The three of them laughed and rose from the table. Tension evaporated. They strolled across to the door. Ralph turned back and waved an expansive arm.
‘This place will be full to the ceiling tonight,’ he warned. ‘And the noise in here will be deafening.’
‘Until Bristeva sings,’ noted Golde.
‘Is that the young Saxon girl you mentioned?’
‘Yes, Ralph.’
‘She is Arnulf’s prize chorister,’ said Gervase.
‘I can see why,’ said Golde. ‘I heard her practising in here yesterday.
She is a charming girl and deserves her chance to shine. Her father will be here to support her.’
‘We have met Ordgar,’ said Ralph.
‘Have you met his steward? Edric the Cripple?’
‘No, my love. But Ordgar talked at length about him.’
‘Did he say how the man lost his leg?’
‘In combat.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘We have not yet managed to find it,’ he said with sarcasm. ‘We have searched everywhere for that missing leg.’
Gervase grinned. ‘Ignore him, Golde.’
‘It was such an odd coincidence,’ she said.
‘Coincidence?’ said Gervase.
‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘Edric was once in Hereford. At a time when I lived there myself. He was in the service of Roger of Breteuil, once the Earl of Hereford.’
Ralph looked startled. He shot a glance at Gervase.
‘Is that not a coincidence?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Ralph. ‘It certainly is.’
Robert d’Oilly posted men on the northern road to Oxford so that he could have advance warning of the bishop’s approach. Geoffrey of Coutances was an important visitor who needed to be welcomed in style and looked after with the utmost care. When he left Oxford, the bishop would ride south to Winchester where he would doubtless give a full account to the King of his time with the sheriff. It was vital that that account was wholly complimentary.
Edith had helped to supervise the banquet itself. He had no qualms about that. It would be a splendid occasion. Once the bishop and his entourage were feasting in the hall, they would notice none of the problems which were besetting the town, and they would ride away with pleasant memories and a high opinion of Robert d’Oilly’s cordiality.
All that the sheriff had to do was to greet his distinguished visitor with the pomp and pageantry that he would expect.
The preparations were thorough. Guards were doubled on the ramparts. Banners were trailed over the walls. A flag was hoisted up each pole. Every man in the garrison was on parade in the bailey, lined up in readiness to impress the newcomers. Oxford Castle exuded a sense of order, alertness and power.
In her finest attire, Edith stood beside her husband.
‘How long will they be, Robert?’
‘A matter of minutes.’
‘It will be good to see the bishop again.’
‘I could wish the circumstances were more propitious,’ he said. ‘He will be riding into a castle that is besieged with all kinds of difficulties.’
‘Rise above them,’ she said, squeezing his arm.
‘I will try, Edith.’
A warning cry from the top of the church tower told him that the travellers were at hand, their cavalcade swinging right at the crossroads to make the short journey westwards to the castle. The sheriff signalled to his captains and orders were shouted. The ranks straightened. The rows of helms glinted in the sunlight. The flags fluttered in the wind. It was a fitting tribute to the arrival of one of the wealthiest, most celebrated and most ostentatious of Norman prelates.
Ralph, Gervase and Golde watched from windows in the keep.
Brother Columbanus took up his position in the bailey. Arnulf the Chaplain brought Bristeva out from the church so that she could witness the magnificence of the bishop’s train. Ostlers and servants made sure that they did not miss the moment of arrival. The whole castle quivered in anticipation.
Through the castle gates came the leading horse, ridden by a soldier who bore the banner of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances. Six more knights came next in pairs, followed by the august person of the bishop himself on a white horse, flanked by four outriders and trailed by two monks, two priests and ten more armoured knights in a winding procession. They clattered into the bailey like members of a conquering army and the bishop acknowledged the assembly with a condescending wave.
Bristeva’s mouth went dry and her heart pounded. She had never seen anything like it. The sight of Robert d’Oilly always impressed her, but Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances made him seem small and insignificant. Erect in the saddle of his white charger, and wearing a scarlet robe that was trimmed with ermine, he was a huge, hunched, red-faced man who exuded an extraordinary amalgam of power and religiosity. Bristeva was so overwhelmed by him that her legs began to tremble and she feared that she would never be able to sing in front of someone so terrifyingly eminent. She leaned against Arnulf for support and he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
Robert d’Oilly stepped forward to welcome the bishop with a short, flowery but reverential speech and Edith added her own greeting with a low curtsey. Geoffrey remained in the saddle to preserve his authority and to run a satisfied eye around the bailey. He liked to feel expected. His voice was deep and commanding.
‘It is good to be in Oxford again, Robert.’
‘You are always most welcome here, your grace.’
‘It has been a tedious journey from Warwickshire.’
‘We will help you to shake off the dust.’
‘I hear that you have commissioners in the town.’
‘That is so.’
‘I served in that office myself when the first circuits were drawn up,’ boasted Geoffrey. ‘This second team only looks under the stones that we lifted for them. I will be glad to meet them and give them the benefit of my advice.’
‘They await your company.’
‘What else awaits me, Robert?’
‘A banquet in your honour, your grace.’
‘I like the sound of this.’
‘You will feast royally at my table.’
Geoffrey was content. He took his horse in a wide circle to inspect the parade which had been laid on for his benefit and then he signalled to one of the soldiers. The man ran forward to help him dismount, offering his shoulder for support to the episcopal hand as the bulky frame was heaved out of the saddle. Even on foot, the Bishop of Coutances still towered over most of those around him.
‘How do I find Oxford?’ he asked.
‘In good order,’ lied the sheriff manfully. ‘You find it well governed and well maintained.’
‘We heard rumours of trouble as we rode south.’
‘They were only rumours, your grace.’
‘I knew that they were,’ said Geoffrey with a grin. ‘Robert d’Oilly would never allow anything to upset the even tenor of his county.’ He turned to Edith. ‘Would he?’
‘No, your grace,’ she said.
‘Oxford is an example to every town in the realm.’
‘I strive to make it so,’ said d’Oilly.
‘You succeed, Robert,’ confirmed the bishop, gazing around once more. ‘This castle is a symbol of your governance. I am truly glad to be within its comforting walls.’
‘Your peace will not be disturbed here, your grace.’
It was an unfortunate prediction. No sooner had it left the sheriff’s mouth than it was contradicted in the most striking way. Another visitor came trotting in through the castle gates but with far less ceremony. Hyperion, the black stallion, scattered the other horses as he came to the centre of the bailey and halted in front of the bishop.
Tied across his saddle, covered in bruises and dripping with blood, was the naked body of Bertrand Gamberell.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, the gruesome sight still vibrated in the memory of all who witnessed it. Hyperion had been stabled, his cargo lifted off, the bishop and his entourage bestowed in their lodgings, the bailey cleared, the garrison returned to its quarters, the servants and ostlers restored to their duties, the watching faces removed from the windows and the whole scene of pageantry wiped away as if it had never existed.