Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Three

Long before they reached Maldon, they saw it rising majestically before them in the distance. Surrounded by fertile farm land, it sat on the top of a steep hill, which overlooked the estuary and the lower reaches of the Chelmer and Blackwater valleys. It was a prosperous town of well over a thousand inhabitants, most of whom were engaged in agriculture or related occupations, but with a sizeable number who made their living as fishermen and coastal traders. A few, with larger crafts and greater ambitions, sailed across to France and the Low Countries to develop international commerce. Maldon’s position, high on a tidal estuary, made it one of the key ports in the region. Apart from Colchester, it was the only place in Essex that had been given borough status and its preeminence was marked by three churches, a royal mint, and a flourishing market. After a painstaking journey from one small village to another, the travellers were glad to see a real town dominating the horizon and to know that they would reach their destination before nightfall.

Ralph Delchard was pleased with their achievement.

“I feared we might not get here before dark,” he said, “but those nuns sit on fine palfreys that will trot for hours on end. I have never seen religion ride so fast.”

“They were as anxious to reach Maldon as we were,” said Gervase, beside him. “We questioned them too closely and that lent spurs to their heels.”

“Prioress Mindred gave nothing away.” “Nor did Sister Tecla.”

“We will have to be more guileful with them,” decided Ralph. “They are certainly concealing something from us and I intend to find out what it is.”

“All will be revealed in time.”

“Conduct them safely to their priory, Gervase.” “Why me?”

“Because I am not ready to ride into the town.” “But that hill should give us a wonderful view.”

“That is my fear,” admitted Ralph. “A wonderful view of the sea. I am too weary to cope with that now. It would turn my stomach and prevent my sleep.”

“Take heart, Ralph,” said the other. “All you would see from Maldon is the river estuary. The sea itself is miles away from the town.”

“Water is water. I prefer the sight of land.”

Gervase Bret was puzzled. Ralph Delchard was such a courageous man-and had proved it on so many occasions-that it was difficult to believe anything could actually frighten him. With a sword in his hand, the Norman lord would meet any adversary without flinching but the arts of war could not subdue the rolling waves. Gervase could think of only one reason why the sea should exert such power over his friend. Ralph could not swim.

When they got within half a mile of the town, the party divided into two. The commissioners were staying at a nearby manor house. After a flurry of farewells and an expression of sincere gratitude from the prioress, Ralph Delchard went off with Canon Hubert, Brother Simon, and four of his men while Gervase Bret continued on the road to Maldon with the rest of the company. Shadows were lengthening by the time they had climbed the hill, but there was still enough light left for the visitors to take stock of the place. The returns made by the first commissioners showed that Maldon had one hundred and eighty houses, most of them belonging to the King and held directly from him by local burgesses. What Gervase had not gleaned from his documents was the fact that the vast majority of dwellings were built of timber. High Street was one long avenue of wood and thatch with only the occasional stone structure to counter the distinctive feel of an old Saxon burh.

Far below them, the Blackwater estuary was patrolled by gulls, oystercatchers, and honking geese. The thick ribbon of water twisted leisurely towards the sea and Gervase could pick out a couple of small boats navigating their way past Osea Island against the tidal flow. The priory stood on a patch of land near the lower end of High Street and thus overlooked the Hythe, the town’s harbour, and its adjacent Church of St. Mary’s. He was fascinated to see the little convent, which seven nuns shared with Prioress Mindred. It was a single-storey building of wood, reinforced with stone and set at right angles to a tiny stone-built chapel. The houses in the town had almost no land attached to them but the priory boasted the best part of an acre, most of it given over to a walled garden. Gervase realised why the property had not been recorded by the first team of commissioners. When they visited Maldon a year or so earlier, the priory had not existed. It was one of many features of the town that the original survey had perforce omitted.

Fatigued by the journey himself, Gervase knew that the two women

must be exhausted but there was no sign of it in their gentle smiles and their upright posture. As travelling companions, they had been pleasant and uncomplaining, although he was still none the wiser about the true purpose of their visit to Barking Abbey. When they reached the gate, Gervase dismounted quickly so that he could help the prioress down from her horse. She thanked him profusely and he turned to perform the same service for Sister Tecla, holding her mount with one hand while offering her the support of the other. Although she said nothing, there was such warm gratitude in her manner that he was amply rewarded. He was no longer being blamed for his earlier overeagerness in questioning her. Sister Tecla had clearly forgiven him.

