Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Four

Baldon priory was a recent foundation, which had blended so quickly and so easily into its surroundings that it seemed always to have been there. The regular tolling of its little bell was almost as familiar a sound in the town as the incessant cries of its gulls and it was taken for granted in the same way. Some nunneries were simply a part of double-houses and Mass was celebrated by a resident staff of chaplains under the supervision of a chapter priest, but the priory was essentially a female enclave. There were those who maintained that women should be spared the full rigours of the Benedictine Order with its regime of self-denial and its emphasis on the importance of manual labour. Prioress Mindred did not share this view and made few concessions to soften the lives of her nuns. Eight times a day, they entered the miniscule chapel to sing the sequence of offices and each one of them accepted Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule with its unequivocal stipulation-“Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Therefore, the brothers should work with their hands at fixed times of day, and at other fixed times should read sacred works.” What was prescribed for the brothers, the prioress believed, should also apply to holy sisters. They, too, had souls.

“Has all been well in my absence, Sister Gunnhild?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“Have you met with any problems?”

“None.”

“No misbehaviour to report?”

“Not while I have been in charge here.”

Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with the stout Sister Gunnhild, who was far and away the most senior and experienced nun at the convent. Gunnhild was a Dane and old enough to remember when a Danish King, Cnut, sat on the throne of England and ruled the country with a mixture of harsh statute and Christian precept. She had been a bride of Christ infinitely longer than Mindred herself and was far more qualified for the office of prioress, but she did not dwell on that thought and instead bent herself readily to the latter’s command. Lady Mindred was the widow of a Saxon nobleman, who had left her with substantial wealth and a deep emptiness at the centre of her existence. Since it was her money that founded the priory, she was the natural choice as its first mother and she was delighted when the Abbess of Barking assigned Sister Gunnhild to Maldon to assist her. Mindred’s high ideals and Gunnhild’s practical experience were a potent combination.

“We are pleased to have you back, Reverend Mother.” “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”

“How did you find them all at Barking?”

“In good spirits. The abbess sends you her love.”

“I hope you conveyed mine to her,” said Gunnhild.

“To her and to the holy sisters. You are greatly missed there.” The prioress smiled. “But what they have lost, we have certainly gained. You are a foundation stone, Gunnhild.”

“I serve God in the way that He chooses for me.” “You are an example to us all.”

“So are you, Reverend Mother.”

Gunnhild’s face was still so hidden by her wimple that only her nose and eyes could be properly seen. Some of those who had come to the priory were still too bound up in the vanities of the world and they had to be taught to neglect their beauty, conceal their hair, and subdue any bodily charms behind the black anonymity of their habits. The severity of a Gunnhild was the desired target to which all the sisters-with greater or lesser degrees of success-endeavoured to aim, but not all of them were fired with the same devotion as the Danish nun. Some had resorted to the cloister because they could find no earthly bridegroom or because they needed a refuge from the continuing turmoil of Norman occupation. Prioress Mindred-herself a late convert to the notion of living in a religious house-was determined to allow no laxity in her tiny community and to turn her nuns into truly spiritual beings, whatever their original motives for taking the veil. In this work, as in every other aspect of the daily round at the priory, Sister Gunnhild’s help was absolutely crucial.

A scrunching noise took their attention to the window, which looked out on the garden. They caught a glimpse of bodies bent in toil with rake and hoe. Noblewomen who had never before done manual work of any kind were going about their allotted tasks in the warm sunshine. There was the faintest whisper of complacence in Mindred’s voice.

“We are moving forward,” she said. “We had to employ carpenters to build this priory and some masons to erect the chapel but our holy sisters have created the garden out of a wilderness. Our kitchens already cook vegetables that we have grown ourselves and our own fruit trees will yield their harvest in a year or two.” She glanced across at the embroidered portrait, which hung on the wall. “St. Benedict was right. Idleness is truly the enemy of the soul.”

“Work has its own dignity,” said Gunnhild humbly, “and women may learn its value in the same way as men.”

“Work and study. It is the perfect life for all.” She indicated the books that lay on the table beside her. “We brought these gifts back from Abbess Aelfgiva. They will enrich our minds and provide spiritual nourishment.”

“May I see them, Reverend Mother?”

“Please do.”

“Our library is expanding,” said Gunnhild, picking up the books one by one in her pudgy fingers to examine them. “These are exceptional gifts. I look forward to being able to peruse these works in detail. They are suitable additions to our stock and will guide the minds of our holy sisters in the right direction. Especially Sister Lewinna.”

“Sister Lewinna?”

“I caught her reading Aesop’s Fables again.” “That is no disgrace. I donated the copy myself.” “Sister Lewinna was laughing.”

“Aesop has a strong sense of humour.”

“There is no place for laughter here,” said Gunnhild earnestly. “I had to impress that upon Lewinna. She still has much to learn. Aesop was no Christian and his tales of animals may lead a lighter mind astray.”

Prioress Mindred did not entirely agree but she had no wish to take issue with Sister Gunnhild. The library helped to shape the character of the nuns. Lady Mindred was an educated widow who had presented an English translation of Aesop because she felt its harmless stories embodied eternal truths about the human condition. Gunnhild was a cultured nun who had read the author in the original Greek and found it streaked with a levity she thought unbecoming. It was one small instance of the differences that existed, at a deep and largely unacknowledged level, between the two women.

