Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Nine

Even a sanctuary had disadvantages. Wistan soon realised that he had been too hasty to congratulate himself on choosing his new refuge. It guaranteed him safety but only at a price. To begin, he had to stay virtually immobile behind the bushes when the nuns appeared. This was quite often because they used the garden, not only as a place to grow fruit and vegetables, but as their cloister garth. This introduced an unforeseen problem for the boy. The wants of nature eventually had to be satisfied and Wistan suffered the most acute embarrassment when forced to relieve himself-albeit out of sight- in the company of holy sisters. It seemed like an act of desecration and he had the same sensation of guilt that had afflicted him when he stole the sword from Oslac the Priest. Religious people unsettled him. Their goodness was quite beyond his comprehension.

Boredom also crept up on him. Things that had intrigued him were dulled by constant repetition. The nuns led a strange and apparently contented life but it seemed so barren to him. Why did they not speak to each other? Why did one sit on a bench in meditation while another walked around the perimeter of the garden with her head in a book? Who was the stout nun and why was her face hidden? Who was the graceful sister who had crouched on the ground near him and kissed the earth? Only one of the holy sisters had any spirit about her, but her sudden giggles were immediately suppressed by the stout woman whenever they broke out. Wistan became restive. He found the passivity of the nuns weighing down on him. Northey Island had been a far more dangerous place to hide but it had also been more varied and interesting. There was an excitement in the chase even if he had been the quarry. Maldon Priory was sapping his vitality and taking the edge off his vengeful urge.

As evening shaded slowly towards night, he found himself wishing that he had selected another hiding place. Wistan had entered a forbidden realm, bizarre and stimulating at first, but ultimately a handicap. Holiness distracted him. It made him think twice about what he planned to do and question his right to do it. He needed to get away.

Light failed by degrees until the whole garden was dappled with shadow. Wistan was not afraid. Darkness was becoming his natural element now, the only time when he had any freedom of movement. Something else kept fear at bay. He had the sword.

The implement, which he had stolen from the home of Oslac the Priest, gave him a sense of power and importance. A sword was the most prized weapon of Saxon warriors of old and few men below the rank of thegn had possessed one. The spear was a far more common weapon. Swords reflected status. This one had a broad, two-edged blade that had grown rather blunt but he could sharpen it on a stone when time served. There was a shallow groove down the centre of both sides of the blade to lighten the dead weight of the iron but it was still heavy. The hilt had a grip of wood, bound in leather, and a three-lobed pommel to counterbalance the weight of the blade. The long guard curved downwards. The scabbard consisted of two thin laths of wood covered in leather and protected at the mouth and tip by a metal strip. The inside of the scabbard was lined with fleece.

Wistan had grabbed the sword and carried it away from the house. Now that it was time to leave, he decided to wear it properly. A thegn would have slung the scabbard on his left hip from a baldric over the right shoulder or on a waist belt. All that Wistan had was a piece of rope knotted around his midriff but the sword could just as easily and as proudly be worn on that. He stood up and tied the scabbard in place before pulling out the sword. It seemed to fit his hand and his purpose completely. Its balance was perfect. Wistan was no longer a runaway slave trying to defend himself with a crude knife. He was a Saxon thegn with a fine sword in his hand and a noble heritage behind him. For a brief moment, the boy was at one with Tovild the Haunted.

A door opened in the priory and he became a startled animal, dropping to his knees and peering with anxiety through the leaves. A figure was coming towards him across the grass and the graceful movement told him that it was Sister Tecla, but she did not reach his corner of the garden this time. The stout nun came bustling out after her and took her gently by the arm. There was a slight alterca-tion as Sister Tecla pointed in the direction she had wanted to go but the older woman was firm. Tecla’s shoulders drooped in resignation. The other nun kissed her tenderly on both cheeks then led her back into the building by the hand.

Wistan was puzzled but glad to be left alone again. He waited another five minutes to make sure that the holy sisters had retired for the night, then he moved across to the wall and pulled himself to the top of it. There was nobody in sight. He was over it in a flash and running with a long stride up the hill. Maldon was largely in darkness now with only the occasional flickering light showing through a window or under a door. He met nobody as he hurried along High Street with his left hand holding up the scabbard so that it did not swing against his legs. After being hemmed in for so long at the priory, it was a joy to be free again and on the move.

He needed to recapture the full sense of anger that impelled him and there was only one place to do that. Therefore, when he reached the Church of All Souls’, he paused to make sure nobody was around, then went through the little wooden gate and into the churchyard. Eerie and still, it was shrouded in gloom but the sword was his comfort. He drew it out and held it in front of him as he picked his way among the graves. Algar had been buried in sloping earth in a mean corner of the churchyard. Guy FitzCorbucion, by contrast, had been given a prime position and his last resting place would be marked in time by some monument. Wistan went first to the spot where his father lay and he offered a mumbled promise of revenge. He remembered the ague-ridden old man who had no strength to defend himself properly against the cruelty of his young master. The hatred began to bubble inside him again. Wistan also recalled the warrior after whom he had been named. That hero had taken his toll of a much stronger foe before he fell with honour. The boy would now do the same. With rancour in his heart and the sword in his hand, he felt ready for any trial that lay ahead.

After paying homage to Algar, he moved away from one grave in order to attack another and hack at the mound of earth that covered his father’s killer. But there was someone on guard. He sensed the movement before he saw anything and it made him check his stride and approach with more caution. Clouds hid the moon and the place was in almost total darkness but somebody was definitely there at the graveside. Wistan became possessed of the idea that it might be Hamo FitzCorbucion, keeping a lonely vigil over his dead son, kneeling beside him, unarmed and vulnerable. The boy wasted no sympathy on him. Raising his weapon, he ran the last few yards to the grave and lashed out viciously with the sword, only to be forced back in alarm as a whole flock of ravens took wing in front of him, flying into his face with screeches of outrage before perching on the church itself to hiss their curses down at him. The grave had its own guardians.

Wistan fled at once and he did not stop running until he was clear of the town and on the Blackwater demense. He slowed down to catch his breath and exercised more caution as he got closer to his destination. The hall came out of the darkness to stop him like a mountain that had been dropped in his path. Like Miles Champeney, he knew better than to enter by the courtyard. The wall at the rear of the building was high but he scaled it with moderate ease and dropped down onto the soft ground beyond. He was now at the very heart of FitzCorbucion territory and his hand tightened on the hilt of the sword.

Moving with a stealth that had now become natural, he crept up to the back of the house and walked its full length in search of a mode of entry. The one door was securely locked and the windows were barred. Those on the first floor were well beyond his reach. He came furtively around the side of the house but that offered no possibility either. He was about to double back and try the other side of the building when he heard a resounding clatter as a troop of men came riding into the courtyard to rein their mounts. Wistan got down on his knees and inched his way to the angle of the house so that he could peer around it and watch.

A few torches had been lit to welcome the latecomers and a few grooms came running. Hounds, which had been used to track down Wistan on Northey Island, barked in their kennels or poked out inquisitive heads. The stone trough where Algar had met his death was clearly visible. Everything about the scene stirred the boy’s loathing. Fulk the Steward came out of the house and down the stone steps. He addressed the captain of the troop.

“You are very late.”

“My lord, Hamo, sent us as far north as Kelvedon.” “But with no success?”

“None, Fulk. Nobody has seen a glimpse of the boy.”

“We’ll search again tomorrow.”