The gate of the priory opened and a stout figure of middle height

stepped out to greet the two women. Her body seemed about to burst out of her habit but her face was so completely enclosed by her wimple that only a few inches of flesh were visible around a pair of steely eyes. Prioress Mindred allowed no more than a token kiss but Sister Tecla was given a welcoming embrace. It was not extended to Gervase Bret. As the nun’s gaze fell on him, it hardened into abstract hostility.

“This is Sister Gunnhild,” introduced the prioress. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

Gervase inclined his head politely but he got no more than a curt nod in return. Sister Gunnhild was too old to bother with pretence and social nicety. She disliked men.

Like its eccentric owner, Champeney Hall was a weird mixture of Norman and Saxon, with a strong bias towards the former held in check by an unexpected nostalgia for the latter. To all outward appearances, the manor house was the archetypal dwelling of a thegn, a long, low building that was constructed of heavy timber and roofed with shingled wood. Internally, it bore no resemblance to the home that had served the Saxon lord who built it. In those days, the hall was divided into a series of bays, which acted as separate living quarters for the thegn, his family, his servants, his farm labourers, and even some of his livestock. Gilbert Champeney made radical alterations to that scheme of things. His home was neatly partitioned by stone walls with solid doors and he had raised the slope of the roof at the rear of the property so that it was possible to move around each chamber without banging a head against a rafter. A large, two-storey, stone-built wing had been added so that the simplicity of the Saxon hall was offset by the brooding sophistication of a Norman keep.

Gilbert himself was a generous and willing host. “My home is yours, sirs,” he said.

“We are indebted to you, my lord,” said Canon Hubert.

“Indebted,” repeated Brother Simon obsequiously.

Looking around, Ralph shrugged. “Why not burn the whole place down and build a proper Norman manor house?”

“Because this is not Normandy,” replied Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “There is no point in destruction for its own sake. Preserve what is worth preserving-that is my belief. Our king follows the same precept. The Saxons had an established legal code so he largely kept it. They had a sound currency so he retained its organisation. They had an excellent system of taxation so he extended it.” The nervous laugh was more of a snigger this time. “And it is that which has brought you all to Maldon. Taxation. Saxon common sense refined by Norman efficiency. Just like my home.”

Gilbert Champeney was a short, bustling, bald-headed man with watery blue eyes and a mobile face. Now well into his fifties, he still had the boyish enthusiasm for any project in which he was engaged and an uncomplicated ability to enjoy his life. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe that he had, like Ralph, fought with the Conqueror at Hastings. Ralph still had the unmistakable stamp of a soldier, but Gilbert seemed too soft and affable ever to have borne arms. Twenty years of living in Essex had infected him with a fondness for the nation he had helped to displace. The visitors were quick to note that his tunic had a Saxon cut to it and that he was in the process of trying to grow a beard.

“You will no doubt be hungry,” he said. “Yes!” replied Ralph.

“Famished,” said Canon Hubert.

“Then I have a treat for you. Although I have kept a Saxon reeve to run my estate and Saxon men to work it, I felt I could not survive without a Norman cook. He is at this moment roasting some steaks of beef on a spit and preparing a sauce with red wine, juice of Seville oranges, and a pinch each of ground black pepper and ginger.”

Hubert’s stomach rumbled in appreciation. “With a sprinkling of cinnamon?” he said hopefully.

“Of course.”

The canon could believe in Heaven once more.

Gilbert first called for servants to conduct the men to their respective chambers so that they could deposit all the baggage that they had brought with them. The soldiers were also shown to their quarters, much more cramped, but adequate for their purposes. Gervase Bret arrived with the other half of the armed escort in time to join his colleagues for the sumptuous meal. He warmed to their host at once. Gilbert Champeney’s hospitality had been sought because he was one of the few Norman magnates in the area who was not involved in their investigation. While others grabbed what they could and defended their illegal acquisitions with lies, forgeries, or open aggression, the

lord of this manor was content with what he possessed. He had a quality that set him apart from other Norman barons. He needed to live in harmony with the Saxon people. Gilbert wanted to be liked.

“How long will you stay in Maldon?” he said.

“For as long as your cook will favour us,” said Hubert as he stuffed boiled cabbage into his mouth. “We had not thought to find such quality in the food.”

“I cannot eat a thing,” said the emaciated Simon. Hubert grunted. “Then you are a fool.”

“Self-denial is a virtue.”

“Well-fed men have more strength to serve God.”

“You have said that indulgence is a sin, Canon Hubert.”

“Yes, Brother Simon,” conceded the other. “But this is not indulgence. To refuse the offer of such a repast is an insult to the kindness of our host.”

