Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Two

Progress was slow. one of the wounded men was able to sit on his mount but the other remained unconscious so they had to build a crude framework of branches interlaced with osiers. Its raised end was slung by ropes from the unconscious man’s horse and he was dragged along on the makeshift bed. They had been able to do little more for him than stem the bleeding from his assorted injuries and it was important not to aggravate his condition by trying to press on too fast. But a slight increase in speed was possible when they left the mean-dering woodland track to join a firmer and straighter thoroughfare. It was the old Roman road between Colchester and London, one of the many that radiated out from the city in the northeast of Essex, which

the legions had chosen as their capital.

An hour or so brought them to Shenfield, but it was no more than a straggle of small houses and did not really answer their needs in any way. The party rested there while word was sent to the village of Hutton, a couple of miles to the east, for the local priest. He eventually arrived on his ancient grey mare and at once revealed his medical skills by examining, treating, and redressing the wounds. The priest strongly advised that both injured men stay in Shenfield until they recovered more fully. Ralph Delchard accepted this counsel and left another of the Saxon bodyguards to watch over the two casualties. Now able to move at a swifter pace, the travellers were keen to use the last few hours of daylight to reach a place that could accommodate all of them in reasonable comfort.

Ralph stayed at the head of the column this time. On the journey to

Shenfield, he rode beside Sister Tecla in the hopes of drawing her into conversation, but the trials of the ambush and her own natural reserve meant that he got no more than an occasional nod or a shake of the head from her. Gervase Bret rode beside him, having taken advantage of the lengthy stop to consult the documents he carried in his voluminous satchel.

“Shenfield is held by a subtenant from Count Eustace of Boulogne,”

he said. “Like whole areas of this shire.”

“Count Eustace always was a greedy pig,” said Ralph. “He owns about eighty manors in Essex.”

“Do they include Hutton?”

“No, they do not. Hutton belongs to St. Martin’s.” “In London?”

“In Sussex.” “Battle Abbey?” “The same.”

“Good!” said Ralph. “In my view, that is the only kind of monastic foundation that has any real purpose. Battle Abbey was raised to mark a Norman victory. The rest of the religious houses that litter this country are full of eunuchs like Brother Simon who like to hear the sound of their own high voices singing Mass.” He turned to Gervase. “And what of this village we ride to now?”

“Mountnessing?”

“Count Eustace or Battle Abbey?”

“Neither,” said Gervase. “I checked the returns made by the first commissioners. Mountnessing is held in lordship by Ranulf, brother of Ilger. The manor runs to nine hides, which is well over a thousand acres. Then there’s a further two hides and more held from Ranulf by William of Bosc.”

“It lies to the northeast, they told us.”

“We shall soon have to leave this road and head off into the woodland again.” Gervase glanced warily around. “I hope that there is no second ambush awaiting us.”

“Those cowards would not dare to attack us!” asserted Ralph. “We could have cut them to ribbons. They only fight when the odds are in their favour.”

“This county is full of outlaws.” “Outlaws?”

“Yes,” said Gervase sadly. “Dispossessed men who’ve had everything taken from them except their urge to fight back. Before the Conquest, they had lands to work and homes in which to raise families. Now they lead lives of servility.”

“You sound as if you pity the wretches.” “I find it hard to blame some of them.”

“Saxons are losers, Gervase. Never forget that. If they had invaded

Normandy and destroyed us in battle, you would shed no tears then for those whose lands were confiscated. In any case,” he said blithely, “did not these same hairy Englishmen whom you count among your forebears once invade this country and take it from the Romans who had themselves seized it by force from the Britons? Might is right. Pity has no place in the breast of a conquering army.”

“And what about mercy?”

“I’d show none to rogues who ambush ladies.”

“No more would I, Ralph,” said Gervase. “They deserve to be caught and punished for that outrage. What I say is that I do have some sympathy for those who are driven into the wilderness and forced to live as outlaws.”

“But these were not outlaws.”

“How do you know?”

“The way they rode, the fashion in which they fought.” “I took them for Saxons by their apparel.”