“What is the point?” said the captain. “The lad must be far away from here by now. He’s had days on the run.”

“That is my feeling but he will not listen to me.” Fulk raised his voice so that all could hear. “My lord, Hamo, will lead you tomorrow. He and his son have to visit the shire hall at ten o’clock. Some paltry business that will not take long. Be ready to leave soon after that.”

Moans of protest were mixed with sighs of relief that they would not have to be out again at first light. It was a minor blessing but a welcome one for men who had been in the saddle for the best part of a day. Fulk had delivered his message and went back into the house. Wistan had heard him clearly. Hamo and Jocelyn FitzCorbucion would be going to the shire hall in the morning. The boy might not have to find a way to get into the house, after all. If he was in the right place at the right time, his enemies would come to him.

He climbed back over the wall and trotted happily away.

Canon Hubert knew how to put a man right off his breakfast.

“I am all in favour of branding and mutilation,” he said airily as he slurped his frumenty. “A brand marks a man for life and a missing ear or nose is a reminder that he is never allowed to forget. Be just but merciless, I say. One must make the punishment commensurate with the crime.”

“Could we talk about something else?” asked Brother Simon queasily. “The subject distresses me.”

“It must be discussed.”

“Why, Canon Hubert?” “Because I have chosen it.”

“Of course, of course …”

“And because it is germane.”

“So how would you punish Hamo?” asked Ralph Delchard.

“Most severely,” said Hubert.

“Branding or mutilation?”

“Both, my lord. I’d brand him a criminal and cut whole pieces of his demesne away to give back to their rightful owners.” Hubert was vindictive. “I’d also throw the rogue into prison to cool his heels. Nobody is above the law. Not even Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

“Nor even the King’s own brother,” noted Gilbert Champeney. “Odo has been behind bars for years now and he was Earl of Kent.”

“He is also Bishop of Bayeux,” added Gervase Bret.

“Yes,” said Ralph brightly. “That fact delights me most. A reverend Bishop thrown into prison. The Church must bow down to the law of the land.”

He beamed at Hubert. “How would you sentence Odo? To the branding iron or the knife?”

“We are wandering from the point, my lord.”

It was early morning and the six of them were having breakfast together. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon were preparing themselves for the encounter with Hamo at the shire hall, Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were taken up with the related problem of the murder, and Gilbert Champeney was trying to make amends for his near-betrayal of his guests by an even more excessive show of hospitality. He had cajoled his son to come along and Miles was far more ready to join in the banter. He had now been told about the deception practiced on Hamo and it had given him a degree of consolation. But the woman he loved was still locked away in Blackwater Hall, so he had a personal interest in the outcome of the morning’s session at the shire hall.

“No punishment could match Hamo’s crimes,” he asserted. “I think he should be tried and executed for what he has done.”

“Come now,” teased Ralph. “You are being very harsh on your future father-in-law.”

“He has held this town to ransom for too long.”

“We will put a stop to that,” said Hubert. “He will be dealt with accordingly. We can unleash the full rigour of the law upon him.”

“But it is Norman law,” reminded Gervase, “and it falls short of your own preference, Canon Hubert. A moment ago, you were advocating the use of branding and mutilation. That is nearer to the Danish code. King Cnut also favoured such savage law.”

“Do not compare me with the Danes!” said Hubert querulously. “They were heathens!”

“Cnut became a devout Christian,” returned Gervase. “Like you. That is what surprises me about your attitude. The Christian ethic surely has no place in judicial castration or the blinding of felons. King Cnut even prescribed mutilation for women taken in adultery.”

“God save us!”

Brother Simon had heard enough. Clutching his stomach, he ran into the courtyard to spew up what little food he had managed to eat that morning. The idea of taking a knife to a woman by way of punishment was too revolting to contemplate. He began to pray for an early return to the bosom of his monastery where the only thing likely to offend his sensibilities was an overheated debate about a passage from the Scriptures.

Ralph Delchard was amused by the monk’s sudden exit.

“Brother Simon is too easily upset,” he observed. “It has been a bad morning for him so far. He had a fit when I suggested to him that a more appropriate manor for Humphrey Aureis testiculi would be that of Goldhanger.”

Gilbert hooted with laughter, Gervase smiled, and even Miles cracked his face, but Canon Hubert pretended not to have heard and returned to the fray. Even over breakfast, he refused to be beaten in argument. “Law must be fair but firm,” he insisted. “A visible justice is the most effective of all. Every thief who has his hand cut off is a warning to others. Every traitor who is hanged helps to keep the rest of the subjects loyal. Crimes committed in private must meet with public retribution.”

“Your retribution is legal vengeance,” said Gervase.

“Yes,” agreed Gilbert. “Look to the Saxons. They can teach us in this as in so many other ways. Their law was based on compensation rather than on mutilation. The only crimes carrying a death sentence were treason, cowardice, and desertion.” He gave a nervous laugh. “And unnatural vice.”

“They were a warrior people,” said Ralph. “Every soldier was a valued asset. Why kill him or cut him up when he can be used to fight for you?”

“That is my contention,” resumed Gilbert. “Examine the laws of King Ethelbert of Kent and you will see a list of fines for everything from murder to fornication. Thieves did not lose a hand that could be used in battle. They paid compensation for their crime.”

“Compensation is not enough,” said Miles hotly. “To fine a man like Hamo FitzCorbucion would be to fly in the face of every principle of justice.”

The dispute continued for a few more minutes before Canon Hubert shifted its basis in order to assert himself.

“When we deal with Hamo,” he said, “we move from the realm of crime into that of heinous sin. Evil must be burned out in the flames of Good. I will ignite the torch in the shire hall today.”

It was a timely reminder. Although the session was still some hours away, there was much to prepare and rehearse. Ralph and Gervase got up from the table, Miles excused himself and drifted away, and Canon Hubert had one last mouthful of food before going off in search of Brother Simon. Whatever their individual views about the nature of punishment, they first had to convict Hamo of his crimes and that was by no means a foregone conclusion.

“Do not underestimate his guile,” warned Gilbert. “We may have deceived him with forged documents but he will not concede defeat. Hamo will fight tooth and nail.”

“So will we,” reassured Ralph.

“The evidence against him is too strong,” said Gervase. “That is what your predecessors thought.”

“Trust us, Gilbert,” said Ralph. “We will fetter this tyrant for you.

And if we do, I will ask for a favour in return. Do not deny me now.” “You may have anything you choose.”

“Anything at all?” “Name it.”

“The truth about Humphrey. Is that a bargain?”

“It is, Ralph,” said the chuckling Gilbert. “And I will even give you a hint to whet your appetite. Look again at Humphrey’s holdings.”

“Both of them?”

“I speak of his land.”

“But he has no more than three hides.” “You forget his beehives.”

“Beehives?”

“I say no more,” said Gilbert. “But take note of his honey render and you will get closer to his name.”

“We must leave it there,” said Gervase briskly. “You may worry about Humphrey but there are much more serious issues to decide first. We must put all our documents in order and then we must ride off to our appointment.”

“Appointment?” said Gilbert. “We are hunting birds.” “Ravens?”

“Magpies.”

Advance warning had been sent to the priory as a courtesy. Prioress Mindred therefore had time to consider her response and take appropriate action. Oslac the Priest was summoned at once to give his advice and they talked for a long time. When he left, the prioress called Sister Gunnhild into her quarters and told her about the imminent visit of the royal commissioners. Gunnhild listened with impassive interest.