“I go along with that,” said Ralph, sipping wine from his cup. “Hubert and I have at last found something about which we can agree.” He turned back to Gilbert. “To answer your question, my lord, we will remain here until we have finished our allotted work. It is quite straightforward.”

“Whom does it mostly concern?” asked Gilbert. “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

“Then it is not straightforward at all, I fear.”

“Why not?” asked Gervase.

“Hamo has not yet returned from Coutances.”

“Then his elder son must speak for him,” said Ralph. “That, too, presents a slight complication.”

“What is it?”

Gilbert Champeney picked at his teeth and waited till he had their full attention. He enjoyed delivering tidings that would have such an important bearing on the work of the royal commissioners. Another nervous laugh slipped out.

“Guy FitzCorbucion has been murdered.”

“Why are they calling it Domesday Book?” asked Matilda. “That need not trouble you,” said her brother.

“I wish to know, Jocelyn. Tell me.”

“When I have more time.” “It is a simple question.”

“And I will give you a simple answer. In due course.” “Now,” she insisted.

“Matilda …” “Now!”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion clicked his tongue in irritation. He and the steward were about to leave Blackwater Hall when his sister

intercepted them. Matilda was now standing in the doorway to obstruct their exit. The dove-like softness had been shed in favour of a hard-faced persistence. She was frustrated at being excluded from everything of importance that happened on the estate. It was time for her to find out exactly what was going on. Matilda folded her arms and stuck out a combative chin.

“Well?” she demanded.

The two men exchanged a glance. Jocelyn heaved a sigh. “Explain it to her, Fulk,” he said.

“Very well, my lord.”

The steward was a fleshy man in his thirties with a smirking politeness. He had been employed on the demesne long enough to learn all its dark secrets and he was as adept at enforcing his master’s writ among the villeins and serfs on the estate as he was at dealing with the finer points of the manorial accounts. Fulk was not used to having to answer to a woman. It put the merest hint of annoyance into his voice.

“King William calls it a description of England,” he said, “but it is known as the Domesday Book in the shires because it is like the Last Judgement. These commissioners want to know everything.”

Jocelyn was brusque. “There, Matilda. You have had your explanation. Now, stand aside.” “One moment,” she said. “You are in our way.”

“The Last Judgement will weigh our sins. Is that why you are being arraigned? For some sinful acts?”

“We are not being arraigned,” he said defencively.

“Indeed not,” added Fulk smoothly. “Your brother and I merely attend a meeting at the shire hall this afternoon. The town reeve has summoned all people of consequence in Maldon so that we may hear what these commissioners have to say.” He gestured towards the door. “If you prevent us from leaving, we will be late for the gathering and that might be interpreted as a deliberate affront to them.”

She stood her ground. “Who are these commissioners?’’ “Powerful men with a royal warrant,” said Jocelyn. “Father would keep them waiting.”

“I will handle this my way, Matilda.”

“He’d send a dusty answer to the King himself.” “We have to leave. Please excuse us.”

Jocelyn tried to brush past her to get to the door but she shifted her position to block his way once more.

“Where are these commissioners staying?” she asked. “At Champeney Hall.”

She recoiled slightly at the name and her resistance faded at once. Matilda stepped aside to let them pass and stood pensively in the

open doorway as they went down the stone steps into the courtyard. Jocelyn was angry at having been challenged in that way in front of the steward. For the first time in his entire life, he was in a position of real authority at Blackwater Hall and it was being eroded by a mere woman. He loved his sister and he wanted to help her get over the shock of their brother’s sudden death but he could not tolerate such interference. It weakened his standing. He tried to pass off the incident with a forced laugh.

“Women!” he moaned. “They have to be humoured.”

“Sometimes, my lord.”

“Matilda will not be able to hinder us much longer. When my father returns, he will have a surprise for her.”

“I know.”

“He went to Normandy to arrange a marriage for her. Father will bring back the name of her future husband.”

“She needs a man to control her,” said Fulk.

The steward’s tone was deferential but there was an implied rebuke for Jocelyn in his comment. Fulk was more accustomed to the forcefulness of a Hamo or the arrogance of a Guy. He was not so far impressed by the softer edge of Jocelyn FitzCorbucion. The latter winced inwardly and resolved to show greater firmness.

His opportunity came immediately. Grooms had the horses saddled and waiting for them. As the two men mounted, there was a clatter of hooves and eight knights came cantering into the courtyard on their destriers. They reined in their mounts, who stood in a sweating half circle around Jocelyn.

“Have you caught him yet?” he snarled. “No, my lord,” said the captain.

“Search harder.”