“You were intended to, Gervase.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those were not renegades who preyed on passing travellers,” explained Ralph. “They were trained soldiers who knew how to lay an ambush. When their captain gave the command, they beat an ordered retreat. No, do not feel sorry for any fellow-Saxons, my friend. They were Normans.”

“Can you be sure?”

“I’d stake my finest horse on it.” “A roving band of soldiers?”

“No, Gervase. Knights from a lord’s retinue. Sent for the express

purpose of launching that attack. They might disguise themselves as

Saxons but their breeding showed through. Norman warriors?” “From where?”

“That is what we must find out.”

“Why ambush two nuns and their escort?”

“Answer the first question and the second will answer itself.” Ralph glanced over his shoulder at the two women who rode further back in the cavalcade. “One thing that I do know, Gervase. Those men were not robbers. If all they wanted was booty, they would simply have set their ambush and grabbed the two sumpter horses before riding off. But they showed no interest at all in the baggage.”

“What, then, were they after?”

“The two ladies. When we came out of the wood, they were trying to overpower the escort in order to get to Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla.” He gave a chuckle. “Given the choice, I’d have taken Sister Tecla myself. She could keep any man warm on a long, cold night.”

Gervase was puzzled. “The ladies were the target?” “They or something that they carried.”

“But they are holy nuns-they have nothing.”

“Look more closely, Gervase,” suggested Ralph. “Sister Tecla may have nothing except an aura of sanctity about her but those leather pouches that sit astride Prioress Mindred’s palfrey are bulging. With what?”

“Gifts from Barking Abbey. Books and a holy relic.”

“What else?”

“That is all. The prioress told us.”

“Then she is lying.” “Shame!”

“Consider the facts,” argued Ralph. “Would a troop of soldiers go to

such lengths to steal a few sacred texts and a handful of earth? And if that is all that those pouches contain, why does the prioress keep them beside her instead of on one of the sumpter horses?” He warmed to his theme. “We did not only rescue two noble ladies in distress back there, Gervase. We stumbled on an intriguing situation. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla went to Barking Abbey to collect something of great significance.”

“The books and the relic of St. Oswald.”

“There has to be more than that. Remember that the ambush was not laid on the outward journey from Maldon but on the return. When they had picked up their cargo.”

“Indeed, it was,” said Gervase thoughtfully. “Your reasoning begins to make sense. Those attackers must have wanted their prize very badly.”

“A prize that is hidden in those leather pouches.” “What could it possibly be?”

“Who knows?” said Ralph with a grin. “But we will have pleasure trying to find out. It will give us something to exercise our mind on the journey. Ride with Sister Tecla tomorrow and question her. I got no word at all out of her but you have a lawyer’s skill in making people talk. She is your quarry now. I will tackle the prioress.”

“Do not be too rough with her.”

“I will probe softly till I catch her off guard. You must do the same with her sweet companion. Oh, and while you are about it, Gervase, bear one thing in mind.”

“What is that?”

“Nuns tell lies,” said Ralph. “All the time.”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion was sitting in his apartment at Blackwater Hall. On the table before him were manorial accounts that required urgent study, but Matilda was pushing a more immediate problem in front of his nose.

“He has been gone for days now, Jocelyn!” she said. “That does not concern me.”

“Guy is missing. We should search for him.”

“He has been missing before, Matilda,” said her brother easily. “Do not worry about him. Sooner or later, Guy always comes back-unfortunately.”

“Something may have happened to him.”

A rueful nod. “Yes, and we all know what it is!” “Guy may be in danger.”

“He is well able to take care of himself.”

“But he has never been gone this long before.” “All that means is that he hunts further afield.” “Go after him, Jocelyn.”

“He would hardly thank me for that!” “If he is in trouble …”

“Forget about him,” said Jocelyn impatiently. “Guy has gone where he always goes. Our brother is a rutting stag who has galloped off in search of a fresh doe!”

