Nine
With four of his knights at his heels, Wymarc rode north-west out of Oxford towards his manor. He had much to occupy his mind on the seven miles home. Ralph Delchard’s sudden arrival in the courtroom had been at once annoying and pleasing to Wymarc. He was irritated that the trial had been extended beyond the short time he had expected it to last, but he was gratified at the way in which Ralph had allowed him to secure a momentary advantage over Bertrand Gamberell by indicating that Wymarc had assisted the commissioner during the latter’s visit to Woodstock. In his long battle of attrition with Gamberell, every successful blow which Wymarc landed on his enemy was to be relished.
Their rivalry had long roots. It grew partly out of Wymarc’s envy of someone who seemed to enjoy an effortless superiority in almost every area of life. Where Wymarc had to sweat and struggle to achieve his aims, Gamberell did so with a studied nonchalance. Close in age, they were far apart in appearance and ability. All the advantages undoubtedly lay with Gamberell and, as a handsome bachelor, he could explore myriad pleasures that were for ever beyond the reach of an ugly married man like Wymarc.
It was when Bertrand Gamberell turned his plausible charm on Helene that her brother’s hatred of him reached new depths. The girl was young and immature but that did not deter a seasoned voluptuary.
When he learned that Helene was in the church choir, he took to lurking around the castle when she was due to leave, seizing a few minutes with her to flirt and entice and ensnare. Wymarc had broken up their conversations a number of times but no amount of dire warnings from him had held his sister back from further association with Gamberell. After singing the praises of God in church, she went out to play with the devil. Wymarc’s only remedy was to take her out of the choir altogether.
The sky was slowly darkening as they neared the end of their journey and they kicked more speed out of their horses for the final mile. The house eventually came into sight and Wymarc envisioned a warm welcome from his wife and a hot meal prepared by his cook, compensatory comforts after a long day away from home.
Disappointment awaited him. In place of the warm welcome, he rode into a scene of fear and tension. His wife and two of the servants were waiting outside the house to waylay him with their anxieties.
‘Thank heaven you are come!’ exclaimed his wife.
‘Why?’
‘It is Helene.’
‘What is wrong with her?’
‘She has barricaded herself into her room.’
‘Not more tantrums!’ he sighed.
‘Helene refuses even to speak,’ said his wife, taking his arm as he dropped from the saddle and hustling him towards the front door.
‘She has not said a word for hours.’
‘Is her door locked?’
‘Locked and bolted. And the shutters are also closed.’
‘Leave her to me.’
‘She has not eaten all day.’
‘This has got to stop!’ insisted Wymarc, heading for the stairs. ‘I’ll stand no more of it.’
As he pounded up the steps, his wife, a short, thin-faced woman with a febrile prettiness, trotted behind him with the servants bringing up the rear. All four were soon standing outside Helene’s bedchamber.
Wymarc gave the door a hard and uncompromising kick.
‘Helene!’ he ordered. ‘Come out at once!’
There was no sound from within. He kicked out again.
‘Open this door or I’ll force my way in. Do you hear?’
He interpreted the silence as deliberate insolence.
‘This is your last chance, Helene!’
When there was still no reply, Wymarc’s patience snapped and he put his shoulder to the door. The lock held at first but it could not withstand the repeated assaults of his beefy frame as he hurled himself against the timber. There was a splintering noise as the door finally surrendered its position but it retreated only a couple of inches.
Something heavy was jammed up against it on the inside. Wymarc used the combined strength of himself and the two servants to dislodge it with a concerted shove.
The chest slid back, the door flew open and the hideous truth was at last revealed to them. Helene was lying spreadeagled on the bed, her limbs contorted, her face paler than ever, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and her mouth wide open to utter a cry of agony that nobody would ever hear.
‘Helene!’ yelled Wymarc.
His wife screamed, the servants gasped and everyone else in the house came running to see what had happened. Wymarc cradled his sister in his arms and tried in vain to revive her with profuse kisses and redundant words of love. He was so shaken by fear and afflicted with guilt that it was minutes before he even noticed the tiny stone bottle beside her.
In the capacious kitchen Edith was taking an inventory of their stock.
Game of all kinds hung from hooks in abundance. Golde was amazed by the number of geese, chickens and other birds waiting to be plucked and she had never seen so many dead rabbits before.
‘Twenty years ago, they were unknown,’ she observed.
‘Rabbits were brought over from Normandy as a delicacy. They breed quickly so they soon spread. We will certainly serve rabbit at the banquet. And venison,’ Edith added as she looked around. ‘We will need more. Far more. It is as well that Robert has hunting privileges in the forests.’