“We have been out since first light.” “Find that boy!”

“Wistan ran off the night before last,” explained the captain. “The lad has strong legs. He could be several miles away by now.”

“Widen the search. I want him hunted down.” “Yes, my lord.”

“Question the other slaves.” “We have done so.”

“They must know where he is.” “All of them deny it.”

“Beat the truth out of them!” ordered Jocelyn, waving a fist. “Take more men and continue the search at once. That boy killed my brother. He will pay dearly for that. Get back out there. Look under every stone in the county until you find him!”

Wistan had chosen his escape route well. They would not expect him to be on the island. Throughout the night, the causeway was submerged by the tide and the dark water would deter anyone without a boat and a knowledge of the currents. A whole day had come and gone without any sign of pursuit. Evidently, they were searching on the mainland for a boy who could run instead of on Northey for one who could swim. Well into a second day in hiding, he began to feel a little safer. The island was large and the population sparse. He had over five hundred acres in which to roam. When his food ran out, he could forage for more. Wistan would live from day to day. Survival was all.

With a vague sense of security came a tattered dignity. He had

deceived them. The son of a slave had outwitted the knights from Blackwater Hall. He could never take them on in direct combat because he was hopelessly outnumbered, but he could wrest some smattering of honour from the contest. Wistan could make his father proud of him from beyond the grave. He remembered why Algar had given him his name and what its significance was at the Battle of Maldon. Wistan was a hero. The Vikings had bided their time at the very place where he himself was now lurking. When they were allowed to cross at low tide by means of the causeway, they came up against the full strength of the Saxon fyrd, the army that had been raised to defend the town. Wistan had been at the forefront of the struggle. He had accounted for three Vikings before he was cut down by the invaders.

Guy FitzCorbucion was an invader and he was dead. The boy felt a warm glow inside him every time he savoured that thought. He wanted to destroy all the ravens of Blackwater. They might catch him in the end but he hoped to take full revenge first. Like the Wistan of old, he intended to fight to the death and take some of the vile invaders with him. His own father had shown him the way. Algar had gone down with a last brave show of spirit. As the boy recalled it now, it buttressed his resolution. He thought about the way that he would best like to kill Hamo FitzCorbucion.

A snuffling sound brought him out of his reverie and he huddled into his hiding place in the long grass. They were searching for him on the island, after all. He could see nothing from his burrow but the sound was slowly getting closer. Wistan grabbed the crude knife that was tucked in his belt. He would have to live up to his namesake sooner than he had anticipated but he was not afraid. Excitement made his heart thud and his temples pound. He held his breath as the snuffling got louder and the grass was trampled. He lay curled in a ball until his adversary was almost upon him and then he unwound like a spring, rising up on his knees and using the knife to jab with vicious force.

He caught the sheep a glancing blow on its shoulder and blood oozed swiftly into its fleece. With a leap in the air and a bleat of pain, it went careering across the field to join the rest of the herd. Wistan was both stunned and relieved. He was sorry to have wounded the animal but glad that he had not been run to earth. There was no sign of a human being but sheep were now grazing all over the area. It was time to find a new hiding place. Gathering his meagre belongings, he crept through the grass with the stealth of a fox. Wistan was the quarry in a murder hunt but that prospect did not trouble him any more. It had started to be exhilarating.

The shire hall occupied a prime position near the junction of Silver Street and High Street. Timber-framed and roofed with thatch, it was a large building with a murky interior that smelled in equal parts of dampness, decay, and some unspecified farm animal. A sparrow was hopping along the rafters and spiders had turned the whole of the ceiling into a continuous and interconnecting series of elaborate webs. The walls were roughly plastered and some attempt had been made to decorate them with simple patterns. There were several windows but they seemed to keep out more light than they admitted. The hall was built solely for communal use. Comfort and decoration were after-thoughts.

“I wonder if he will turn up,” mused Ralph Delchard. “Who?” said Gervase Bret.

‘‘Humphrey Goldenbollocks.” “Keep your voice down!”

“We could do with him in tins gloom,” observed Ralph with a glance around. “He can stand on the table here and shed light on the whole business by displaying his golden orbs. The meeting will be illumi-nated by bollock light. Yes, I do hope that Humphrey will come.”

“I am more interested in someone else,” confessed Gervase. “Sister Tecla, by any chance?”

“No, Ralph!”

“She liked you, I could tell.”

“I will probably never see her again.”

“She’ll contrive a tryst somehow,” teased the other. “Nuns do not place their affections lightly.” The musty atmosphere made him cough. “So who are you interested in meeting in this miserable cave of a hall?”