The force and the bluntness of his rejoinder brought a faint blush to Matilda’s cheeks. She was a short, shapely young woman of sev-enteen in a russet gown that was held at the waist by a gold-braided belt. Matilda had the lustrous black hair of the FitzCorbucions but its bluish tinge was more pronounced. Held in a gold fillet, her hair was brushed away from her face to reveal its oval beauty and luminous skin. She had a gentle demeanour that was quite out of place in Blackwater Hall. Although she found it hard to love her elder brother, she could still be anxious over his prolonged disappearance. Alarm clouded her soft green eyes and furrowed her shining brow. Her tenderness could even reach out to someone as unworthy of it as Guy, who always treated her with cool indifference. She nevertheless cared. Matilda FitzCorbucion was truly a dove among ravens.

Jocelyn saw her distress and rose from his stool to take her into

his arms by way of apology. He did not want to hurt Matilda but he could not pretend to share her fears for their brother. Guy often went astray for a night or two and Jocelyn was glad of these moments of respite. It enabled him to get on with his work without the inevitable interruptions and arguments. Matilda saw it all rather differently and her brother should have respected her feelings. He held her by the shoulders as he tried to explain.

“Father is due back from Normandy any day now,” he said, “and I have promised to master these accounts. I can do that much better when Guy is not here to distract me.”

“That may well be,” she replied, “but Father will be very angry if he returns home to find Guy is absent.”

“It could be an advantage, Matilda.” “Advantage?”

“To have Guy out of the way while they are here.” “Who are you talking about?”

“The royal commissioners.” “Commissioners?”

He gave her a patronising smile then led her across to the door. “Why not leave it all to us?” he said indulgently. “We will sort everything out between us. There is no need for you to be involved in any way.”

“But I am involved,” she said firmly, breaking free and holding her ground. “I am Guy’s sister and I have a sister’s fear for his safety. Who are these commissioners and why do you wish to keep him away from them?”

“Because he might antagonise them.”

“He has a short temper, I grant you.”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn with a sigh. “If he loses it in front of them, he could cause us all grave embarrassment. We have to present our case with discretion.”

“Case? What case?” “Matilda …”

“And do not try to fob me off!” she protested. “I am not an idiot, Jocelyn. I can read, write, and hold a civilised conversation. I speak the Saxon tongue better than any of you and I have a deeper insight into their customs. More to the point, I am old enough to be told about anything that threatens our future here at Blackwater Hall.” She took a step closer to him. “A case, you say? Are we to be put on trial in some way?”

“There will be judicial process.” “Why?”

“Because the Conqueror has decreed it.” He took a deep breath and

gave her the salient details as succinctly as he could. “When another Danish invasion seemed likely, King William needed to know the extent and disposition of the wealth of this country. He ordered a description of all England so that he could see how best to raise taxes and secure knight service. Teams of commissioners were sent all over the land to gather the relevant information.”

A memory stirred. “Have we not already had such visitors to Maldon?”

she recalled.

“We have, indeed,” he said, “and Father appeared in the shire court to answer all their questions before a sworn jury. When they completed their work, they went away.”

“What has brought them back?” “Suspicion.”

“Of what nature?”

“We will not know until they arrive,” said Jocelyn. “All that we received was a letter to warn of their approach. This great inventory is being drawn up by the Exchequer clerks in Winchester. They have seen a number of irregularities in the returns for Maldon, enough to justify the sending of a new team of commissioners. Father has the major holdings in this part of Essex so our demesne will come under review. We must be able to defend ourselves with sound argument and legal charter.”

Matilda understood. Guy was altogether too headstrong for the niceties of judicial process. Jocelyn, at once more shrewd and

conscientious, would be a far better advocate even though he lacked his brother’s iron will. The most effective lawyer of them all was Hamo FitzCorbucion, a man who combined the aggression of one son with the skill of the other while adding a cunning tenacity that were all his own. He would not be cowed by royal officials.

“We need Father here,” she said. “He holds the land.” “I can deal with them,” boasted Jocelyn.

“What are these irregularities of which you speak?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. Matilda had the all-too-familiar feeling that something of importance was being kept from her for no better reason than that she was a woman. It was exasperating. She knew little of the administration of the estate and even less about any illegalities that had taken place. But one thing was as clear as crystal to her: Royal commissioners would not make such a long and arduous journey to Maldon unless there were serious mistakes to rectify. Blackwater was definitely under threat.