There was work to do. During her absence, the prioress had left all the administrative chores to Gunnhild but she now had to take up the reins herself. It was time to go through the priory account book, a volume of such functional solemnity that it was in no danger of provoking Aesopian amusement. As Gunnhild took her place at the table beside her prioress, she touched on a subject that had caused her deep anxiety.

“Sister Tecla has told me of your ordeal,” she said. “It was most unfortunate.”

“The world is not safe when holy nuns can be set upon by a band of

robbers. I beg of you not to stir from here again unless it be with a larger escort.”

“The journey was imperative, Sister Gunnhild.” “I appreciate that.”

“And we did have the strong arm of St. Oswald to guard us on our way home. He saved our lives.” “God bless the noble saint!” “Honest men came to our rescue.” “So I heard from Sister Tecla.”

“They were kind and considerate to us,” said Mindred as she recalled me commissioners. “I am a true Saxon with a natural fear of Norman soldiers but nobody could have offered us finer protection or more congenial company.”

“Perhaps too congenial.” “Why do you say that?”

“Out of concern for Sister Tecla.” Gunnhild voiced her criticism in tones of complete humility. “It is not for me to question your decisions, Reverend Mother, because my duty is to obey at all times and I do so willingly. When these men came to your aid, it was natural for you to express your thanks and accept their protection. But Sister Tecla should not have been exposed to conversation with them. She took the veil to avoid the world of men and she was distressed by the closeness of their questioning.”

“She did not complain to me.”

“Sister Tecla preferred to suffer in silence.” “Is that what she told you, Sister Gunnhild?”

“Not in so many words,” admitted the other, “but that is what has emerged. I saw the young man who brought you back to the priory. He troubled her. I sensed it. He helped her down from her horse too readily.”

“Only after he had helped me,” said the prioress. “His name is Gervase Bret and he was charming.”

The word slipped out before she could stop it and it brought a momentary flash of disgust into Gunnhild’s eyes.

“Charming?” she repeated dully.

It sounded like an obscenity on her lips and had even less place in a convent than a copy of Aesop’s Fables. Yet another hidden difference between the two of them had briefly surfaced. Although Mindred had committed herself totally to the religious life, she had not yet expunged all traces of her former existence. One word had proved that. She could still take pleasure in male company and find the attraction of a young man worth an admiring comment. It was inappropriate and she regretted it at once. To cover her embarrassment, she opened the account book and pretended to read through the latest entries.

Sister Gunnhild was able to apply some gentle pressure. “We must do all we can to help Sister Tecla over this.”

“I will pray with her.”

“It may take more man prayer, Reverend Mother.’’

Prioress Mindred could see what she was being asked. Sister Gunnhild was in an attitude of submission but she was still applying tender force. Her exaggerated humility could be a strong weapon and the prioress was for once unable to deflect it by asserting her own authority. A silent battle of power went on for a couple of minutes before Mindred eventually capitulated.

“Very well,” she said. “You must look after her.”

Sister Gunnhild was content.

Ralph Delchard took a cheerfully irreverent view of those in ecclesiastical office and it made his relationship with men like Canon Hubert one of fluctuating tensions. As a Norman soldier whose life had been shaped by victory on the field of battle, he also had a haughty dis-regard for the conquered Saxons and considered their language, customs, and appearance to be markedly inferior to those of his own nation. Oslac the Priest disarmed him completely. Here was an ecclesiastic whom it was impossible to deride and a Saxon whom it was difficult to dislike. Ralph could not but admire the man’s bearing, forthright manner, and ability to look anyone in the eye. He had none of the awkward deference or dumb insolence of his compatriots. Conquest had not subdued him in any way. It had simply altered the circumstances in which he lived. Oslac had the kind of flinthard integrity that no invading army could destroy.

They walked the short distance from the shire hall to the Church of All Souls’ and found the priest alone in his vestry. The town reeve had told them that the body of Guy FitzCorbucion lay in the mortuary chapel. It was enough to take Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret there in search of information about the murder. They introduced themselves to Oslac and were given a cordial welcome. Although he had not been at the meeting, the priest seemed to know everything that had transpired in the shire hall that afternoon.

“You have given the people of Maldon some hope,” he said affably. “That is a rare commodity in this town.”

“We are here to dispense justice,” said Ralph.

“That, too, has been in short supply of late.” He waved them to the bench, which stood against the wall in the little vestry, then waited till they were seated. “How may I help you?” he offered.

“We are interested in this case of murder,” said Ralph.

“So is the whole town, my lord. Guy FitzCorbucion was a forceful young man. He made his presence felt in every way. His death has set tongues wagging all over Maldon.”

“With delight, from what I hear.” “That is not for me to say.”

“Is the name of the murderer known?” “Not for certain, my lord.”

“Jocelyn FitzCorbucion seemed to think it was.”

“He was referring to the boy.” “What boy?”

“Wistan, son of Algar.” Oslac rested himself against the edge of the table and chose his words with care. “You will not need to be told that Blackwater Hall is the manor house of Hamo FitzCorbucion. He rules his demesne with firmness and his elder son, Guy, did like-wise in his absence. One of the slaves on the estate was stricken with the ague. I myself was called to Algar and tried to arrest his fever with medicines but his condition was too serious. A sick man is unable to work. He was reported to Guy FitzCorbucion.”

“Who punished him for laziness,” guessed Ralph.