“Tovild.”

“Who?”

“Tovild,” said Gervase. “He is mentioned in the returns a number of times. Tovild the Haunted.”

“What is it that haunts the man?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could it be Humphrey Goldenbollocks?”

“He is too busy haunting Ralph Delchard!”

They traded a laugh and took their seats as Canon Hubert and Brother Simon made their way towards them. The town reeve had been busy. He had not only summoned all interested parties to the meeting, he had arranged for the shire hall to be prepared in readiness for the event. Trestle tables had been set up at one end of the room for the commissioners and chairs had been placed behind them. Ralph took up a central position to reflect his status as leader of the quartet. Gervase sat to one side of him and Hubert to the other. Simon was on the fringe of it all with parchment and writing materials in front of him. Acting as the scribe to the proceedings, he was trying to make himself as invisible as possible. Canon Hubert, by contrast, was more rotundly self-important than ever after another delicious meal at Champeney Hall. He bulked large.

The four of them arrived well before the meeting was due to start so that they could settle in and study once more the various documents relating to the ownership of property in the region. Ralph Delchard also took care with the disposition of his knights. Two of them were stationed outside the main door while the other six stood guard just inside it. Their chain mail had been cleaned, their helmets polished, and their swords freshly sharpened. They made an imposing sight and every visitor would be able to read the message that was implicit in their presence. The royal commissioners were there on serious business.

“Are we ready to receive them?” said Ralph, looking from one colleague to another and receiving affirmative nods from each. “Very well. Let us fight the Battle of Maldon.”

He gave a signal to the captain of his guard and the man stepped out into the street. The townspeople then began to drift in. A clerk had been positioned near the entrance so that he could record the name of everyone who attended. First came the burgesses, local men who owned a house, land, or both and thus had a recognised status in the borough. Only a proportionate number had been invited by the town reeve but others came along out of curiosity and apprehension. Royal commissioners were always bad news. The earlier team had caused immense upset in the town with the vigour of their enquiries and the threat of higher taxation. Saxon burgesses were justifiably resentful. Norman overlords had already seized their property and bled them dry. They wished to know what new impositions this second group of royal officials brought with them.

Benches had been set out and the burgesses took those near the rear of the hall, leaving the ones at the front for persons of greater rank. Many of the Norman magnates were absentee landlords and men like Ranulf Peverel, Hugh de Montfort, and Richard FitzGilbert were represented by their subtenants. Peter de Valognes also had

some holdings in the area but they were not under investigation by the commissioners. When the Sheriff of Essex finally came to Maldon, therefore, it would be to investigate the murder of a prominent Norman and not to quibble over property rights in the shire hall.

The major landowners who put in an appearance did so with a

show of defiance, sweeping into the hall with a clutch of manorial officials around them and lowering themselves onto the front benches with muted truculence. During the visit of the first commissioners, the shire hall had echoed with accusation and counteraccusation and the barons were clearly prepared for further acrimony. Gilbert Champeney was one of the few people present untouched by the prevailing mood of suspicion. Although not called before the commissioners, he nevertheless came to the meeting out of interest and tossed amiable greetings to all and sundry as he made his way to a seat. He was accompanied by his son, Miles, a young man who seemed to have inherited all his father’s good qualities while being spared some of his physical shortcomings. Miles Chanpeney was tall, slim, and poised with a quiet handsomeness that was enhanced by a shock of curly fair hair. His tunic and mantle were very much those of a Norman but, like his father, he seemed at ease among the largely Saxon gathering.

“That has to be Gilbert’s son,” whispered Ralph.

“He was away on business last night,” said Gervase.

“If I was that young and that good-looking, I would be away on business every night!” said the other with an envious chuckle. “So that is Miles Champeney, is it? He seems a fine, upstanding fellow. I judge him to be a fit companion for you, Gervase.”

“For me?”

“He can take you out wenching in the long evenings.” “Ralph!”

“I was like that once, you know. Young and lusty.”

“You still are,” said Gervase. “That is the trouble.”

Ralph let out a peal of laughter that gained everyone’s attention. He waved happily in acknowledgement then looked across at the doorway as a newcomer arrived. It was the man for whom they had all been waiting. Jocelyn FitzCorbucion was only the second son of the fearsome Hamo but he still sent a rustle through the entire hall when he stepped into it. With Fulk at his elbow, he stalked to the front of the hall and took a seat directly in front of the table. When Gilbert gave him a smile of welcome, he replied with a pleasant nod but his manner altered dramatically when he saw Miles Champeney. The two young men glared at each other for a second as if engaged in a private tussle, then Jocelyn turned his head away with the faint leer of someone who felt he had won the encounter. Gervase Bret took particular note of their open antipathy.