“How much do we stand to lose?” she asked levelly.

Jocelyn said nothing but his patent discomfort was an answer in itself. She sensed acute problems. Before she could press for details, however, there was a loud banging on the door. Her brother was relieved by the intrusion.

“Come in!” he called.

The door opened and the steward came quickly into the room. When he saw Matilda, he stifled his news and stood there with an expression of grim dismay.

“Well?” said Jocelyn.

“It concerns your brother,” muttered the steward. Matilda was alerted. “Guy?”

“Where is he?” asked Jocelyn. The delay irked him. “Speak up,

man. You may talk in front of Matilda. She has a right to hear anything that touches on Guy.”

The man nodded. “He has been found, my lord.” “Where?”

“In the River Blackwater.”

Matilda gasped. “Was he drowned?”

“No, my lady,” said the steward. “Murdered.”

The decision to ride on as far as Mountnessing proved to be a wise one. Its manor house was large enough to accommodate the six main guests and the soldiers were housed for the night in nearby dwellings. The weary travellers were given a cordial welcome. When a meal had been served and eaten with gratitude, Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla excused themselves and withdrew to their chamber. Gervase Bret noticed that the older woman kept the leather pouches within reach at all times and took them with her when she left. He

himself was sharing a chamber with Ralph Delchard. When the two of them retired for the night, he raised the topic with his friend.

“You have aroused my curiosity, Ralph,” he said. “I would dearly

love to take a look inside those pouches.”

Ralph beamed. “Canon Hubert has already done so.” “The prioress showed him?”

“No, but he contrived a quick peep.”

“How?”

“By sheer persistence,” said Ralph. “I heard the story from him as we sat at the table. He wanted to know what books had been given to Maldon Priory by way of gifts. Hubert was really testing the noble lady and sounding out the depths of her knowledge. She surprised him.”

“How?”

“With the readiness of her answers. Our prioress is highly educated and well versed in these sacred texts. Canon Hubert was duly chastened.”

“That will do him no harm.” They shared a laugh. “Do you remember the names of any of the books?”

“I took particular note of them, Gervase, because I knew that you would ask. Now let me see …” He lay back on his mattress with his hands behind his head and pondered. “The first was De Consolatione.”

“Boethius.”

“Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum.” “The Venerable Bede.”

“De Miraculis Christi.” “Isidore of Seville.”

“Then there was a book of tropes, two psalters, a gospel book in English, a summer lectionary, a winter lectionary, and the Cura Pastoralis of Gregory the Great. Yes, I think that was all.”

“No hymn books?”

“None, Gervase.”

“No missals, no breviary, no book of homilies?”

“Nothing more. Ah-wait,” said Ralph, as he prised one last name from his memory. “Liber Officialis Amalarii. Did I recall that all right? Is there such a volume?”

“Indeed, there is. By Amalarius of Metz.” “Are these works valuable?”

“Extremely.”

“I have listed each one that Canon Hubert mentioned. He was most precise. Prioress Mindred not only let him have a glimpse at them, she proved by learned discourse that she had read each and every one herself.”

“Then she is indeed a devout Christian,” said Gervase. “But I am bound to wonder what the nuns of Maldon have done to deserve such

bounty. Their priory is reputedly tiny yet they have been given the makings of a library that would not disgrace a much larger foundation.”

“It was an act of charity by the Abbess of Barking.”

“There may be more to it than that.”

“There is, Gervase,” agreed Ralph, then he yawned aloud, “but I have no energy to discern what it is. Sleep calls me. We can get no further in our speculations tonight. Tomorrow may reveal more. In the meantime …”

But the words were lost in a second yawn. He turned on his side,

made himself comfortable, and then drifted off. Gervase settled down on his own mattress but he slept more fitfully, dreaming fondly of Alys and waking intermittently to ponder anew the mysteries that surrounded their female companions. The ambush had certainly enlivened their day and the journey on the morrow would be far more interesting now that they were escorting two nuns from Maldon Priory. He mused on the paradox that underlay all of the nunneries. They were the exclusive preserve of the aristocracy, of women from wealthy families who could afford the large dowry that was necessary. Nuns paid for the privilege of taking the vow of poverty. Those who were already poor had no chance of gaining admission to the religious houses. Only the rich qualified.