“Yes, my lord,” said Oslac. “I was not there myself so I have only the word of eyewitnesses but they all vouch the same. The order was given to tie Algar up so that he could be whipped. His diseased old body would have been cut to shreds. He tried to fight back but Guy was far too strong for him. Algar died.”

“Died-or was murdered?”

“The steward assured me that it was an accident.”

“He would,” said Ralph. “I believe I met the fellow at the shire hall and set him down for a liar on sight. How many other accidents have there been at Blackwater Hall?”

“This is not the first, my lord.”

Ralph’s ire was roused. “Guy FitzCorbucion intended to murder this wretch with the end of a whip but did it with his own hands instead. How does it sound to you, Gervase?”

“It could be argued that he killed in self-defence.”

“A fit young man against a fever-ridden slave?” Ralph turned to

Oslac again. “Was there no cure for his ague?”

“None, my lord. He would have died within a week.”

“But Guy helped him on his way,” he smacked his thigh in disgust. “This is brave work indeed! I have no sympathy for a slave who attacks a master. Underlings must know their place. But this is something of a different order. I would not treat a dog the way that Guy treated this poor man.”

“You mentioned a son,” recalled Gervase. “Wistan. A boy of fifteen.”

“Was he present?”

“Yes,” said Oslac with a sigh. “Wistan was forced to witness it all. Such a tragedy was bound to etch itself deeply in his young mind and foster great bitterness. He was vengeful, that cannot be denied. I counselled acceptance of what had happened but he would not hear me. Wistan is a strong-willed boy. He vowed to kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”

“And did he?” asked Gervase. “I honestly cannot say.”

“What does your instinct tell you?” said Ralph.

“No,” decided the priest without hesitation. “Wistan is innocent.” “Guilty of the wish but innocent of the deed.”

“Yes, my lord.” He gave a shrug. “But I could be wrong.”

Ralph leaned back and appraised the man. Oslac had been careful not to take sides. The death of Guy FitzCorbucion was being welcomed as a boon by almost every other Saxon in the town, but the priest had room in his heart both for the slave whom he had buried a week earlier and for the young Norman who had killed him and who now lay on the stone slab in his mortuary. There was nothing sanc-timonious about Oslac the Priest. He was a practical Christian who served all his parishioners with undiscriminating care. Nor were his duties confined to the church itself. He not only conducted regular services in Latin and preached on occasion to his congregation, but he also tended the sick, relieved the poor, heard confession, arbi-trated in disputes between neighbours, and acted as a reassuring wall against common fears of hell and damnation. Oslac was a friend, guide, and-until the Conquest robbed him of his land-a fellow farmer to the whole community. He refused to sit in judgement, even on such an incorrigible sinner as Guy FitzCorbucion.

“I have a favour to ask of you,” said Ralph, getting to his feet. “May

we view the body?”

“I fear not, my lord.”

“It would take no more than a minute.”

“It is not a favour I am in a position to grant,” said Oslac. “You would need the permission of the family before you could be allowed into the mortuary.”

“They would certainly refuse.” “Without question.”

Ralph changed his tack. “This is important to us. It may have serious implications for our work here in Maldon. We would appreciate your help.” He gave a confiding smile. “The family would not have to know about it.”

“I would know, my lord,” said Oslac firmly. “That is why I may not permit it. I guard that body as a sacred trust.”

“We have no right whatsoever to trespass on that,” conceded Gervase in a conciliatory tone. “But you have seen the body, Father Oslac, and that may be enough.”

“In what way?”

“To begin with, you can tell us the cause of death.” “A knife wound through the heart.”

“In his chest or in his back?”

“Both. There were fifteen stab wounds in all.”

“A most thorough assassin,” noted Ralph. “How long had Guy been dead when his body was found?”

“It is impossible to say with any accuracy.”

“If you had to make a guess …”

“Two, maybe three days,” said Oslac. “My work here has made me closely acquainted with death and it has distinctive marks. When a body lies in water for any length of time, a number of things happen to it. First of all-”

“Omit the details,” interrupted Ralph with a squeamish expression,

not wishing to hear about the destructive properties of water. “A time is all we need. Two or three days?”

“That is what I would estimate.” “Who found the body?” said Gervase. “Brunloc. A fisherman.”

“Could we speak to him?” “If you wish.”

“Where could we find him?”

“Out in his boat, most of the time.”

“This is work for you, Gervase,” said Ralph quickly. “I will not venture near the sea except by compulsion. I have no love for surging waves.”

“The sea is over ten miles away, my lord,” said Oslac. “Your gulls tell me otherwise.”

“Meet Brunloc at the Hythe,” suggested the priest. “I can arrange that for you.”

“We accept that offer with gratitude,” said Gervase. “A moment ago, you told us you did not think that Wistan was the killer of Guy FitzCorbucion.”

“I also told you that I could be wrong.” “Is the boy capable of murder?”

“Indeed, he is. Wistan felt he had just cause. And he did run away once the corpse was discovered. That brought suspicion down on his head.” Oslac gave it some more thought then reaffirmed his instinct. “But I still feel that this is not his doing.”

“Why?”

“Because Wistan would strike in anger. A wild assault. And there is clear calculation in this attack.”

“Calculation?” said Ralph. “The body was mutilated.” “Fifteen stab wounds, you said.’”

“There was something else, my lord.”