“What will you tell them?” she asked.

“The truth.”

“The whole truth?”

“I will tell them what I judge needful, Sister Gunnhild. But I require your help. Nobody else here must know of their visit or suspect for one moment its purpose. You will greet them and bring them straight to me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“On no account must Sister Tecla be informed.” “She will be kept in ignorance.”

“I know you have her best interests at heart.”

“None more so.”

Mindred gave a hesitant smile. “Have you been able to sound the depth of her spiritual commitment?”

“She is responding well.”

“Good.”

“I have commended the works of St. Aldhelm to her.” “De Virginitate?”

“We will study it together.”

“That is … pleasing to hear,” said the prioress with muted enthusiasm. “You are her mentor now. We must work hard to win her soul. I have tried to show her certain privileges to draw her more completely to us. Sister Tecla brought that sacred earth back from Barking Abbey with me. I permitted her to transfer it to the reliquary as a sign of my faith in her. Then we both prayed to St. Oswald. He saved our lives once.”

“Let us hope the blessed saint still watches over us.”

The bell rang and the prioress braced herself. Sister Gunnhild went swiftly out to the front door and returned with Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret. The black habits of the nuns were offset by the startling whiteness of their caps, so that there was indeed a super-ficial resemblance to magpies, and the visitors knew only too well that magpies belonged to the same family as ravens. Gunnhild gave a noncommittal bow then backed out and closed the door behind her to ensure their privacy. Prioress Mindred exchanged pleasantries with her guests, then invited them to sit. She lowered herself into the high-backed chair and waited. Her manner was as gracious as ever and it forced them to wonder if their suspicions could possibly have any real foundation. Gervase was the spokesman.

“We have been looking into the murder,” he explained.

“It was a horrific event,” she said. “Father Oslac has told me something of the details.”

“He discussed the case with you?” “Only in passing.”

“And what did you conclude, my lady prioress?”

“That the murderer was deeply wicked,” she said with a slight grimace. “To take life by violent means is a most dreadful crime but this went beyond that. Mutilation was practised. The body was disfigured. Only a man consumed by an evil and bitter hatred could do that.”

Gervase was surprised. Oslac seemed to have confided in her things that he had only divulged to them under pressure and that suggested a closer relationship between priest and prioress than he would have assumed. It helped to confirm the doubts he had been having about Oslac.

“You are in close touch with Father Oslac?” he said.

“He is one of three priests who visit us regularly. They come to celebrate Mass but they also bring in gossip from the town.”

“Oslac seems to have told you more than gossip.”

“I like to think that I am a trusted friend.” “He speaks highly of you, my lady prioress.” “I can return that compliment.”

“Would you call him a true man of God?” “Without question.”

“A lover of peace and humility?”

“Of course. He is a Christian.”

“Then why does he keep a sword at his house?”

“A sword?” Mindred was visibly taken aback but she collected herself with admirable speed. “I do not see what this has to do with your enquiries, Master Bret. Why are you asking me such an odd question?”

Ralph Delchard tried to speed up the interrogation.

“Let us go back to our meeting with you,” he suggested. “Very well, my lord.”

“You and Sister Tecla were returning from Barking Abbey, were you not?” She nodded. “Why did you go there in the first place?” “It is our motherhouse. I visit regularly.”

“Did you not have a special reason this time?”

“That is a matter between me and Abbess Aelfgiva.”

“Is it?” he probed. “Or between you and Sister Tecla?” “Tecla …?”

Her dismay was more evident this time and Gervase moved in swiftly to take over once more. He had hoped to coax the truth out by patient questioning but Ralph’s impulsiveness had now made that impossible. Gervase had brought the murder weapon, which had been reclaimed from the marsh, because he believed it might belong in the convent. The prioress was on the defensive. She was clearly prevaricating. It was time to confront her with the blend of evidence and supposition that had guided the two of them there. Gervase leaned forward on his stool.

“I believe that you possess a fine silver chalice.” “We have more than one here.”

“This cup is rather special,” said Gervase. “It has delicate engrav-ings around four inset rubies. It is extremely valuable. You told Canon Hubert and my lord, Ralph, that it was part of a dowry that was paid to the priory by one of the holy sisters.”

“That was true,” said Mindred uncertainly. “It was used to celebrate Mass?”

“When it had been approved and blessed.” “Then why did it leave here?”

“Leave here?”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “I believe that you and Sister Tecla took it with you to Barking Abbey.” She shook her head vehemently but he pressed on. “I believe that chalice came originally from Blackwater Hall. That is why the ambush was set for you. Those men were knights in the FitzCorbucion retinue. They were sent to take that chalice back to its rightful owner. Is that not true, my lady prioress?”

She lowered her head. “No, no,” she whispered.

“Can you hear what Gervase is saying?” said Ralph. “Your chalice was the property of Guy FitzCorbucion. That links this priory very clearly with his murder.”

“No, my lord!” she protested, rising to her feet with her eyes blazing. “You are wrong!”

“Tell us why,” said Gervase quietly.

“I am unjustly accused here!”

“Defend yourself, my lady prioress. We will listen.”

She glanced at the door then wrung her hands for a few moments before returning to her seat. When she had composed herself again, she looked from one to the other.

“I did not go to Barking Abbey with Sister Tecla,” she said. “I returned with her, as you saw, but I travelled alone with my escort. The purpose of my visit was to collect her.”

Gervase was perplexed. “How long had she been there?” “Some weeks.”

“For what reason?”

Mindred bit her lip. “Spiritual recuperation.” “What is that in layman’s terms?” said Ralph.

“Sister Tecla had been unwell,” explained the other. “It began as a physical illness but it took on serious emotional and spiritual connotations. She sank rapidly. She began to lose her faith. I was too inexperienced to handle something of this magnitude and sought help from our motherhouse. Abbess Aelfgiva interceded personally. Sister Tecla was sent to Barking Abbey for the care and sustenance that only they could offer. When she was sufficiently recovered, I travelled there myself to bring her home.”

“With that chalice in your pouch?” said Gervase. “Yes,” she confessed.

“Why?”

“It had immense significance for Sister Tecla,” she said softly, “though I still do not fully appreciate why. She brought it here as part of her dowry. It was a most welcome gift. She begged me to let her clean and polish it each day so that she could handle it. Abbess Aelfgiva wrote to tell me that Sister Tecla had pined for that chalice and that her mind would be more fitted to return here if I took it to Barking Abbey with me.” A smile of almost maternal fondness played around her lips. “When I gave it to her, she was like a child with a doll. It was touching.”

“What of those men who ambushed you?” said Ralph. “They were trying to steal it.”

“To take back to Blackwater Hall?”

“I do not know, my lord,” she said. “I give you my word that I had no idea that it had been stolen from there. Sister Tecla assured me it had been in her family for many years.”

“A Norman chalice in a Saxon household?”

“Strange things sometimes appear in strange places,” she said. “You asked me why Oslac the Priest has a sword in his house. It is indeed an unusual item for him to have but it is not as sinister as you imply.”

“Where did he get the weapon?” said Gervase. “I gave it to him.”

“You?”

“It belonged to my husband,” she said, straightening her back and tilting her chin. “Before the Conquest, he owned half of this town. That sword was used in battle.” She lapsed back into a more modest posture. “Father Oslac was kind and helpful to me. Without him, I would never have been able to found this priory. That sword was a gift of thanks. It was one of my husband’s proudest possessions but it had no place in a convent. Father Oslac deserved it. He is a priest but he still has something of a warrior spirit.”