Ralph did not need to be told that a FitzCorbucion had answered their summons. It was time to begin. He slapped the table and the heavy murmur died instantly.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a voice at once friendly and admonitory, “let me thank you all for giving us your time this afternoon. We are royal commissioners who have been sent from Winchester on a most important errand. You have a right to know what that errand is and what manner of men have been dispatched to this pleasant town of yours. My name is Ralph Delchard,” he said, “and I am here to judge the fairness of all proceedings that take place. On my right is Canon Hubert of Winchester, a most learned scholar and a most just man. On my left is Gervase Bret, an astute lawyer who will guide us through any disputes with due respect for legality. And at the end of the table is Brother Simon who is our scribe and our touchstone of righteousness.” Gilbert Champeney laughed and Simon blinked in meek astonishment. “We are here to perform a vital task,” continued Ralph. “If you are honest in your answers and straight in your dealings with us, we will not need to remain here too long. Canon Hubert will explain.”

Ralph turned to the prelate, who shuffled his papers. “I will be brief,” he said.

“Praise the Lord for that!” muttered Ralph.

“You will all remember the visit of the first team of royal commissioners.” There was a mutinous growl from the body of the hall and he raised his voice to smother it at birth. “Our predecessors were industrious men who laboured hard to produce the returns for the county of Essex. Those returns were sent to the Treasury in Winchester where they will, in the course of time, be transcribed.” He increased the volume of his address even more. “When certain irregularities have been dealt with. I speak of the illegal acquisition of land.”

More rumblings broke out and Ralph had to thump the table to restore calm. He glanced meaningfully at his men to remind his audience that he had the strength of his knights to enforce order upon the proceedings. When a surly silence fell once more on the hall, Canon Hubert resumed.

“The county of Essex is a quarrelsome place,” he said with unconcealed distaste. “Shire juries and Hundred juries have heard endless cases of invasions, occupations, ablations, and general misappropriations. The work of our predecessors confirmed this distressing picture. An examination of the returns that they made to Winchester has revealed a pattern of random annexation and nowhere is this more evident than in Maldon.” Murmurs of agreement started, but he rode over them like a ship cresting a wave. “King William has sent us here to right any injustices that have come to light. When we have

done that, the returns can be amended before being transcribed by the Exchequer clerks to take their place alongside the records of other shires.”

Ralph let him speak for another ten minutes before he interrupted the garrulous canon. “We are empowered to call any witnesses,” he warned sternly. “No man is too mean to be ignored in our deliberations and no lord too great to refuse our summons.” To emphasise the point, his eye rested for a moment on Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and there was a crackle of enmity between the two of them. “We will begin taking the evidence tomorrow. The following persons will be summoned.”

Gervase Bret took charge and read a list of names from the document in front of him. The burgesses listened with gathering fascination. Every person mentioned was a Saxon whose land had been forcibly annexed by Hamo FitzCorbucion. The lord of the manor of Blackwater had seen off the first commissioners with an amalgam of bluster and easy duplicity. Could four men with a bundle of documents really uphold the rights of dispossessed Saxons against such a mighty Norman presence? Hamo was omnipotent. Hope nevertheless stirred in the shire hall. Ralph Delchard’s force of character, Canon Hubert’s open denunciation of illegality, and Gervase Bret’s steady litany of injured parties served at least to inspire a guarded confidence. Blackwater Hall was no longer the irresistible force it had been for the last twenty years. Hamo FitzCorbucion was in Normandy, his elder son lay dead, and Jocelyn was as yet unproven in a role of authority. Saxons were encouraged to take heart.

“That concludes our business for the afternoon,” said Ralph when the list of witnesses was finally completed. “We start here tomorrow at ten o’clock and we insist on punctuality.”

The meeting broke up in an excited babble and the burgesses streamed into the street to compare their reactions to what they had just heard. Some of the Norman landholders and subtenants also departed, peeved that they had been summoned to the hall for such a perfunctory meeting, but reassured by the fact that the investigations were not directed at their property. A few barons stayed to complain and bicker, but Ralph Delchard waved them away with brisk unconcern. Jocelyn FitzCorbucion was not so easily sent on his way. He stood up to confront the commissioners and he spoke with glacial composure.

“I am here on behalf of my father, Hamo FitzCorbucion,” he said. “When will we have to appear in person before you?”

“When you are called,” said Ralph. “We require ample notice.”