“Well?” Ralph saw the man’s reluctance and tried to overcome it with a softer tone. “Something else?”

The priest threw a glance towards the mortuary. “I would not have this voiced abroad,” he insisted.

“You have our word on that,” promised Gervase.

“The truth has even been kept from Guy’s own sister.” “We will not breathe it to a soul,” vowed Ralph.

“That is vital.” Oslac studied the two men closely until he was sure that he could trust them. They were royal commissioners who had been selected by the Conqueror himself for a complex mission and that said much about their character and their quality. There was also a sense of candour about them, which appealed to the priest. In a town where deceit and prevarication were found at every turn, it was refreshing to meet two people with such a clear-eyed commitment to truth. Oslac knew he could put his faith in them and he lowered his voice before continuing. “When the body was found,” he explained, “it had been stripped of much of its clothing.”

“What form did the mutilation take?” said Gervase. “He was castrated.”

There was a long and uneasy pause as the visitors absorbed this new intelligence and tried to wonder at its meaning. They plied Oslac with further questions but there was nothing more that he was able or prepared to add. When they pressed him for the names of other possible suspects, he refused to point a finger at anyone. His task was to bring some comfort to the bereaved family and not to indulge in speculation about the identity of the killer. They respected his position and thanked him for the help that he had been able to give. Oslac showed them out and walked through the little cemetery with them. The priory bell began to toll in the distance and it unlocked a memory.

“You were mentioned in prayers,” he said. “Prioress Mindred and her sisters were intensely grateful for the protection you gave them on their journey. God’s blessing was called down upon you.”

Ralph grinned. “I can think of other ways in which the nuns could have shown their thanks but they may not fall within the rules of the Benedictine Order.”

“I am certain of it,” said Gervase crisply, then turned to the priest. “You visited the priory?”

“I do so on a regular basis to take Mass.” “Then you know its inner workings.”

“I know only what they wish me to know,” replied Oslac. “And that is as it should be. A convent of holy sisters is a community that looks inward and needs no interference from outside. They accept me at the priory but they administer it entirely by themselves.”

“Prioress Mindred seems a capable woman,” said Gervase. “Extremely capable.”

“I was more impressed by Sister Tecla,” opined Ralph. “Even in her nun’s attire, she struck me as a most attractive young woman and her voice was bewitching. What makes such a lovely creature as that turn her back on the world?”

“The call from God.”

“I wish she had heard my call first.”

“You must forgive Ralph,” said Gervase quickly. “He is unaccustomed to the meaning of a spiritual life.”

His colleague beamed. “Sister Tecla must instruct me.”

“She has other preoccupations,” said Oslac with a smile that showed he had taken no offence. “All ecclesiastical institutions have a special function to perform and the priory is no exception. It fulfills its purpose in the most striking way and I have nothing but praise for the holy sisters. They are all quite remarkable servants of God.”

“Does that include Sister Gunnhild?” asked Gervase. “Sister Gunnhild?”

“I met her when I arrived,” he said. “The lady was less than friendly

to me. Since I helped to escort her prioress and one of the sisters all the way back to Maldon, Sister Gunnhild might at least have shown a token of gratitude.”

“She thanked you in her prayers,” assured Oslac. “That was not the impression I received.”

“Do not worry about it, Gervase,” said Ralph jovially. “You cannot

expect your boyish appeal to win the heart of every woman. Sister Tecla fell in love with you-what more do you want? Forget this Sister Gunnhild.”

“I simply wished to know more about her,” said Gervase, unhappy at the teasing reference to Tecla. “The lady puzzled me, that is all. Her manner was peculiar.” He turned to the priest. “Can you tell us anything about her?”

“Gunnhild is a true Christian,” said Oslac.

“Of Danish stock, by the name.”

“Indeed, she is, though born and brought up in Maldon.” “What did I do that upset her so much?”

“You share a grievous fault with me, I fear.”

“With you, Father Oslac?”

The priest chuckled. “We are both men.”

“Does she hate the sex so violently?” asked Ralph.

“No,” said Oslac, “she just considers us irrelevant. A convent is by definition an exclusively female community and Sister Gunnhild sets great store by that.” He put a hand on his chest. “In my case, I have to confess, she has a further cause for disapproval.”

“What is that?” said Gervase.

“I am married.”

Ralph Delchard laughed in surprise and warmed even more to the man. He despised the whole notion of celibacy and was delighted to find that the Church of All Souls’ was served by a flesh-and-blood priest with the promptings common to normal human beings. Vows of chastity left a person with the bloodless pallor of a Brother Simon or the porcine sheen of a Canon Hubert Oslac the Priest, by contrast, had a ruddy complexion and a twinkle in his eye, both of which Ralph ascribed to the presence of a woman in his bed at nights. Gervase Bret took even more interest in the news because it mirrored his own intent. It was love of Alys that had made him abandon his novitiate at Eltham Abbey and it was the prospect of marriage to her that gave his life such joy and direction. Gervase was touched by Oslac’s readiness to confide in them.

“You are a bold man,” he said. “Archbishop Lanfranc has attacked

clerical marriage.”

“Archbishop Lanfranc is a monk.”

“He frowns upon relations with the fairer sex.”