Gervase felt abashed. Theories that had seemed quite sound when he and Ralph had discussed them earlier now began to fall apart, and he was reminded with an uncomfortable lurch that their case rested on the word of Tovild the Haunted. What if they had got the wrong solution to the riddle? Or the right solution and the wrong magpie? The prioress had been evasive but with good reason. The nun who she was accompanying back to Maldon had been through some kind of personal crisis and needed to be kept away from any form of disturbance. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla were miles away from the

town when the murder was committed but the chalice did in some way connect them to it. Gervase pinned everything on that detail.

“Before she took the veil,” he said, “did Sister Tecla live in Maldon?”

“No, she came from Woodham. Not far south of here.” “Did she have any connection with Blackwater Hall?” “I do not believe so.”

“Think hard, please.”

“She never mentioned it to me.”

“Yet that chalice came from the hall,” said Gervase. “How do you suppose it got into Sister Tecla’s hands?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did she deliberately mislead you?”

“I intend to question her about that.” “Could she have stolen it herself?”

“No!” denied the prioress. “Sister Tecla has suffered much but she

is not capable of theft. If she said that the chalice was hers, she must have believed that it was. She is young and very fragile. Her mind has been disturbed. You must make allowances.”

“We cannot excuse theft,” said Ralph. “Especially when such a valuable item is involved. I think we had better take a look at this chalice once more, if you please?”

“That is no possible, my lord.” “Why not?”

“Until yesterday, I did not know it had belonged to Blackwater Hall. We used it in good faith to celebrate Mass. There has been no deception on my part because I was myself deceived. I swear that, on the grave of the holy St. Oswald!”

“How did you learn that the cup might be stolen?”

“From my lord, the sheriff,” she explained. “He paid us a courtesy visit yesterday evening and happened to mention that a chalice was missing from the manor house. I did not at first link it with ours- why should I? — but the very possibility kept me awake last night. This is a religious house and we will not harbour stolen goods.”

“So where is the chalice now?” asked Gervase. “On its way to Blackwater Hall.”

“You sent it back?”

“Naturally,” she said, and a note of vindication came into her voice. “You were unjust in your suspicions of us. We are holy sisters who serve God to the best of our poor abilities. We are prone to human frailty but we are not criminals, and we resent being regarded as such.” She rose to her feet with dignity to signal their departure. “I bid you good day, sirs. Look elsewhere for your thief and your murderer. You will find none here.”

Oslac the Priest tethered his horse in the courtyard and ascended the steps at Blackwater Hall. He knocked on the door and was admitted by a servant. Hamo FitzCorbucion was summoned from his chamber. He was puzzled to see the priest and even more mystified when the visitor handed him an object, which was wrapped in fine linen.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Something that you will be pleased to see, my lord.” “The head of that boy, Wistan?”

“No,” said Oslac. “It is a missing heirloom, I believe.” “The chalice!”

Hamo tore off the linen and held up the object with delight. He scrutinised it carefully to make sure that it had not been damaged in any way. The chalice was clearly very dear to him. It had belonged to his wife who had herself inherited it from her own mother before passing it on to her eldest child. Thrilled to have it back, Hamo was also anxious to punish the thief who took it away in the first place.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“It was left on the doorstep of the church, my lord.” “By whom?”

“I have no idea,” said Oslac. “But I heard that a cup of this description was missing from Blackwater Hall and so I brought it to you immediately.”

“You did well. I am very grateful.” “It is a beautiful chalice.”

“My wife bequeathed it to Guy.”

“Who will inherit it now?” wondered the priest.

Hamo seemed oddly discomfited by the question. Still hugging the chalice, he pressed his visitor for details of how and when it was found. Oslac stuck to his story because it had a strong element of truth. Counselled by him, Prioress Mindred had agreed to part with the chalice at once. One of her nuns had been deployed to place the object at the church door but Oslac had insisted that he not be told whom. When he faced Hamo, he wanted to have as few lies as possible to pass on to such a searching inquisitor. Although the priest promised to make further enquiries, he vowed inwardly that he would protect the priory. The link between the chalice and the convent had to be tactfully suppressed.

Hamo clapped him on the shoulder in gratitude and offered refreshment but Oslac politely refused.

“No, thank you, my lord,” he said. “You have business at the shire hall today, I believe, and I will not hold you up any longer. I came but to return the chalice, but since I am here …”

“Yes?”

“I would like to see my lady, Matilda.” “Why?”

“This is a house of mourning. I can offer comfort.”

“Matilda has taken to her chamber,” said Hamo.

“That is a bad sign, my lord. She should not be left to brood alone for long periods. I was able to give her much consolation when she mourned the death of your dear wife, and I am sure that I can help to sustain her again. Permit me some time alone with her and I will do what I may to revive her spirits.”

“She may not wish to see you.” “Let her be the judge of that.”

Hamo glanced at the chalice and back at him. Oslac had done him a great favour by returning the object to him. It was a good omen for the day ahead. Two vital tasks awaited him. He had to confound the royal commissioners and find his son’s killer. Matilda was an irrelevance now. Her planned elopement had been scotched and Miles Champeney had been driven away forever from the estate. Hamo felt in an almost bountiful mood for once and he reasoned that a priest could do no harm. Even if his daughter were to moan about the loss of her beloved, Oslac was powerless to do anything more than express sympathy. Matilda was still locked in her chamber, tearful and mutinous by turns, but no longer a problem to her father. He decided that a visit from the priest might actually calm her down.

“Very well,” he agreed. “Matilda is in need of comfort. Spend a little time with her and do what you may.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Tell her about the chalice. It may cheer her up.”

It had taken him a long time to find a way into the shire hall. Wistan did not wish to break a window or force a door because that would have led to a thorough search of the premises to see what had been taken by the intruder. Instead he opted for the infinitely slower process of cutting himself a way in under the eaves, skewering out the reeds with the end of his sword until he made a hole just big enough to squirm through. Once inside, he stuffed the displaced thatch back into position to cover the hole. It would not survive close inspection but he was hoping that those who came into the shire hall would be far too busy to worry about some minor damage to the roof.

When daylight began to peep in at him, he was able to choose his hiding place with care. It was high in the roof beams and right at the back of the hall. Squeezed in under the thatch, he would be completely invisible. His view was obscured by the rafters but he could hear everything. When Hamo FitzCorbucion and Jocelyn came in, he would know. The sword was out of its scabbard and resting beside him on a thick beam. He had merely to grab it and the death of Algar could at last be avenged in the only fitting way. The noise of a key in a lock made him prick his ears and tense his muscles, but there was no cause for alarm. It was the town reeve. He came in to check that everything was in order. Servants brought in refreshments and set them out on the trestle table before scurrying back out. The reeve himself soon left. Wistan was satisfied with his vantage point. They could not see him.

It was not long before two other figures entered. Their voices were raised in argument as they made their way towards the table at the far end of the hall.

“That is the last time I put faith in riddles, Gervase!” “I still think that we were on the right track.”

“Follow it on your own!”

“Tovild witnessed that murder.”

“Yes,” said a peeved Ralph. “At the Battle of Maldon.”

Gervase reflected. “Magpie. I am certain the answer was magpie. What else could it be, Ralph?”

