They rode silently through the night. Edric the Cripple led the way on his mare and Amalric rode behind him on the chestnut colt.
Moonlight was kind to them, shedding enough illumination to show them their path but leaving ample shadows to hide them from any curious eyes. Amalric was baffled. He thought he knew the area well but he was being taken over land that was totally unfamiliar.
When they reached their destination, Edric held up a hand.
‘Where are we?’ asked Amalric.
‘Close to my stable.’
‘How did you find your way?’
‘I know every inch of this shire.’
‘Who owns this land?’
Edric grinned. ‘Bertrand Gamberell.’
‘Hyperion is hidden on his own property?’
‘Right under his nose.’
‘No wonder he could not find him.’
‘Stay here.’
Edric left him under a tree and went the remainder of the way on his own. The boy watched with fascination. He could hear running water nearby. On the bank was an abandoned mill, once a home and a source of livelihood until the river capriciously altered its course and turned a surging tributary into a sluggish stream. Edric rode round the building in a wide circle to make sure that it was safe to approach. Satisfied that all was well, he dismounted and, pulling his horse after him, hopped on his one leg through the door.
There was a long delay and Amalric feared that something untoward had occurred inside. Had the steward been ambushed? Injured in some way? Or had one of the horses been hurt by accident? The boy wanted to investigate but a sixth sense told him to stay well clear.
His patience was eventually rewarded. When Edric next appeared, he was riding Hyperion.
‘Does he mind being locked up in there?’ said Amalric.
‘Yes. But he is well fed.’
‘What about exercise?’
‘This is not the first night I have been here.’
‘You have ridden Hyperion before?’
‘I had to keep him in training.’
‘Where do we go now?’
‘To the course.’
Flushed with exhilaration, Amalric followed him on a tortuous route across the fields. The boy’s ambition was about to be fulfilled. His own horse and his skill as a rider would be pitted against Hyperion.
With Edric in the saddle, the black stallion would have a rider every bit as good as Walter Payne. It would be a fair race.
When they reached the course, Edric took him over it so that he could inspect it with care. A mile long over open ground, it posed no problems apart from the slight upward gradient over the final furlongs.
A clump of bushes marked the finishing post. They trotted back to the designated starting place, eager to compete, each resolved to win.
The horses pranced with nervous energy, wanting the race as much as the riders and relishing the headlong dash through the moonlight.
Edric brought Hyperion’s head round to face the course. The clump of bushes could be seen in distant silhouette on the rising slope.
Amalric adjusted his position in the saddle and gave Cempan a pat of encouragement.
‘How will we start?’ he asked.
‘When you are ready,’ said Edric, ‘just go.’
‘What about you?’
‘I will be alongside you all the way.’
It was a confident prediction but it fell short of the truth. When Cempan surged forward, Hyperion went after him like a dog after a rabbit, running him down inside the first furlong and passing him comfortably to lead by a couple of lengths. Amalric used his heels to urge more speed out of the colt and it gradually closed the gap on its rival.
In spite of his handicap, Edric was riding like a master, pacing his horse superbly and coaxing the best out of the black stallion. But Amalric had more fire in his veins and a greater need of victory. He pushed Cempan to the limit. By the halfway point they were level and he flashed a smile at Edric before easing past him. It was the colt who now had a lead and he never relinquished it. Hyperion came back at him over the last furlong and Cempan was tiring badly as they ascended the slope, but Amalric was still able to goad his mount on.
He flashed past the clump of bushes a clear winner and was close to ecstasy as he slowed his horse to walking pace. Edric brought the black stallion alongside him and patted the boy on the back.
‘Well done!’ he said. ‘Now we know.’
Chapter Thirteen
Golde knew that he was not asleep. She could hear his breath in the darkness. It came in short gasps rather than in the long, deep, measured way that always accompanied his slumber. Ralph Delchard was disturbed about something and it was keeping him awake in the dead of night. She rolled slowly over in the bed to face him.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He came out of his reverie to nuzzle against her.
‘Nothing, my love. Go back to sleep.’
‘Your mind is troubling you.’
‘I will doze off in a minute.’
‘You are upset.’
‘I am fine, Golde.’
‘Tell me why.’
‘I did not mean to keep you awake.’
‘I want to know, Ralph.’
She reinforced her wish with a playful bite on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her to him, rolling on to his back so that she was pulled directly on top of him. He caressed her haunches before kissing her again.
‘I still want to know,’ she persisted.
‘It is so trivial.’
‘Let me judge for myself.’
‘Very well,’ he said as a wave of fatigue hit him. ‘I was thinking about what Brother Columbanus said.’
‘At the table this evening?’
‘Yes. Even a fool says a wise thing sometimes.’
‘Brother Columbanus is no fool.’
‘True, my love. He may yet turn out to be the shrewdest man among us. Especially when drink is taken for it seems to sharpen his wits.’
He gave a chuckle. ‘I just hope we will not have another outburst of penitence from him in the morning.’
‘He talked about St Augustine.’
‘He never stopped talking about St Augustine,’ sighed Ralph. ‘Then Gervase started quoting St Augustine at me as well. I am grateful that Canon Hubert was not there or I would have been assailed from three directions at once. No,’ he said, relaxing again, ‘Columbanus said one thing which had nothing to do with St Augustine of Hippo.’
‘Remind me.’
‘It was that remark about an acorn and an oak.’
‘I thought it rather apposite.’
‘Yes, Golde. It was. So apposite and so obvious that it had just never occurred to me. I have been lying here trying to work out why.
My brain is addled.’
‘Go back to that acorn.’
‘It was planted that day in Woodstock,’ said Ralph. ‘When Walter Payne was killed, an oak stirred out of the ground. In a short time, it has grown to monstrous proportions.’
‘Frightening to watch.’
‘Yet all coming from that same acorn,’ he said. ‘All branches of the same huge tree. Brother Columbanus put it so eloquently. Every crime is linked to the others.’
‘Even this suicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I do not know but there has to be a connection. Our merry monk may seem unworldly, but he made a very sound suggestion. Suppose that Walter Payne really was the girl’s lover? That would give Wymarc a strong motive to arrange his death. And it would account for the fact that Helene was so overcome with grief, she took her own life.’
‘We have no proof that she was overwhelmed by grief. Helene may have been prompted by fear. Or by self-disgust. Or by something else.