“The Archbishop of Canterbury is a great man who serves a great king,” said Oslac, “and he has made substantial improvements to the Church since he was appointed. I am more than willing to accept his rulings on almost everything else but I will not divorce my wife because of his frown. My own father was a married priest and I inherited this benefice from him. I am hopeful that my son will take over here from me in due course.”

“Your son?” said Ralph. “You have children?” “Four.”

“No wonder Sister Gunnhild dislikes you!” said Gervase.

They shared a communal laugh. It was time to leave Maldon and ride back to Champeney Hall but the two commissioners were glad that they had taken the trouble to meet Oslac the Priest. His help was invaluable. Their host had showered them with information about the town and its personalities while Gilbert Champeney dealt only in gossip and anecdote. Oslac’s comments were at once more interesting and reliable. He lived at the very heart of the community in every sense and was thus more intimately acquainted with its nuances of behaviour. They liked him and resolved to call on him again before they finally departed from Maldon.

Ralph had been toying with the idea of asking about the origin of Humphrey’s nickname but the nature of Guy FitzCorbucion’s mutilation had somehow deprived him of that urge. A question that would in any case be improper to a priest had now become severely distaste-ful as well so Ralph mastered his curiosity. Instead, it was Gervase who sought elucidation.

“Do you know a man called Tovild?” he asked.

“I know three or four by that name,” replied Oslac. “This one is unusual.”

“Then you are asking about Tovild the Haunted.” Gervase was pleased. “You know him?”

“Of course. We all know Tovild the Haunted.” “Who is he?”

“As harmless an old man as you could wish to meet.”

“But where did he get his name?” asked Ralph. “Put Gervase out of his misery, I beg you, or I will have no respite from his ceaseless prattle about this Tovild the Haunted. Who is this fellow?”

“And what is it that haunts him?” said Gervase. Oslac gazed in the direction of Northey Island. “The Battle of Maldon.”

Dusk encouraged him to move more freely about the island. Wistan had now got through the best part of a second day without detection and it bred even more confidence in him. He was learning to think like a fugitive and to see the folly of trusting in a single hiding place. He needed a variety of cover so that he could shift easily from one burrow to another, then on again to a third or fourth, when they finally came for him. Therefore, Wistan chose a series of locations where thick undergrowth or favourable contours could be used for concealment, and he practised scurrying between them at full pelt. The playful exercise cheered him. Time passed and drained even more colour out of the cloudless sky.

Two problems vexed him. The first was the possible use of animals to track him down. Like all Norman barons, Hamo FitzCorbucion was immensely fond of hunting and he kept a pack of hounds to help him pursue deer and wild boar. Those dogs could just as easily be turned on a human quarry and Wistan could never kill fifty baying dogs with a knife and a desire for revenge. A tree would give him a degree of safety if he climbed high enough, but the hounds might sniff him out and he would be trapped. His only salvation lay in the River Blackwater and it was to the muddy coastline that he now turned his interest. Water did not bear scent. Hiding places in the shallows or among the reeds would even defeat the delicate nostrils of hunting dogs.

Wistan’s second problem was more serious. A fugitive could not himself be in pursuit of a prey. His lust for vengeance boiled inside him but it would not be satisfied as long as he stayed on Northey Island. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead but Hamo was the head of the family and Wistan had to execute him for his own father’s sake. Jocelyn, too, deserved to die because he bore a reviled name and because he stood by and watched Algar being humiliated by Guy. In his swirling rage, Wistan even wanted to destroy Matilda as well so that the entire FitzCorbucion family were obliterated from Blackwater Hall.

But how was he to do it? He could hardly expect Hamo or Jocelyn to come obligingly onto the island with no soldiers at their back. When they hunted him, they would do so in force and Wistan would be

lucky to see-let alone to get within striking distance-of the two men whose deaths he had sworn to bring about. If the ravens of Blackwater would not come on their own to him, then he would have to go to them. He had no idea how he could possibly do this without taking unnecessary risks, but a vague plan began to form and it so filled his mind with its daring that it made him unwary. He strolled towards the margin of the water as unguardedly as if he owned the whole island.

The noise of the spear awoke him at once and he flung himself on

his stomach in the reeds. Had he been seen? The soldier was clearly heading in his direction. Wistan cursed himself for being so careless. Two days of freedom had been thrown away in a second’s inat-tention. His knife jumped into his hand but it would be no match for the spear that had been hurled with force into a fallen log. The sound still reverberated in his ears. That same spear could impale him to the ground if he lay there motionless. He had to escape somehow. Pulling his knees forward, he raised himself slowly and peered over the swaying tops of the reeds. It was difficult to see anything in the twilight but he knew the soldier was still there. He could hear the clash of a sword on a shield and a guttural battle cry. Was the man summoning the rest of the hunting party? When would they unleash their attack?

Wistan was about to take to his heels when he noticed something that stilled his fears. The man was old. He moved slowly. What he put his sword into his belt and tried to pull the spear from the log, he could not at first dislodge the weapon. It took him a couple of minutes of tugging and twisting before the head of the spear consented to part company with the timber and, in doing so, it threw him right off balance. Wistan saw something else. The soldier was not, as he had imagined, in the mailed hauberk of a Norman knight. He wore a long woollen coat, belted at the waist and reaching to mid-thigh. His legs were encased in tight trousers and his shoes were made of leather. The Norman helm that Wistan thought he had seen was, in fact, a conical helmet of iron with a thick nasal. Spear and sword were heavy implements of war and the long oval shield was embossed with a simple design at its centre. Wistan was utterly baffled.