“I have no idea, but I am not barging in there again like that. It was

an ordeal!” He pointed a finger. “There I was, waiting for you to pull out that murder weapon and thrust it under her nose so that she would confess-and what happens? You never even got the chance. She was plainly innocent of everything of which we accused her. We were made to look complete fools, Gervase. We were wrong about her, wrong about Sister Tecla, wrong about the knife, wrong about Oslac, and wrong about the whole stupid idea of magpies!” He perched on the edge of the table. “What, in God’s name, did we actually get right?”

“That chalice.”

“It takes a lot to make me blush-but I did!”

“That must have been the reason for the ambush.” “A nun embarrassing me! It’s unthinkable.”

“All we have to do is to find out how that chalice got there in the first place and why Guy FitzCorbucion-it had to be him-was so keen to get it back.” He turned to Ralph. “You’re not listening to me.”

“No, Gervase. I’ve had enough for one morning.” “But we have picked up the trail.”

“It leads straight back to mad old Tovild!” yelled Ralph. “This is all a game that he’s playing with us. Hunt the Magpie! The only bird that comes into this is a great black raven named Hamo.”

“Calm down, Ralph.”

“The chalice is back with the raven again! Hamo can don a cowl and pass himself off as St. Benedict!” He went off into a mirthless laugh then gave a sigh of apology. “I am sorry, Gervase, but I hate to be caught on the wrong foot like that. The chalice was the essence of our case but the prioress denied all knowledge of its true ownership. And I believe the noble lady. You heard her. She swore on the grave of St. Oswald.”

“Indeed, she did …”

Gervase Bret stared straight ahead with eyes glistening and mouth agape. He was deep in contemplation. He thought about the spiritual collapse of a young woman. He thought about a child playing with a doll. He thought about the ambush, a pile of holy earth, and two nuns chanting a Saxon charm in a church. He thought about a discussion that morning of the nature of crime and punishment. He thought about a murdered man and a chalice and the one certain thing that might connect them. He punched Ralph in his excitement and let out a cry of delight.

“St. Oswald!” he exclaimed. “St. Oswald!”

“What about him?”

“Saxon nuns would revere a Saxon saint.” “Where does that get us?”

“St. Benedict was an Italian.”

“Even I know that, Gervase.”

“It was St. Oswald who saved them from that ambush!” “I like to think that we gave Oswald a spot of help.” “He is the link with Blackwater Hall.”

“Who?”

“St. Oswald! Do you not see? We chose the wrong saint!”

Ralph was more bewildered than ever but Gervase was not able to enlighten him. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon came in with satchels of documents and a sheaf of complaints. A crowd was forming outside. The intention had been to examine Hamo FitzCorbucion on his own before bringing his accusers in on the following day to confront him, but word had got around about that morning’s session. Saxon burgesses and Norman barons alike wanted to be there to view Hamo’s disgrace. Gilbert Champeney had also come along in the hopes of being admitted to the proceedings. The pressure to change their original plans and to allow a more public debate was intense.

Brother Simon was against the idea on principle and Canon Hubert was even more determined to keep the self-appointed spectators at bay. Gervase slowly persuaded them by pointing out that the contest between good and evil, which Hubert had set up, deserved the largest possible audience. Hamo FitzCorbucion should be both humiliated and seen to be humiliated by the people over whom he had ridden roughshod for so many years. Canon Hubert had trumpeted the virtues of a visible justice only that morning over breakfast. He should be ready to open the doors to anyone who wished to come in. Ralph Delchard added his support to this argument. They had come to Maldon to clean up the filth of Hamo’s tyranny. The town had a right to watch them do it.

Hubert relented, Brother Simon withdrew his opposition, and the town reeve was given new instructions. The public would be admitted. As the commissioners settled down in their chairs, eager faces came streaming in through the door and the benches were rapidly filled.

Ralph had time for only the briefest exchange with Gervase, who sat next to him.

“Do not leave me hanging in the air!” he said.

“We will talk about it later, Ralph.”

“At least give me some idea. The wrong saint?” “St. Oswald is our man.”

“But why? What is so special about him?”

“His emblem.” “Emblem?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“If you tell me it has a magpie on it, I’ll go berserk!” “No magpies, Ralph, I promise you.”

“Then what?”

“A raven and a ring.”

“I thought you would condemn me for disobedience,” she said. “Why should I do that, my lady?”

“A father has a right to choose my husband.” “You have a right to be consulted.”

“He does not see it that way.”

“No,” agreed Oslac, “I imagine that he does not. Your father is so used to making decisions that he will not stand for any objection to them. You and he have very different ideas about marriage. My lord, Hamo, is selecting a husband so that he can join family to family and not heart to heart.”

“Miles Champeney is the man I want.”

“I marvel that the two of you managed to get so far.” “We have exchanged vows.”

“True love thrives on adversity.”

They were in Matilda’s chamber at the top of the house. Oslac had been taken along the gallery by a servant. The guard had been removed from outside but the door was still locked and the priest soon understood why. Having come to console Matilda over the death of her brother, he found her mounting the loss of the man she loved. He was shocked to hear of her incarceration in her own home and of the brutal treatment of Miles Champeney. It was a situation in which he felt he ought to offer practical assistance.

A shout took them both to the window. Down in the courtyard, Hamo FitzCorbucion had mounted his white destrier and pulled out his sword. He was wearing full armour and looked a most striking figure. Jocelyn was with him and so was Fulk the Steward but they were lost in the armed escort. Hamo was bristling. If the commissioners dared to call him before them, he intended to arrive at the hall with forty knights at his heels in a display of naked force. The visit to Coutances had not just produced a potential son-in-law. It had rekindled the hot blood that ran in his veins. Hamo envied the chaos of Normandy where barons like himself built castles without license and conducted their private wars unimpeded. That was the spirit that was needed in England. He would answer to no man and bend the knee to no king. With another loud yell, he led the full troop out of the courtyard and towards the town. Victory was assured.

Matilda watched them go, then stayed at the window for a few minutes. When she turned to Oslac, her eyes were moist. “You must think me very callous,” she said.

“Why?”

“My brother lies in the churchyard and all that I can do is to talk about myself.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “But I do care about Guy. He had many faults but he did not deserve such a hideous death. I have been ashamed, Father Oslac. I should be weeping for a brother’s death and praying for his soul. I should be hoping that they will soon catch his murderer.”

“And do you hope that, my lady?”

She shrugged. “I do and I do not.”

“Your mind is too full of Miles Champeney.” “Father threw him into the dungeon!”

“It was an unkind way to welcome a suitor,” said Oslac with mild irony, “but it is not altogether unusual. Fathers often disapprove of the men whom their daughters favour as husbands. They may not all go to the extent of flinging an unwanted son-in-law into a cell, but they can make their opposition very clear.” He gave a nostalgic smile. “I know that to my cost.”

“You?”

“I was young once, my lady.” “Of course.”

“And even a priest may fall in love.”

“I have met your wife. She is a charming woman.”

“Her father did not think me a very charming man,” he said. “In fact, he found me unsuitable in every way and made no bones about telling me so to my face. He swore that he would not let his daughter marry beneath her. His opinion of priests was not high. It was a trying time for us.”

“Yet the marriage went ahead.” “Eventually.”

“How?”

“It is not for me to put ideas into your head, my lady.” “Ideas?”

He studied her for a moment. “You are right to reproach yourself,” he said seriously. “It is only fitting that you should grieve for a brother who has passed away. I think it might help if you were to visit the churchyard and pay your respects at his grave.”

