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‘If you insist.’

‘For the rest, we wait until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘The banquet, Gervase,’ he explained. ‘All of our five men will probably be there. The only possible absentee is Wymarc and even he may find it politic to be in Oxford to lick the episcopal arse of Geoffrey of Coutances.’

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Our man is among them somewhere.’

‘All we have to do is to pick him out.’

‘Yes. It is that simple.’

Gervase laughed. ‘If only it were!’

Bertrand Gamberell returned home that morning at a sedate trot. He had spent an uneasy night at Wallingford Castle but it had been a sensible precaution. Wymarc’s fury would have spent itself in a fruitless search, he decided, and the coast would now be clear. When he reached his own land, he felt no watching eyes upon him and feared no ambush. Wymarc and his men were not lying in wait to wreak vengeance. The danger was past.

The fact was confirmed by his steward when Gamberell strode into his home. There had been no angry callers during his absence. His whereabouts had not been sought.

‘Has nobody at all been here?’ he said.

‘Not until this morning, my lord,’ replied the steward.

‘Someone from Wymarc, by chance?’

‘The messenger would not name his master.’

‘What letter did he bring?’

‘It is here, my lord.’

The steward handed it over then withdrew to the other side of the parlour so that Gamberell could read the missive in private. Breaking the seal, the latter unfolded the parchment and read the two evocative lines penned there. The letter was in the code which he had taught her to use and its meaning would be beyond anyone else. It made Gamberell grin with pleasure. She had written with a flowing hand which showed character and urgency. He longed to have those same fingers practising their calligraphy on him again.

Her timing was perfect. After the storm he had just weathered, he felt the need of safe harbour in which to lie gloriously at anchor for a few hours. His last visit had been marred by the theft of Hyperion but that was not her fault. She had given him all that he wanted and was now offering more. Gamberell could not refuse her. The generous body would be a partial recompense for the loss of his stallion. After reading the letter once again to savour its promise, he folded it and stuffed it into his belt.

He had forgotten that his steward was there. In the background, the man coughed discreetly to attract attention. His master looked sharply across at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Will there be a reply, my lord?’

‘I will deliver it in person.’

Edric the Cripple was working at the accounts when he heard the boy come into the house. Amalric’s jaunty tread showed that he was still nursing happy memories of his midnight race against Hyperion. It also suggested that the gossip from Oxford had not yet worked its way through to him. Edric had been into the town that morning and found that its interest in the suicide of a young girl had in no way faded.

When Amalric came into the bay where the steward sat at a table, he was grinning broadly. Victory had been dear to him. A sudden yawn proved that it had not been without cost.

‘A boy of your age should get more sleep,’ said Edric.

‘Who needs sleep when they can ride a horse?’

‘I do, Amalric. But my bones are older than yours.’

‘Shall we race again tonight?’

‘No!’

‘You can ride Cempan this time.’

‘The issue has been decided. Ours is the better horse.’

‘That was never in doubt.’

‘No,’ agreed Edric. ‘But we enjoyed good fortune last night. Nobody saw us. Nobody interrupted our contest. We might not be so lucky a second time. It is foolish to take any more unnecessary risks. That is why I will return Hyperion.’

‘Return him?’ gasped Amalric.

‘After dark.’

‘But that would be madness,’ argued the boy. ‘You stole him in order to prevent another race taking place and thus stop my lord Milo from seizing Cempan. If you restore the black stallion to his master, the race will surely be set up.’

‘Not for some while at least.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because they would not run without my lord Wymarc’s horses in the contest to swell the purse. They are not like us, Amalric. Cempan against Hyperion. They will want more horses in the race.’

‘My lord Wymarc will provide them willingly.’

‘Not for a while,’ said Edric, closing the account book. ‘His grief would not allow it.’

‘Grief?’

‘His young sister has died.’

He passed on the news. When he heard the details, Amalric was visibly shaken. Helene had been in the same choir as his own sister and close to Bristeva’s age. He thought for a moment how they would feel if the tragedy had befallen her and not Wymarc’s sister. The fear and the shame would be truly overwhelming.

‘You are right, Edric,’ he conceded at length. ‘It will be a long time before this race is held again. But I would still be sorry to see Hyperion released.’

‘He has served his purpose in both ways.’

‘Both ways?’

‘Yes,’ explained Edric. ‘By stealing him, I saved Cempan from being stolen. But I also found a hiding place for us if that need does arise.

If Hyperion can be stabled in that mill without being discovered then so can Cempan.’

The boy rallied. ‘I never thought of that!’

‘Bear it in mind. The decision may fall to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You will see, Amalric,’ he said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder to haul himself upright. ‘But let us take it one step at a time. First, I will return Hyperion.’

‘Where will you take him?’

‘To the place from which I stole him.’

‘And where was that, Edric?’

‘A house where Bertrand Gamberell had no right to be,’ said the other. ‘He dotes on that black stallion but he may not be so pleased to get him back from that particular house.’

Edric the Cripple shook with malicious glee.

Chapter Fourteen

Arnulf the Chaplain was confronted by an unforeseen problem. It was impossible for him to spend all his time with Bristeva and yet he was afraid to leave her entirely alone lest she somehow hear the loud whispers concerning Helene’s suicide which were still blowing about the castle like a stiff breeze. The one person to whom he could entrust her was the discreet and kindly Brother Columbanus but the affable monk had completely vanished. Nobody had seen him and Arnulf’s own hurried search through the fortress had proved futile. It was a worrying situation.

Bristeva was anxious not to be a nuisance to him.

‘I will stay in my chamber,’ she volunteered.

‘It is so cold and cheerless.’

‘I do not mind, Father Arnulf. I can practise my songs. When I am singing, I do not really care where I am.’

‘I promised your father I would look after you,’ said the chaplain,

‘and that does not mean abandoning you for the whole afternoon. But my lord sheriff has summoned me and I am not able to ignore his call.

His needs are paramount.’

‘Go to him. Let me stay here.’

He heaved a sigh. ‘I may have no choice, Bristeva.’

‘I could always sit in the church,’ she offered.

‘No, no. You are safer here.’

‘Nobody will talk to me in there.’

‘I would rather not take that risk,’ he said quickly. ‘Besides, you need to rest and you will not do that with people coming to and from the church. Stay here. And do not stir from this chamber.’

‘I will not go anywhere.’

‘Close the door after me.’

‘Yes, Father Arnulf.’

‘I will return as soon as possible.’

‘Do not worry about me. I am used to being alone.’

Bristeva smiled bravely and he gave her arm a delicate squeeze.

When he went out, she closed the door behind him. He waited long enough to hear her begin the first song before moving along the passage to peer into Columbanus’s chamber in the vain hope that the monk may have returned. The room was still empty. As he headed for the bailey, Arnulf’s lips were pursed in anxiety.