The old man charged on unsteady limbs towards an invisible enemy

and jabbed at the air with his spear. His war cry had been replaced by some kind of chant but the boy was too far away to pick out any of the words. Wistan’s main concern was that he had not given himself away. He was safe. This strange creature who fought a nonexistent battle in the fading light on Northey Island had not come in search of him, and he was certainly not a member of the FitzCorbucion retinue. He was not a Norman knight at all. What Wistan was looking at was a Viking warrior in full battle dress.

Tovild the Haunted was on the rampage once again.

The cook excelled himself. The meal that was served at Champeney Hall that evening was so rich and appetising that even Brother Simon could not refuse it all. Meat, fish, and poultry of the highest quality were placed before the visitors and the aroma alone was enough to make Canon Hubert’s mouth water with anticipation. Among a selec-tion of fine dishes, he found the grilled quail most to his liking and he munched his way through four of them between frequent sips of wine. For those who preferred it, ale that had been spiced and honeyed was also available. A whole array of pies and puddings was brought in to complete what had been a virtual banquet.

Gilbert Champeney had even arranged for minstrels to play at the far end of the hall so that the frugal nibbling of Brother Simon was accompanied by the strains of an Irish ham and the noisy gormandising of Canon Hubert was sweetened by the plangent harmonies of the lyre. At his host’s elbow, Ralph Delchard ate heartily and drank with enthusiasm while listening to Gilbert’s amiable chatter. Gervase Bret dined with his usual moderation and took the opportunity, when the repast was almost over, to converse with Miles Champeney. The young man was pleasant and well mannered but unaccountably reserved, and Gervase was not sure if this was due to a natural shyness or if his companion was seeking to hide something. Miles was patently not at ease. From time to time, he seemed to wince involuntarily as he overheard some snatch of his father’s banter. Gilbert Champeney clearly had the power to make his son squirm with embarrassment.

“We must congratulate your cook,” said Gervase.

“Father brought him over from Normandy,” said Miles. “He loves all things Saxon but he found their diet a little too plain and coarse.”

“Do you share his admiration for the Saxons?” “Not entirely.”

Gervase waited for an explanation that did not come. The young man sipped his wine watchfully and waited for the next question. It was evident that he himself would not initiate any conversation.

“Essex is a strange county,” observed Gervase. “Well over four hundred settlements were recorded by our predecessors yet you only have two of any size-Maldon and Colchester. Why is that, do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does it say something about the spirit of the people who live in this shire? Do they value their independence? Do they prefer life in a smaller community? Or is it to do with the geography of this part of the country?” He paused long enough to see that no answer was forthcoming and then he pressed on. “King William has not been kind to Essex.”

“Kind?”

Gervase smiled. “Perhaps one should not look for kindness in a conqueror,” he remarked, “but other shires have been treated with far less severity. Your father may love the Saxons but the King seems to have chosen Essex in order to show his hatred of them. Its history is one long tale of confiscation and loss. Did you know that less than one man in ten can now call himself free? Half the population of this county are mere bordars.”

Miles was noncommittal. “It is not my doing.” “One is bound to be sympathetic, surely?”

But Gervase could still not draw him out. Whatever his views on the subject, Miles Champeney was not prepared to share them with him. The father could not be stopped from burbling about the cumula-tive indignities suffered by the Saxon community in Essex, but the son had nothing whatsoever to add. Gervase sensed deliberate evasion and so he switched to a topic he was fairly certain would elicit some kind of comment from the taciturn young man.

“We saw you in the shire hall this afternoon.” “Did you?”

“Why did you attend?”

“Father asked me to accompany him.” “What did you think of the proceedings?” “They held my attention,” said Miles levelly.

Gervase began to fish. “As you heard, Blackwater Hall is one of our main concerns. Hamo FitzCorbucion has increased his holdings quite appreciably in the past twenty years and not always by legal means.” He looked artlessly at the other man. “How did he manage to get away with it?”

“That is for you to find out, Master Bret.”

“Is there nobody in the town to stand up to him?” “It appears not.”

“Everyone seems to loathe the FitzCorbucions. They have annexed land on every side of them and behaved as if they are the royal family of Maldon.” Gervase scrutinised the impassive face in front of him. “Is that why so few people mourn the death of Guy FitzCorbucion?”

Miles was enigmatic. “He was not popular.”

“I gathered that,” said Gervase. “In fact, when I read through all those names of dispossessed Saxons, I had the feeling that I was calling out a list of suspects.”

“Suspects?”

“For his murder. They all had a motive to kill him.” “Hamo is the lord of the manor and not Guy.”

“Of course,” said Gervase, “but his elder son seems to have excited even greater hostility for some reason. We have not heard a good word said about Guy FitzCorbucion since we arrived in Maldon.” He

cast his line into the water again. “Can you say anything in the young man’s favour?”

Miles was emphatic. “No,” he said.

“That conforms to the general feeling.” “I had no time for Guy.”

“Nor for Jocelyn, I noticed.” “Jocelyn?”

“You and he were highly displeased to see each other.” “I think you are mistaken about that.”

“Your manner could hardly be called friendly,” said Gervase. “In fact, it was downright-”

“Please excuse me,” said Miles, rising to his feet to terminate the exchange. “It is late.”