“But Father will not allow me out of this house.” “He is not here to enforce that decree.”

“There was a guard outside my door.”

“He is not there now,” said Oslac. “You watched the troop ride out. My lord, Hamo has taken all his men-at-arms with him.”

“There are still servants in the house.”

“A lady may command a servant.”

“What if they try to stop me?”

“Tell them that I am escorting you to the church. They would not dare to stand in the way of a priest, would they?” His eyes twinkled. “The decision must be yours, my lady.”

The shire hall was now so full that latecomers had to stand pressed against the walls. Ralph Delchard’s men-at-arms could barely find room for themselves at the rear of the building. Up in the rafters, Wistan could hear the noisy jostling and feel the sense of expecta-tion. The whole of Maldon seemed to have come along to witness the encounter but one of the disputants had failed to turn up. Was Hamo FitzCorbucion scorning the summons of royal commissioners? If he did not come, did they have the means to compel him? Gervase Bret’s acuity and Canon Hubert’s gravitas had impressed all the witnesses who had appeared before them and they had also admired Ralph Delchard’s brisk authority. But none of these things could be brought into play if the lord of the manor of Blackwater ignored their warrant. As the appointed time came and went, murmurs of doubt began to swell. The summons was being spurned.

Then the door of the hall was thrown open. Every head turned and every eye expected to see Hamo FitzCorbucion come storming in but the spindly character who pushed a way past the guards was Tovild the Haunted. Carrying a spear and wearing his mottled armour, the old man gazed around in wonderment. He had not gone down to the bank of the river to quote his poem that morning. With the instincts of a true warrior, he knew that the real Battle of Maldon was being fought in the shire hall. The taut silence gave way to laughter and the mockery soon came. Tovild was a figure of fun to Saxons and Normans alike and they taunted him happily, urging him to spear a few Vikings for them by way of entertainment. The commotion was quickly smothered beneath a louder and more menacing noise. A large troop of men could be heard cantering towards the hall and dozens of hooves clacked on the hard surface of High Street as the knights came to a halt.

This time Hamo FitzCorbucion did enter. Four men-at-arms came first to clear a way roughly through the crowd. Hamo walked after them like a conquering hero walking in triumph through a vanquished territory. Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and Fulk the Steward brought up the rear, each bearing a sheaf of documents. Seats had been left vacant in the front row and the newcomers settled into them with an arrogance borne of years of unchecked power. Hamo dismissed his soldiers with a flick of the fingers and then reached up to remove his gleaming helm before handing it to Jocelyn. He looked at each of the four men who sat in judgement behind the table and found nothing to trouble him.

He glared at them with total disdain.

“You sent for me, sirs,” he growled, “and I have come.” “We sent for Hamo FitzCorbucion,” said Ralph.

“I am he!”

“What proof do we have of that?” “Every man here will know me!” “We do not.”

“I am the lord of the manor of Blackwater!”

“Then why do you act like a renegade baron?” challenged Ralph. “Why do you arrive here with a troop of men and force your way in? Why do you appear before us in armour? Why do you try to threaten us with the trappings of your power and to pervert the course of justice?” His voice crackled with sarcasm. “We recognise a lord by his demeanour. We look for dignity and a natural authority. We expect an honourable man. When you come charging in here like this, all that we see is a marauding soldier.”

Hamo leapt up. “I am hunting my son’s killer!” “You will not find him here.”

“Do not provoke me, sir!” “Resume your seat.”

“I am here before you. State your business.”

“Only when you sit down again.” Hamo remained on his feet to show his defiance. Ralph was peremptory. “Very well. We will adjourn this session, if you wish, and call you again tomorrow. On that occasion, the sheriff himself will be sent to fetch you. Show him the contempt you are showing us and you will not find him so lenient. Peter de Valognes would be only too happy for an excuse to place you under arrest.”

Hamo put a hand on the hilt of his sword but Jocelyn and Fulk quickly restrained him. They had a whispered conference with him and held up the documents that they carried. It was madness to institute a brawl when they had come to take part in a legal dispute that they were bound to win. Ralph Delchard was deliberately goading Hamo to bring out his choleric streak and throw him off guard. The most effective reply was to subject the commissioners to a crushing defeat in front of the whole town.

“Will you take your seat again, my lord?” said Ralph. “He will,” said Jocelyn, tugging at his father’s arm.

“We wish to begin the proceedings.”

Smouldering with anger, Hamo finally resumed his seat.

Ralph formally introduced each of his colleagues then called on Gervase Bret to read the list of charges. It was long and complex and it drew murmurs of approval from every part of the hall. The commissioners had been exhaustive in their researches. Hamo and Jocelyn listened with motionless expressions but Fulk could not resist a sly smile. The accusations were exactly those set down in one of the documents in his sheaf. Gilbert Champeney had done them a good service when he robbed his guests of their satchel. Blackwater Hall could be attacked with words but there were no writs and charters to lend them any bite.

“This concludes the list of charges,” said Gervase. “As you have heard, it affects a large number of people in the town. If we can substantiate all these claims against my lord, Hamo, there will be restitution and compensation of a high order.”

The promise drew a muffled cheer from the audience but Hamo cut through it with a snarled accusation of his own.

“You have no evidence!”

“Canon Hubert will take up that point,” said Gervase. “Where is your proof?” demanded Hamo.

“The burden of proof is upon you, my lord,” said Hubert at his most stern and fearless. “When charges are levelled against you by royal commissioners, it is incumbent on you to answer them. We are not on trial here-you are. I realise that you are not closely acquainted with the law, because you have broken it in a hundred different ways …” He paused to allow the general laughter free rein. “… but it does impose a strict code of behaviour on you. We ask the questions. You will answer. As and when directed.”

“This idiot will keep us here all day!” moaned Hamo. “Are you referring to me?” said the indignant Hubert.

“No,” said Jocelyn, seeing the chance he wanted. He had come to demonstrate his skills and not just to sit there with his father’s helmet on his lap. His voice rang out. “You must forgive my father. He is anxious to continue the search for my brother’s killer. Beside that outrage, these claims of yours are petty and absurd. They can be dealt with very quickly.”

“I beg leave to doubt that,” warned Hubert. “Let us take the first charge in your list.” “We intend to.”

“It concerns the annexation of three hides of land formerly owned by Robert of Verly,” said Jocelyn without even referring to his documents. “We can refute this insulting allegation at once. That property was not annexed at all. It was given to us by deed of gift.”

“It is still held by Robert of Verly’s subtenant.”

“Produce him and he will swear in our favour.”

“I am sure that he would,” agreed Hubert. “Under duress. Fear will make a man swear to anything and we have found a lot of fear in Maldon. But we do not need to rely upon the testimony of a subtenant when we have the charter that originally granted this land to Robert of Verly.”

“Show it to us,” challenged Jocelyn. “If you can!” said Hamo with a grin.

“Give us a sight of this famous document.”

“We will.”

Canon Hubert picked up the rolls of parchment that lay scattered before him and pretended to search through them. He nudged Brother Simon and the two of them hunted for the relevant charter with increasing dismay. Hamo was now chuckling aloud and Fulk sniggered but Jocelyn retained his poise. He was growing into his role with every second and determined to make his impact felt. Disappointment and discontent spread through the hall. They had come to see the ravens of Blackwater caged by the law, not to be set free with even more ravenous appetites. Obviously, the charter could not be found. The hunt became more frenetic.