“It is up to us to decide any requirements.”

Jocelyn was unruffled. “Do not try to bully us, my lord. We are not

mindless Saxons who can be herded like sheep. If you wish for cooperation, you will have to ask for it with sufficient courtesy or your request will be denied. We are not at your beck and call.”

“Indeed, you are!” asserted Ralph, rising to his feet. “If you do not come before us when summoned, I will send my men to demand the reason.”

Jocelyn raised a mocking eyebrow. “Eight bold knights? Really, my lord! What can you hope to achieve? If your eight dare to venture near Blackwater Hall, they will find ten times that number asking them their business in round terms. You will need a whole army if you intend to offer force.”

“We are here by royal warrant!”

“Why so are we, my lord. My father sailed from Normandy in the Conqueror’s own ship. He fought at Hastings and he was granted his estates in Maldon as part of his reward. We have charters with the King’s seal upon them.” He gave a shrug. “They are a form of royal warrant, are they not?”

Ralph was taken aback by the bland assurance of the reply and Jocelyn preened himself. He could see that he had put the commissioner on the defensive and, in the process, he had gained the admiration of his steward. Fulk was pleasantly surprised at the lordly tone that Jocelyn was taking. He had always thought him rather weak and ineffective in the past because he was so easily overshad-owed by Guy, but he had clearly underestimated him. Jocelyn might not be as intimidating as his father or as contemptuous of opposition as his brother, yet he had the FitzCorbucion pugnacity, albeit it in a more civilised form.

Gervase Bret came quickly to Ralph’s assistance.

“We are not concerned with land that was granted to your father in

1066,” he said to Jocelyn. “Our interest is in the frequent annexations that have taken place in the past twenty years.”

“They, too, can be supported by charter,” said Jocelyn. “We will put that claim to the test.”

“When we decide to call you,” added Ralph firmly.

“We will vindicate ourselves,” came the confident reply. “If, that is, we decide to answer your summons.”

“Would you offer an insult to the King!” growled Ralph.

“He is not here to be insulted, my lord.” “We speak for him!”

“I think you exceed your authority somewhat.” Jocelyn was almost taunting them now. “Your predecessors did the same and my father had to teach them some geography. Maldon is a very long way from Winchester.”

Ralph went puce with indignation. “Do you dare to flout royal commissioners?” he roared.

“God forbid!” exclaimed the other. “I simply remind you that you are in FitzCorbucion territory here. If I summon our men, they will come running in their dozens: If you call for the Conqueror’s soldiers, your voice will not reach all the way to Winchester.”

“Do not threaten me-boy!” said Ralph vehemently.

“I merely suggest that you treat us with respect.” “And I warn you to do the same to us.”

“Of course.”

Jocelyn gave him a thin smile and a gentle bow. He was relishing his taste of power and felt completely in control of the situation. Before Ralph could upbraid the young man for his impudence, Gervase intervened to deflect them. An argument with the FitzCorbucion family at this stage was pointless and it would not advance their cause in any way. He therefore introduced a more diplomatic note.

“We are sorry to learn of the tragedy at Blackwater Hall, my lord,”

he said. “That will be borne in mind.”

“Why, yes,” said Jocelyn, reminded of something that had gone completely from his mind. “It weighs heavily upon us.”

“Then we will try not to add to your burden. You have our sympathy

and we will show some forbearance.” Ralph gurgled at his elbow. “Has the sheriff been informed?”

“Word was sent yesterday to Colchester.” “Is he on his way to the town?”

“Alas, no,” said Jocelyn uneasily. “Peter de Valognes is in the middle of Hertfordshire at this time, over three days’ ride from here. We cannot look for his assistance yet. We may not, in any case, need it.”

“Why?” asked Gervase.

“Because we have identified the killer.” “Is he in custody?”

“He soon will be,” said Jocelyn, anxious to discard a topic that had subtly robbed him of the initiative. “But this is a private matter for our family and does not concern you in any way. Excuse us.” He mustered his dignity and strode away with Fulk at his heels, pausing in the doorway to deliver a final comment. “We will not obstruct your work here in Maldon as long as you do not, in any way, intrude upon our grief.”

They went swiftly out and left Ralph Delchard fuming.

“I’ll intrude upon his grief!” he vowed. “Give me a sword and I’ll add to it. Who does this young upstart think he is? Damnation! He’s barely old enough to shave his chin.”

“You were wrong to bandy words with him,” said Canon Hubert censoriously. “It is Hamo FitzCorbucion that we must stalk and not this whelp. Why waste time on a cub when we need to kill the lion itself?”