“Is there some particular animosity between you?” “I am tired. I need my rest.”

Miles Champeney spoke with politeness but there was no mistak-ing the glint of anger in his eyes. Gervase was deeply annoyed with himself. He had been too heavy-handed in his questioning and frightened the young man away. When Miles took his leave of the company and headed for the door, he shot a hurt look back at his interrogator. The father might be thrilled to have the royal commissioners under his roof but the son did not extend the same welcome. Gervase had definitely alienated him.

The departure of one person was the cue for others to struggle up from the table and find their way to their chambers. Gilbert Champeney, attentive host and indefatigable gossip, was left with only Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, and Canon Hubert for company. Emboldened by the wine, the prelate decided that this was the moment to take Ralph to task for his conduct of that afternoon’s meeting.

“We shall proceed more briskly tomorrow,” he said. “Why?” joked Ralph. “Do you intend to stay away?”

“No, my lord. Since you did not control matters to my satisfaction, I intend to take a more active part. Watch me and you will learn what advocacy is.”

“Gluttony, you mean.” Ralph appealed to the others with outstretched hands. “Have you ever seen so much food eaten so fast? Ten quails went into that round belly.”

“Four,” said Hubert.

“Four, ten, twenty-what does it matter?” said Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “Food is one of the joys of life. When you sit at my table, take as much as you wish.”

“Thank you, noble sir,” said Hubert before swinging his purple cheeks around to face Ralph once more. “You are only trying to deflect me, my lord. My argument remains valid. I have the greater experience

in legal matters so I should lead the way. I have no peer in the ecclesiastical courts.”

“We are not in the ecclesiastical courts,” reminded Gervase. “There is a world of difference between property disputes and the intricacies of canon law.”

“I can master any charter of land,” boasted Hubert.

Ralph grinned. “How many quails can you eat per acre?” “Be serious!”

“I am in too merry a mood.”

“We are here on urgent business.”

“Granted,” said Ralph, “but we must discharge our duties in the right place and at the right time. We must not bore our host with our petty squabbles.” He emptied the wine in his cup. “If you want an argument to round off a splendid evening, then I have just the subject for you.”

“What is it?” said Gilbert eagerly. “I adore argument.” “Marriage.”

“Marriage?” echoed the canon. “Clerical marriage.”

“It is an abomination!”

“Yet there are married priests,” said Gervase. “A vice peculiar to the Saxons.”

“That’s why I find them so endearing,” said Gilbert.

“Norman clerks have married,” resumed Ralph, determined to get his colleague on the run. “Many have had mistresses. Some have had wives and mistresses.”

“Archbishop Lanfranc has expressly forbidden it!”

“I know, Hubert. But the good archbishop cannot stand by the bed of every priest and monk in England to make sure that they get into it alone.”

Gilbert sniggered. “Were you never tempted by female flesh, Canon Hubert?”

“Never, sir!”

“What about male flesh?” said Ralph, chuckling at the prelate’s apoplectic reaction.

“A pity!” he said. “You could otherwise have married Gilbert’s wondrous cook and dined on grilled quail for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll not hear any more of this!” yelled Hubert.

“But you have not given us your view on marriage.”

“I embody it!”

He manoeuvered his bulk into a vertical position and then lurched

off towards the chamber, which he shared with Brother Simon. There, at least he could be assured of the total respect to which he felt his position entitled him and spend a chaste night in the company of an ascetic man who viewed the whole concept of marriage as anathema.

Gervase was conscious of the testing day ahead of them. “Perhaps it is time we all retired,” he suggested.

“I could sleep for a week,” said Ralph, succumbing to fatigue. “That was a magnificent feast, Gilbert. If Hubert does not marry your cook, then I may!”

“He is already married.”

“Do not tell that to our testy canon.”

They got up from the table and walked towards the door in the flickering candlelight. Champeney Hall was unlike any Norman dwelling they had been in before and its atmosphere was curiously inviting. Ralph Delchard was drowsy but he was determined to ask one last question before he collapsed into his bed. He put an arm around Gilbert’s shoulders.

“You must know every man in Maldon, dear friend.”

“In person.”

“So who is this Humphrey?”

“Humphrey?”

“Aureis testiculi,” said Gervase.

“Goldenbollocks,” translated Ralph.

“Ah, that Humphrey!” Gilbert went off into a paroxysm of giggling, then he waved Ralph away. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot tell you how he acquired the nickname. It is a secret.”

“But it torments me,” said Ralph. “How do you think Humphrey feels?”

Their host giggled afresh and leaned against a beam for support.

Ralph pressed him for an explanation but in vain. On this topic, if on no other, Gilbert was discreet. Ralph gave up. After thanking him once more for his hospitality, he rolled off towards his chamber. Gervase was about to go with him when he was detained by a hand. Gilbert Champeney was not giggling now. His face was dark and his manner suddenly quite serious. Gervase thought that he had been caught up in the jollity of the occasion but his host had missed nothing of what went on around his table.

“You must forgive my son,” he said. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“You touched a raw spot, I fear.”

“I merely asked him about Jocelyn FitzCorbucion,” said Gervase. “They obviously did not like each other.”

“With good cause.” Gilbert sighed. “A sad business.”

“Why?”

“One of the perils of fatherhood.” “Perils?”

“Raising a son who does not take your advice.”

“You lose me here,” said Gervase. “Miles is not to blame-they are.”