Jocelyn leaned forward with a smile of polite mockery.

“Would you like us to help you in the search?”

“There is no need,” said Gervase Bret, bringing a sheet of parchment from the satchel that lay at his feet. “I have the appropriate charter here.”

“But that is impossible!” exclaimed Jocelyn. “Examine it if you doubt its authenticity.”

“It bears the royal seal,” indicated Canon Hubert. “We were given it by Robert of Verly himself.”

“Step forward and see it for yourselves,” said Gervase.

“Yes,” added Ralph with a smirk. “Compare it with the version that you carry in your own satchel. I think you will find that they match each other word for word. But we have the genuine charter and not the clever forgery.”

Hamo stirred, Jocelyn blanched, and Fulk began to stammer. All three of them swung round to search the ranks of faces behind them for the one that had so comprehensively betrayed them. Gilbert Champeney stood up obligingly and gave them a cheerful wave. Instead of stealing documents from the commissioners, he had been working in collusion with them. Hamo FitzCorbucion was caught in a trap from which even his son could not rescue him and it made him seethe with fury.

“Forgive the delay,” said Canon Hubert, taking control once more. “Here is the charter, as you may see. We have documentary proof of every illegality that has taken place and sworn statements to support

them. Twenty years of theft and fraud have been uncovered here and it will take time to go through each instance. Bear with us while we do so and a great oppression will be lifted from this town.” He used his pulpit voice. “Good always triumphs over evil in the end.”

A cheer went up and Canon Hubert acknowledged it with a lordly smile. He performed best before an audience and felt he had been right to allow the public into the session. Hamo was now impaled by the law in front of him. It was time to exact full and uncompromising punishment.

“To return to the first charge …”

“No!”

Hamo jumped to his feet, pulled out his sword, and used it to sweep all the charters from the table. He was not going to sit there quietly and listen to the catalogue of his crimes. He would do what he had always done and fight his way out of trouble. Turning on the audience, he swung his sword in a circle above his head.

“Out of my way!” he yelled. “I’ll kill the first man who dares to block my path!”

Panic ensued. Benches were knocked over, heads cracked, and bodies sent flying. Everyone fought to get out of his way. A gap opened up down the centre of the hall and Hamo stalked up it with his weapon still flailing. No man was brave enough to stand in his way.

“Stop!”

A boy of fifteen had all the courage that was needed. He dropped onto the floor from the rafters and held up his sword. Hamo halted in astonishment then let out a bellow of rage as he recognised the sturdy figure who confronted him.

“Wistan!”

“Yes,” said the boy proudly. “Son of Algar.” “Wistan!”

The swords clashed immediately. Hamo saw the killer of his son and Wistan saw his father’s persecutor. As the metal clanged and the bodies grappled, everyone else pushed away in blind terror. Ralph Delchard tried in vain to get to the combatants to separate them but even his strength could not force a path through the swirling crowd. The fight, in any case, was soon over. Wistan had youth on his side and a burning need for revenge but they were not enough to overcome the skills of a veteran soldier. Hamo held the boy in a grip of steel, spat in his face, twisted the sword from his hand, then flung him to the floor. The boy lay spread-eagled helplessly as Hamo lifted his sword in both hands in order to jab it down with full force into his chest. But the weapon never reached its target.

“Wistan!”

The name had been enough to ignite the spirit of Tovild the Haunted. When his brave compatriot fell, he had to fight on to keep the invader at bay. Saxon pride compelled him to win the Battle of Maldon once and forever.

“Wistan!”

With every ounce of his remaining strength, he thrust with his spear at the advancing enemy. Hamo was about to bring his sword down for the kill when the point of Tovild’s blade went clean through his unguarded neck and out through the back. Blood spurted wildly. There was a loud gurgle of pain and outrage, then the lord of the manor of Blackwater fell backward to the floor with terrifying finality.

Resignation was alien to the character of Miles Champeney. He could never simply accept defeat with a philosophical shrug. His harsh reception at Blackwater Hall had hurt his pride but it had not weakened his determination to rescue Matilda from her imprisonment in her own home. He wanted to go straight back to the house and force his way in, but common sense told him that this was a forlorn hope. He had to be far more careful next time. Although he had nobody to take a message to his beloved, he had her servant to give him advice about the habits of the household and the best way to penetrate its defences. The man had even more cause to help him now. But for the kind intercession of Miles’s father, the servant would still be locked away in what might well have turned out to be his tomb. Loyal to Matilda, the man also owed allegiance to the Champeneys.

Loyalty was something that now troubled Miles himself. His father’s opposition to the match had been distressing but it had also strength-ened his resolve. When he had ridden out from Champeney Hall in the night, he had experienced few qualms at turning his back on a man who was so hostile to his choice of bride. Filial duty had been cast aside by the urgency of his love. Now it was different. Gilbert Champeney had shown a father’s devotion when he came to bargain for the freedom of his son. Given the fact that he was also bearing forged documents, he had acted with considerable coolness and tenacity, even to the extent of securing the release of the blameless messenger. Yet Miles was planning to betray the old man once again, to steal away in the night in order to free Matilda from custody.

There seemed to be no way to reconcile the conflicting loyalties. His love of his father was strong but it paled beside his devotion to Matilda. She was being blamed for the faults of her family. The name of FitzCorbucion was like the mark of a leper upon her. Miles shook off his feelings of guilt. His own needs were paramount. He had to devise a plan to get into the house at a time when they would least expect him and that required the connivance of the servant. A plan had to be set in motion at once. He went off in search of the man but could not find him anywhere in the house. Miles came out into the courtyard and crossed to the stables.

He was about to call out for the servant when he was distracted. A lone figure was riding slowly towards the house in the middle distance. He thought at first that it must be his father, returning from a morning at the shire hall, but the posture of the rider and the gentle gait of the horse soon changed his mind. It was a woman. When she got closer, Miles saw that it was a young woman. For a moment, he could not believe what he was looking at and blinked in wonderment. He could recognise her profile, her attire, even her palfrey. She waved to him. He had spent all that time trying to plot her rescue and Matilda FitzCorbucion was now coming towards him. It was the answer to a prayer. Miles let out a gasp of joy and sprinted across the grass to meet her, grabbing the bridle of her horse, then catching her in his arms when she dropped down to him.

They held each other in a fierce embrace and kissed away the long separation. Miles Champeney did not know whether to laugh or cry as he clutched her to him.

“How on earth did you escape?” he asked. “I went to church.”

“Church?”

“Yes,” she said. “Father Oslac looked the other way.”

Prioress Mindred was in her quarters with Sister Lewinna when the bell rang, trying to still the nun’s waywardness with some kind words of advice and suggesting that the homely wisdom of Aesop’s Fables should be supplemented with a study of Aldhelm’s De Virginitate. Visitors were not expected. Sister Lewinna was sent to answer the door and returned breathlessly with the news that Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were insisting on another interview with the prioress. Mindred composed herself and told the young nun to conduct the visitors in to her. Sister Lewinna obeyed at once then left the three of them alone.

The guests were invited to sit down and the prioress lowered herself into her chair. Having believed that she had routed them, she was disturbed by their return and by the quiet determination of their manner.

“We are sorry to intrude once more,” said Ralph, “but it was unavoidable. We believe that what we are seeking is within the walls of this convent, after all.”

“I thought I dealt with all your enquiries,” she said.