As was customary Ralph Delchard awoke just before dawn. He was keen to get them on the road early so that they could make full use of daylight. When he shook the drowsiness from his head and sat up, he saw that Gervase Bret was already awake, poring over some documents by the light of a candle and talking soundlessly to himself. It was no more than Ralph expected. When they reached Maldon, it was the young lawyer who would lead them into battle against any malefactors. Like an experienced soldier, Gervase knew the value of careful preparation and the importance of keeping his mental weap-onry in good working order. Ralph was duly impressed by his colleague’s diligence.

“You must know those documents by heart,” he said. “It helps.”

“How can you plough through all mat heavy detail with such enthusiasm? Latin confuses me. Facts bore me. Figures make my eyes cross.” “You have to read between the lines, Ralph.”

“No, thank you,” said the other, hauling himself to his feet. “I leave those interminable scribblings for you to interpret. What interests me are the people.”

Gervase smiled. Some of the names that had been thrown up in the returns for the county of Essex had caught his friend’s imagination. Godwin Weakfeet, Robert the Perverted, Tovild the Haunted, and Roger God-Save-Ladies had all diverted him but there was one favourite, which Ralph was bound to mention first. Gervase braced himself.

“Humphrey Goldenbollocks.” “The Latin is more tactful.”

“Who wants tact?” said Ralph. “Aurei testiculi. That’s how this

Humphrey is set down. Goldenbollocks.” “A crude translation.”

Ralph chuckled. “He sounds like a crude fellow and one after my own heart. I look forward to meeting this Humphrey of the Heroic Appendages.” He nudged Gervase. “How do you suppose he got such a name?”

“I dread to think!”

“Perhaps they glow in the dark!” “Ralph …”

“What a blessing of nature that would be! Those bollocks are worth

their weight in gold. That is how the name arose. Humphrey has probably fathered a dozen children. Fifty. A hundred. A thousand.”

“There may be an easier explanation.”

“King Midas slept with him and touched his balls.” “Perhaps this gentleman simply has red hair.”

“Then he’d need red bollocks to match it, Gervase, and the document

styles him Aureis testiculi. Red is not gold. I will raise the matter with

Canon Hubert.” “Heaven forbid!”

“I have it!” decided Ralph. “Our translation was too literal.

Goldenbollocks does not refer to their colour so much as to their status. They have been elevated above the common stock because they have a feature that gives them the quality of precious metal.” He flashed a broad grin. “Humphrey has three of them!”

Gervase gave way to mirth for a few moments then guided his friend back to the more seemly subject of the two nuns. Ralph was confident that he would be able to divine their secret before they reached Maldon but Gervase had doubts. If such a skillful interrogator as Canon Hubert could extract no more than a list of books from the noble lady, then Ralph’s own efforts were doomed. Prioress Mindred was self-possessed and supremely well defended. Even such a master of siege warfare as Ralph Delchard would not take this citadel.

The guests at the manor house ate breakfast together then joined the armed escort that was assembling outside. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon had been up before dawn to visit the little Saxon church, which stood nearby. It. was now the turn of the two nuns to offer prayers for a safe journey. Gervase Bret slipped quietly after them into the church and lowered himself to the cold stone. Prioress Mindred and Sister Tecla were kneeling at the altar rail in attitudes of supplication. They were only a few yards in front of him and their low chant in unison was quite audible. Gervase was shocked. Expecting the same Latin phrases that he himself was reciting in silence, he was astonished to hear the words of an Anglo-Saxon charm in which Christian and pagan elements were curiously inter-mingled.

I chant a charm of victory, I bear a rod of victory;

Word-victory, work-victory; may they be of power for me

That no nightmare hinder me, nor belly-fiend afflict me

Nor ever fear fall upon my life;

But may the Almighty save me, and the Son and the Holy Ghost, The Lord worthy of all glory,

And, as I heard, Creator of the heavens.

Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, And such men, Moses and David,

And Eve and Hannah and Elizabeth, Sarah and also Mary, Christ’s mother, And also the brethren, Peter and Paul, And also thousands of the angels,

I call upon to fend me against the fiends,

May they lead me, and guard me, and protect my path.

Gervase could not believe his ears. The charm was such a compound of faith and ignorance that it seemed incongruous on the lips of two educated nuns. There was a rustle of skirts as the women rose to their feet and Gervase bent his head lower and kept his eyes shut. As they walked softly past him, something brushed his shoulder and he realised that it was the leather pouches carried by the prioress. Even in church, she would not be parted from them. For a few more minutes, Gervase concentrated on saying his own prayers, then left the dank shadows of the church to step back out into the light. Ralph Delchard chided him for keeping them all waiting and hurried him to his horse. The two nuns were already mounted on their palfreys. Gervase looked across at Prioress Mindred to be met by a cool, steady, inscrutable gaze, which was mildly unsettling, but it was when he glanced at Sister Tecla that he got a sharp jolt. She was staring at him with a mixture of interest and apprehension, subjecting him to a frank appraisal that was tempered by a natural timidity. As soon as their eyes locked, she turned her head away like a startled fawn and lowered her lids. Gervase was strangely excited. It would indeed be an intriguing journey.

Oslac the Priest was old enough to remember what life in Maldon had been like before the Conquest and young enough to adapt successfully to its harsh consequences. The three hides of land that he had once owned had been summarily confiscated by the Normans, but Oslac was philosophical about it. He still retained his Church of

All Souls’ and his pastoral role in the community. Much of his work consisted of trying to protect his flock from a tyrannical landlord, which meant that he was constantly in dispute with the powerful Hamo FitzCorbucion. Ironically, he had now been summoned to Blackwater Hall in order to direct his sympathy and advice there.

“Why?” asked Matilda, pacing the room and twisting the ends of her belt between nervous fingers. “Guy was so young and full of life. Why did he have to die?”

“Because he was called by God,” said Oslac quietly. “For what reason?”

“Ours not to question the Almighty. We must accept His right to

take us away from this world whenever and wherever He chooses. Your brother’s death is a deep loss but it was ordained by divine will.”

Matilda stopped in front of him with her challenge. “Can divine will be so cruel?”

“My lady …”

“Can it be so brutal and pitiless?” “It only appears so.”

“My brother was murdered, Father Oslac.”

“I regret that as much as you.”

“He was battered to death and thrown into the river. Guy was in the water for days before they found him.” She spread her palms wide in her bewilderment. “Are there not kinder ways for God to summon his servants? Can such hideous slaughter really be part of a sublime plan?”

“Yes, my lady. There is a reason in all things.” “Then what is the reason here?” she demanded. “It will emerge in time.”

They were in the main hall and Oslac was finding it difficult to console Matilda FitzCorbucion. Most women in her situation collapsed into helpless grief but she was responding with anger and protest. That was a healthy sign in one way but it put the burden of justifica-tion on the shoulders of the priest. Accustomed to offer condolences in his gentle voice, Oslac was instead caught up in a spirited argument about the nature of death. Matilda would not be calmed with soft words. She wanted straight answers.

Oslac was a big man of solid build with a face that had weathered

countless setbacks, yet one that still retained its essential kindness. He had cause to hate the FitzCorbucion family as much as the rest of Maldon did, but he had come to Blackwater Hall in the spirit of Christian love and his presence was a comfort of sorts. Matilda bit her lip and shook her head in apology. She offered her hands and he took them between his own.

“You need rest, my lady,” he counselled. “How can I sleep at a time tike this?”

“I have a potion with me that will aid slumber.”

“Save it for a needier case,” she said. “I am too full of ire to take to my bed. I cried all my tears when our mother died. There are none left for Guy. I cannot weep for his death because the horror of it has enraged me. I want to know who killed him-and why?”

“That is understandable.”

“The murderer must be brought to justice.” “He will be.”

“I must know his reason.”