“They?”

“Hamo and his monstrous brood.” Gilbert sighed again. “Jocelyn has two reasons for hating my son. Miles fought with his brother, Guy.”

“Fought? With weapons?”

“Hot words and fists, that is all. But I am told that my son got the better of it before the two of them were dragged apart.” He became remorseful. “Miles was a fool! I warned him not to go there. I told him to stay away from Blackwater Hall. It was bound to lead to trouble.”

“What was?”

“The situation, the situation. It’s hopeless!”

Gilbert broke away and paced up and down in the narrow corridor. The bibulous host was now an anxious parent. His hands flapped about in gestures of despair. Gervase stepped in to confront him.

“Jocelyn had two reasons, you said …”

“It was the other one that took him there.” “To Blackwater Hall?”

“Jocelyn has a sister. Matilda.” “I begin to understand.”

“That is more than I do, Gervase,” said the other. “It is a cruelty practised on a loving father. Why Matilda? Of all people-why her? My son could have any woman in the county, if he wanted, but he chooses a FitzCorbucion.”

“Does the lady feel the same about him?”

“She does, alas!”

“You are obviously against the match.”

“Everyone is,” wailed Gilbert. “I am against it, Hamo is against it, Guy was against it-that is why he came to blows with my son-and Jocelyn is against it. Common sense is against it. Sanity is against it. Nature is against it.”

“But Miles is still determined?”

“They have exchanged vows.”

“How do they contrive to see each other?”

“They do not,” said Gilbert. “Hamo has left orders that my son is not to be allowed near Blackwater Hall. But that does not deter him. He swears that he will wed Matilda.”

Sorrow had finally taken its toll of Matilda FitzCorbucion. After another day of anger at her brother’s death, its full impact hit her at last and she spent a sleepless night crying into her pillow or walking across the wooden floor of her bedchamber in her bare feet. The tears came less from love than from pity, because even a brother as disagreeable as Guy deserved that. As her grief deepened into a physical pain such as she had never known, Matilda came to see that she was mourning two brothers and not just one. Jocelyn was lost to her almost as much as Guy. When he was alive, Guy had either ignored or baited her and she had learned to avoid him whenever possible. Jocelyn had been her protector even when it landed him in trouble and she could always turn to him for help. That was all in the past. The moment the dead body of his brother had been found, Jocelyn changed irrevocably. He was no longer Matilda’s friend but simply a more refined and calculating version of Guy.

In the long reaches of the night, other thoughts came to stick hot needles of doubt into her brain. They were vulnerable. The most powerful family in Maldon was not the impregnable force she had supposed. Blackwater Hall might have the sombre solidity of a castle but its defences had been breached. Guy FitzCorbucion, a virile soldier with great skill in arms, had been cruelly murdered and the alleged killer was a boy of fifteen. What surging hatred must have built up inside the lad for him to commit such a heinous crime? Would such blood-lust be satiated with one death or would he turn to strike at other members of the family? The name that she had carried with such pride now seemed like a badge of doom and fear for her own life sent her racing to the heavy door to make sure that it was bolted. Fresh tears moistened her haggard face. She was grieving over the loss of her safety. Matilda was terrified.

Searching for comfort, she found none within Blackwater Hall. Jocelyn was dead to her and Hamo would be so furious when he discovered what had happened that she would not even be able to speak to him. After her mother’s death, the person who had consoled her least was her father. Hamo was a hard and ambitious man who took what he wanted by force of character and expressed affection only by means of gifts. Matilda’s plight was helpless. A home that was already fraught with tensions would now become unbearable and there would be nobody to whom she could turn. Except perhaps one man. But even as she envisioned the kind face of Miles Champeney, she knew that he could not save her either. The murder of Guy FitzCorbucion had somehow put him forever beyond her reach. Miles was one more casualty of the killer’s knife.

Prayer and rest. Oslac the Priest had advised her to pray for her dead brother’s soul and to get as much sleep as she could in order to restore herself, but neither would come. Prayers died on her lips and sleep eluded her. She was instead held captive by grief and fear and gnawing doubt about the whole meaning of her life. What was the point of it all? Everything now seemed to have died with Guy. Even her hopes of escape.

When she eventually closed her eyes, it was in a slumber of sheer exhaustion and she did not have the strength to choose the comfort of her bed. She drifted off while sitting in the window of her chamber and her troubled head rested on hard stone without even feeling it.

Matilda was in a sleep of cold despair. How long she dozed she did not know, nor what it was that jerked her awake to face the pain once more. It may have been the insistent thud of the wind against the wall of the chamber, or the light slowly forcing its way in through the window with the stealth of a thief, or the dull ache in her bones from the awkwardness of her posture, or the cries of the gulls as they skimmed over water and marsh in search of their first meal of the morning.

As she opened her eyes, it was there. Matilda came out of her sleep and into a waking nightmare because the sight brought nothing but further apprehension. She rubbed at her eyes, then peered through the window once more to make sure that it was not an illusion. But it was still there. She had recognised it at once. The ship was long and narrow with a single, large sail that was filled by the gusting wind. Its prow was high, its draught shallow, and it was cutting through the dark water with eager purpose. The captain was navigating his way around Northey Island and setting a course for the harbour. They were still a long way from Blackwater Hall but Matilda knew whom the ship carried.

Hamo FitzCorbucion had come home.