“You did, my lady prioress, but there was something that you held back from us, something of crucial importance.” She shifted uneasily on her chair. “Before we come to that, however, there is something you should know because it has a bearing on our visit. Hamo FitzCorbucion is dead.”

“Dead!” She was aghast. “When did this happen?”

Ralph gave a terse account of events at the shire hall that morning and explained that Tovild the Haunted had been taken into custody by the sheriff. The circumstances had forced a postponement of their own deliberations and enabled them to address themselves to a related problem. Hamo had been killed by a mad old man, but his son’s murderer was still at large and had to be brought to justice. Prioress Mindred listened with evident discomfort and steeled herself.

“St. Oswald brought us back here,” said Ralph. “He has helped us just as he once helped you. Gervase will explain.”

“That chalice gave us a link with Blackwater Hall,” said Gervase. “When we put a chalice and a raven together, we had the emblem of St. Benedict and that seemed to sit easily on a Benedictine house like this. But St. Oswald has an emblem as well.”

“Raven and ring,” she said dully.

“That is what the chalice was,” said Gervase. “A ring. It was a token of love given by Guy FitzCorbucion to Sister Tecla. It was the most valuable thing he possessed and he offered it to her in order to win her favours. Other ladies succumbed readily to his charms, it seems, but Sister Tecla-or Tecla, as she then was-held him at bay until he gave her a promise of marriage.”

“The chalice was that promise,” said Ralph.

“A ring to mark their betrothal,” continued Gervase. “When she submitted to him, he soon tired of her and demanded the return of his gift. Tecla refused but she knew that she could not hold out against a FitzCorbucion. She fled to the only place of refuge-this priory.”

Mindred let out a cry of alarm and crossed herself.

“There was a slight complication,” said Gervase softly. “She was carrying his child. I do not know what happened to it, but I suspect that she lost it. You spoke earlier of her physical collapse and of her spiritual deterioration. I believe that came in the wake of the baby’s death.”

“Go on,” she murmured.

“The chalice had been a ring to confirm her betrothal but Guy had forsaken her. It then became the baby she had lost. She pined for it at Barking Abbey. When you took the chalice to her, she was like a child with a doll.”

Tears formed in the prioress’s eyes. She did not sob with anguish on her own account but wept quietly for the pain of another. She stood up and crossed to the window to gaze into the garden. After a moment she beckoned them across with a gesture and they came to stand beside her. The picture that they saw supplied its own explanation. Sister Tecla was in the far corner of the garden. It was the place where Sister Gunnhild had found her sleeping one night and where Wistan had watched the young nun kiss the ground. Tecla

was kneeling at the same spot again now and watering it gently with a can.

“The child miscarried,” explained Mindred. “We buried it where

Sister Tecla now kneels. It was a difficult time.” She turned to face them. “We saved her life. If she had not come to us, Tecla would have died of grief. She told me about the child but she would never admit who the father was. I accepted that chalice in the belief that it was her own.” She glanced through the window again. “In a sense, it was. I see now why Tecla revered it so much. She clung to it so desperately because it was the only proof she had that he had once loved her. When he was killed, the chalice took on even more significance for her. Sister Tecla has been desolate since it was sent back to Blackwater.”

“It had great significance for Guy FitzCorbucion as well,” said Gervase. “His mother bequeathed it to him. He knew how angry his father would be if it was found to be missing. He sent his men to ambush you and steal that chalice. Before they returned, he was murdered.” “I do not understand,” she said with a shrug. “How did he know that I was travelling with that chalice?”

“Someone told him,” explained Ralph. “It was the same person who arranged to meet him in the marshes. She felt there was only one way to rid Sister Tecla of the menace of Guy FitzCorbucion. She killed him.”

The prioress shuddered. “She?”

“Sister Gunnhild,” said Gervase. “With this.”

He produced the knife, winch had been given to him by Tovild, and held it out to her. Mindred started. It looked very much like one of the priory’s own kitchen utensils. She fought hard to rebut the idea that one of the holy sisters could actually commit a murder, but the evidence was too strong and it could be buttressed by things that she herself had noticed about Sister Gunnhild-not least the Danish nun’s obsessive attachment to Sister Tecla. Shame would descend on the convent if it were known to harbour a murderer but Prioress Mindred did not hesitate. She snatched up a little silver bell from the table and opened the door. When she shook the bell hard, the urgent noise brought Sister Lewinna hurtling along the passageway.

“Go and fetch Sister Gunnhild!” ordered Mindred.

“She is not here, Reverend Mother,” said Lewinna. “When I told her who your guests were, she ran straight out through the door. It was most unseemly behaviour for someone who has always criticised me.”

The two men came quickly across to her. “Which way did she go?” asked Ralph.

“I do not know, my lord.”

“She cannot hope to outrun you,” said Mindred.

“I’ll get my men and start a search,” said Ralph. “She is very distinctive and they will soon track her down.”

“No,” said Gervase, thinking. “She is not trying to escape.”

“Then where has she gone?” asked Ralph. “I will show you.”

Sister Gunnhild was on the point of exhaustion by the time that she reached the marshes. She felt no contrition for what she had done and even had a momentary sensation of triumph when she came to the place where it had happened. Sister Tecla was a young and vulnerable woman who had been yet another victim of Guy FitzCorbucion’s lust. The young nun would refuse to name the father of her child but Gunnhild had discovered who it was. She was in charge of the convent while the prioress was travelling to Barking Abbey where Sister Tecla had been taken to recover from her traumas. Guy FitzCorbucion had arrived at the priory and demanded the return of his chalice, threatening to ransack the place if it were not handed over. She was forced to tell him where it was and her resentment had boiled over. It was not the first time she had suffered at the hands of an aggressive man.

Gunnhild walked to the bank of the river estuary. It was there that she had arranged to meet Guy FitzCorbucion. She knew that he would have to come. Her letter had been explicit. If he did not obey her summons, she would tell his father about the use to which the precious family heirloom had been put. Guy responded at once to the threat of blackmail, intending either to bully her out of it or buy her off. The last thing he was expecting was a murderous attack. Gunnhild smiled as she looked at the place where she had thrown him in.

A harsh sound shattered through her reverie. Two horses were galloping towards her. Sister Gunnhild jumped into the river and waded through the reed beds before flinging herself forward into the deeper water. Weighed down by her sodden habit, she sank quickly beneath the surface. Ralph Delchard was the first to reach the scene, reining in his horse and leaping from the saddle to run to the bank. Overcoming his hatred of water, he plunged straight into the river and threshed his way towards her. In an emergency, Ralph could indeed swim. The nun had already swallowed a lot of water and was failing fast but she still had one last reserve of strength left. As Ralph came splashing up in an attempt to save her, she lashed out an arm to fight him off. He tried to overpower her but he was encumbered by his attire and could not master her sudden ferocity.

In the hectic struggle to subdue her, Ralph grabbed hold of her wimple but she twisted her head violently away from him. Hood and wimple came away in his hands and her whole head was exposed to view. Ralph let go of her in surprise. Sister Gunnhild was almost totally bald. Tufts of grey hair ran down the sides of her head but they could not hide the ugly wounds where both ears had been cut completely away. She sank beneath the water again and he tried to pull her back to the surface. Gervase had now swum out to assist him but their efforts were too late. When the mutilated head reappeared above the water again, Sister Gunnhild had the smile of a woman who had finally escaped from the ordeal of men.