Matilda broke away and paced restlessly once more. Oslac watched her. She had grown up in the four years since her mother’s death. On that occasion she had been distraught and vulnerable, grieving over the loss of the one person in Blackwater Hall whom she could love and trust. Matilda was now the lady of the house and she had matured into that position. Oslac could see aspects of her parents blending perfectly in her. The tenderness of her mother was allied to the robustness of her father, the natural grace of the one with the single-mindedness of the other. Matilda also had something of Jocelyn’s questing intelligence but none of the characteristics of her other brother. When Oslac scrutinised her, Guy was invisible.

“How may I best help?” he asked. “You have done much for us already.” “Call on me for anything.”

“Track down the killer.”

“Others will do that better than I.”

“Then at least tell me his name.” Matilda confronted him again and he shifted his feet uneasily. “Do not hide it from me, Father Oslac. I know the rumours. I have heard the whispers. Guy had many enemies but one in particular longed for his death. Who was he?”

“There is such a person,” he admitted. “What is his name?”

“He may be completely innocent …” “His name!” she insisted.

Oslac hesitated to tell her the truth. While she was still stunned by the death of her brother, it seemed callous to point out that Guy himself-if reports were true-had himself committed a murder. The priest had conducted the burial service for Algar only a few days earlier and he knew that the man’s demise was not the accident the steward of Blackwater claimed it had been. The wretched slave was not the first casualty of Guy FitzCorbucion’s rage but he would certainly be the last. Matilda had been kept ignorant of the whole business and Oslac saw no value in adding to her distress.

He began to fashion an excuse but it never even left his lips. The door opened and Jocelyn came striding into the hall with the steward at his heels. He looked tired and flushed but there was little indication

of grief. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying his sudden promotion to the position of authority. It had made him decisive.

“We have sent for the sheriff,” he said. “This is work for Peter de

Valognes.”

“He will find the culprit,” said Oslac.

“That task may be done before he gets here.” “What do you mean?” asked Matilda.

“We have examined all the evidence,” said Jocelyn, “and we have taken statements from a number of people. They all say the same thing. Two of them overheard him swear revenge. Others speak of his violent nature. It must be him.”

“Who?” said Matilda.

“A boy with a reason to kill.” “A boy?”

“His name is Wistan. I’ve sent men to arrest him.”

It was over an hour before Gervase Bret managed to elicit a complete sentence out of her. Sister Tecla was reticence incarnate. As they rode along side by side, he tried every conversational gambit that he knew to provoke her into comment but she stayed beyond his reach. Up ahead of them, Ralph Delchard and Prioress Mindred were chatting volubly and even sharing an occasional laugh. The prioress had far too subtle a mind for Ralph, saw through his purpose at once, and used language to construct a wall of words around her, but at least she was talking. Most of the replies that Gervase got came from the birds or the horses. It was only when he asked the most obvious question of all that he finally broke through the nun’s studied silence.

“Are you named after St. Tecla?” he wondered. She was amazed. “You have heard of her?”

“Of course.”

“But she is a Saxon saint.”

“So are Oswald and Aldhelm and Botolph,” he observed, “but I have heard of them as well. My mother was a Saxon.”

“Yet you are in the service of the Normans.”

“The King of England is my master. He rules over all the people of this land, whatever their origin. That puts us on an equal footing as his subjects.” He felt that a smile was worth trying. “Tecla was a remarkable woman. She was a nun at Wimborne in Dorset, I believe.”

“That is true.”

“Her abbess sent her to help Boniface in his missionary work in Germany. She was much loved and respected. Her fame spread throughout Germany. When she died, a shrine was built there. Miracles occurred.” His second smile was more confident. “You bear the name of an outstanding lady.”

“I am proud to do so.”

“What other saints do you revere?” “All of them.”

“A Benedictine house must surely love St. Benedict.”

“So we do, sir.”

“Then there is St. Oswald.” “St. Oswald?”

“The martyr,” he said. “Oswald, King of Northumbria. It was a holy

relic of his that took you to Barking Abbey. That was the purpose of your visit, was it not?”

“Why, yes,” she said uncertainly.

