She cocked an ear to listen for the departing hoofbeats. Her husband would be away in Oxford for the whole day. Having left a bored and unsatisfied wife, he would return to a woman whose every desire had been fulfilled by her lover. The beauty of it was that her husband would observe no difference. He had long ago stopped looking at her with any interest. She was completely safe. He would never know.
When the hoofbeats did not come, she crossed to the window to investigate. They should have left by now. Her lover would be concealed nearby, waiting in the trees for her husband and his reeve to ride past him on the road to Oxford. Until that happened, he would not come near the house. She grew fretful. What was causing the delay?
The door burst open and her husband stormed in.
‘Why is his black stallion in my stables?’ he demanded.
‘Whose stallion?’ she asked.
The blow sent her reeling to the floor.
‘Bertrand Gamberell. Everyone in the county knows that horse of his.’
Arnulf the Chaplain was heartened to see so many communicants in church that morning. He did not flatter himself that they came in response to his own efforts to build a congregation. Shock and uncertainty had brought many of them there. The suicide of a girl in Woodstock had stirred them deeply and reminded them of the need to keep their spiritual lives in repair. They came in search of guidance and reassurance. They wanted to be told how Christians ought properly to view the tragedy and to be reaffirmed in a faith which Helene had so conspicuously betrayed. Arnulf was tolerant of their shortcomings.
He put bread on their tongues and held the chalice to their lips without discrimination.
When the service was over, he went quickly back to the chamber where Bristeva was lodged. He tapped on the door but there was no reply. Inching the door ajar, he saw that the girl was still fast asleep.
Bristeva lay on her back. He was struck by how beautiful she looked with her hair loose and her face brushed by the light from the window.
It was a peaceful slumber. The girl was completely at ease in the strange surroundings and he knew that Golde was partly responsible for that. She had helped Bristeva to relax and settle in.
Arnulf was about to step into the room when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Brother Columbanus had come out of his own chamber and now stood behind him. Over the chaplain’s shoulder, he looked down at Bristeva.
‘She is an angel at rest,’ he said.
‘Bristeva worked hard yesterday. It tired her.’
‘Then let her sleep on.’
‘I will.’
‘This is a big day for her, Arnulf. Do not bring her into it until she is ready to come. Let her awake in her own time.’
‘You are right, Brother Columbanus.’
He stepped back and closed the door gently behind him.
Bertrand Gamberell began to wonder if there had been a mistake.
Having waited in his hiding place for the best part of an hour, he could still see no sign of a departing husband. Had the woman sent him the wrong message? Or had there been a change of plan? He felt certain that she would have sent a second message if there was any serious problem, and he could not believe that she had dragged him all the way there in order to humiliate him by keeping him at bay.
Was it possible that her husband had left even before he arrived?
Gamberell wondered if he should approach the house. A cautious reconnaissance would establish if its master was still at home. He decided against the idea. If she was already alone, she would surely have found a means to signal to him. All that he could do was to sit and wait. It was a small price to pay for the delights which lay ahead.
Relief eventually came. He heard the distant clack of hooves on the road and two horsemen appeared from the direction of the house.
Gamberell walked up the slope once again to make sure that they would not turn back. From his lofty perch, he saw the pair of them riding at a steady canter. Husband and reeve were clearly in a hurry to get to Oxford. Gamberell slapped his thigh and retrieved his own mount. He rode down to the house.
Recalling his last visit, he skirted the stables and instead concealed his horse in some thickets, looking around to make sure that he was unobserved. He did not want the same embarrassment again. When he was certain that nobody had seen where the animal was hidden, he crept back towards the house. From the edge of the stables, he could see the window of her bedchamber. She was there. A simple gesture from her hand was enough. Gamberell broke into a gentle run.
He let himself in by the rear door which had been left open for him then headed for the staircase. Surging up the steps, he went straight to her door and knocked on it with a proprietorial firmness. Before she could answer, he flung it open and stepped in to claim her. The woman was standing against the wall beside the bed. Gamberell beamed at her. In a moment he would saunter across and take her in his arms.
Then he saw the bruise on her temple and the blood that trickled from her mouth. He took a worried step towards her.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
The door slammed shut behind him. Gamberell swung round to find himself staring at her enraged husband. Two other men stood with him, each armed with a wooden stave. Gamberell recovered his poise with remarkable speed.
‘I can explain all this,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Do,’ said the husband coldly. ‘Afterwards.’
Before the secret lover could even move, he was felled by a blow from a stave. Both men belaboured him without mercy. The woman screamed at the top of her voice and begged them to stop but the husband urged them on.
Bertrand Gamberell writhed in pain.
Ralph Delchard remained sceptical about what he had heard.
‘This is her husband’s work,’ he decided.
‘I think not,’ said Gervase.
‘He told her to plead on his behalf.’
‘That is unlikely, Ralph.’
‘I agree,’ said Golde. ‘He may have asked her to sound me out because he assumed I would be an easier target. But he could hardly expect such an approach to work with Gervase.’
The three of them were sitting over the remains of breakfast in the hall. Having risen late, they were enjoying a leisurely start to the day. Gervase had told them of his conversation outside the church with Edith.
‘That is the other thing,’ he argued. ‘It was a chance encounter.’
‘Was it?’ wondered Ralph. ‘Perhaps she saw you go into the church and lurked outside in readiness.’
‘For a whole hour?’
‘That is a ridiculous idea,’ said Golde. ‘Besides, my lady Edith said nothing about her husband which is going to alter Gervase’s mind. It sounds to me as if she were merely trying to answer the question we have all posed. Why did she marry Robert d’Oilly?’
‘A death wish!’ declared Ralph.
‘Expediency,’ she said.
‘My lady Edith was at pains to suggest there was more to it than that,’ remembered Gervase. ‘To her, he is not the ogre he may appear to others.’
‘Appear!’ repeated Ralph with a snort. ‘Appear, Gervase? He is. When a man taxes you out of your home, or beats you senseless, he does not appear to be an ogre. He is one.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Speak to Ebbi. Ask him if Robert d’Oilly appeared to be cruel when he struck Ebbi down.’
‘Let us not bring that up again, Ralph,’ said Golde.
‘Let us not forget it either.’
‘I was pleased that my lady Edith spoke to me the way that she did,’
said Gervase. ‘She was not trying to excuse or offer extenuation. She wanted me simply to understand her position.’
‘We do,’ concluded Ralph. ‘She is married to an ogre.’
‘Who happens to be our host,’ reminded Golde.
‘An hospitable ogre, then.’