“How much earth are you carrying with you?” “Earth?”

“From the place where Oswald fell in battle.”

“A tiny amount, that is all.” She was mildly flustered but soon recovered her poise. “You are very well informed about our English saints.”

“So I should be. The master of the novices used to beat us soundly if we did not learn our lessons properly.”

Curiosity made her turn to him for the first time. “You were a pos-

tulant?” she said. “At which monastery?” “Eltham Abbey.”

Disappointment showed. “A Norman foundation.”

“It had due respect for native saints.” To subdue her reservations, he gave her further proof. “St. Oswald was much admired at Eltham. Our abbot took such an interest in him that he actually visited the battlefield where the saint was struck down by Penda, the pagan King of Mercia. The place is in Shropshire, although its name eludes me.”

“Maserfield.”

“Thank you, Sister Tecla.”

“Miracles took place at the very spot where he fell.”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “Praying with his last breath for the souls of the bodyguards who were slain with him. Our abbot told us that so many people have been to Maserfield to get some of the precious earth that they dug a deep trench. St. Oswald’s power reaches well below ground for we have seen how the particles that Prioress Mindred carries are still able to work their magic.”

“They brought you to us in our time of trial.” “Perhaps they, too, had heard of the miracles.” “Who?”

“The men who attacked you.”

An involuntary shiver. “I have tried to forget them.” “They must have been after something,” he probed. “It was terrifying.”

“Did they try to snatch the holy relic?”

“I thought we would all be killed.” “Did they grab at the sacred books?” “Then you saved us.”

“What did those men hope to get?”

But the directness of his question brought the exchange to an end. Sister Tecla shot him a look of betrayal then urged her horse forward at a trot until she caught up with Prioress Mindred. Safe under the wing of the older woman, she was clearly not going to stir from there for the remainder of the journey. Gervase cursed himself for having blundered. At the very moment he was establishing a rapport with her, he had thrown it away by rushing the procedure. What had been gleaned, however, was confirmation of their earlier suspicion. The men who laid the ambush on the previous day had been after a specific prize and neither of the nuns was ready to disclose what it was. They had something to hide. Gervase Bret spent the rest of the morning wondering what it could be.

Wistan knew that they would come for him. As soon as the body of Guy FitzCorbucion was found in the waters of the River Blackwater, the boy feared for his safety. Word spread quickly through the estate and there were several who raised a cheer or said a prayer of thanks at the news. The most loathed member of a loathsome family had been murdered and that was a cause for celebration. If it had been left to those who lived and worked on the demesne, the killer would have been rewarded with instant sainthood. He had overcome a veritable force of evil.

He moved swiftly. Wistan had lingered until darkness fell, then he ran for his life. The river was cold but he was a strong swimmer and he cleaved his way with powerful arms towards the distant blob of Northey Island. Once there, he sought cover and felt marginally more secure. Nobody would search for him at night. When morning came, he went deeper into the island and scooped himself a hiding place in the long grass. The sun soon dried his wet clothes and the fruit he had brought filled his belly. All he could do now was to lie low and hope that they did not find him.

Wistan had aged considerably. Within the space of little more than a week, a fifteen-year-old boy had turned into a full-grown man. When his father had been killed in front of him, the iron had entered his soul; when Algar was buried in his miserable grave, the boy had renewed his vow of revenge. As he hid in his lair and kept on the alert, Wistan felt more embittered than ever, but there was one consolation. Guy FitzCorbucion was dead. The man who had killed Wistan’s father had himself been cut down without mercy. It was no more man he deserved. Wistan burst into silent laughter and rocked happily to and fro.

His grisly mirth was short-lived. Something on the mainland caught his eye. Deep in his burrow, he saw a distant column of smoke rising into the clear blue sky and he knew instantly what it meant. They were searching for him. They had seen that he had fled and so they set fire to his hovel. The little wooden hut that he had shared with his father all those years was being destroyed out of sheer spite. Thatch burned well and the smoke was now billowing. Wistan was unmoved. He was not afraid of them any longer. They had simply given him one more reason to hate the ravens of Blackwater.