“I’ll take no lectures on hunting from you, Hubert,” said Ralph with

asperity. “When did you ever track down an animal? This boy had to be put in his place.”

“Then it is a pity you did not do it.”

Ralph simmered and Gervase stepped in to prevent yet another argument between the two commissioners from getting out of hand. A few inquisitive burgesses still lingered near the door and the town reeve was hovering with a document in his hand. It was important to present a united front to the people of Maldon and not to squabble in front of them. Canon Hubert allowed the tactful intervention but his reproaches were only postponed. When he and Ralph were next alone, he would tax him with his shortcomings. Hubert rose to his feet with a disapproving smile and swept off towards the door with Brother Simon scurrying after him and trying to poke the last of the documents hastily into his leather satchel.

Gervase beckoned the reeve and took the document from him before dismissing him with polite thanks. The soldiers cleared the strag-glers out of the hall so that only the two commissioners remained there.

The becalmed Ralph Delchard was rueful.

“It pains me to admit this but-Hubert was right.”

His friend nodded. “You should not have lost your temper with that young man.”

“He annoyed me, Gervase.”

“Deliberately.”

“I had to respond.” “Not in that way.”

“God’s tits, I’ll not let anyone dictate terms to me!”

“That is why he tried to do so.”

“Jocelyn FitzCorbucion threw open defiance at me.”

“Couched in moderate language,” noted Gervase. “He is a clever advocate who knows the value of keeping a cool head. I look forward to meeting him in legal argument.”

“If he will deign to grace us with his presence,” said Ralph with heavy sarcasm. “Did you hear what that verminous rogue actually dared to do? He threatened us.”

“No, he gave himself away.” “What do you mean?”

“He used his weapon of last resort first, Ralph. If he was that secure in argument, he would not need to thrust his superior numbers at us.”

“That is true enough.”

“I think he was simply aping his father.”

“Yes, Hamo FitzCorbucion is the real malefactor here.”

“He is expected back very soon,” said Gervase, “so we will be able to take on father and son together. When they have buried another

member of the family.” His face puckered in thought for a moment. “That was another curious thing. When I asked him about his brother, he needed a second to remember that Guy FitzCorbucion was dead. Would you so easily forget a brother who had been cruelly murdered?” “I’d not shake off the loss of any loved one,” said Ralph soulfully. “When my wife died trying to bring our son into this world, I mourned for a year or more. Nothing could console me, Gervase. I was destroyed.” “You could not say the same of this Jocelyn. He warned us not to intrude upon a grief that did not exist until I jogged his memory about

it. What does that tell you?” “He hated his brother.”

“It may go deeper even than that.” “In what way?”

“I have this feeling …” “You are missing Alys!”

Gervase ignored the affectionate gibe. “We must look into this murder very closely,” he said. “It will tell us a great deal about the FitzCorbucion family and it may-if my instinct is sound-have a direct bearing on our work here.”

“How?”

“Wait and see.”

“But Jocelyn told us he had already solved the murder.” “He was at pains to make us think he had, Ralph.” “Why?”

“So that he could brush the subject aside,” reasoned Gervase. “Put yourself in his position, Ralph. Would you have attended a meeting such as this when a brother had recently been killed?”

“I’d have sent my steward to represent me.” “Then why did Jocelyn turn up?”

“To show off his claws and threaten to scratch.”

“To prove himself,” said Gervase. “Guy’s death is not the source of grief it would be for any other brother. It is just a convenient excuse that can be used against us.”

“I take your point. There is matter here.” “We must probe it to the full.”

“We will,” said Ralph with a hollow laugh. “When they have the funeral for Guy FitzCorbucion, I will wait until the gravedigger has done his office and then borrow his spade.”

“His spade?”

“To dig up all the other bodies that Hamo has buried.” “There will be enough of them, Ralph, I promise you.”

They made to leave and Gervase glanced at the document that the town reeve had given him. It was the list of all the people who had attended the meeting in the shire hall and he ran his eye quickly over it. Disappointment made him purse his lips and shake his head sadly.

“What is the matter?” said Ralph. “He did not come to the meeting.” “Who?”

“Tovild the Haunted.”

“You are obsessed with this man, Gervase.”

“A passing interest, no more.” He handed the list to his companion. “Your friend, however, was here.”

“My friend?”

“Humphrey Aureis testiculi.” “You jest with me.”

“He was here, I tell you. Look at those names.”

Ralph did so and one of them jumped right out at him. “Humphrey! He exists! He was in this very room!”

“And you did not even notice him,” chided Gervase.

“I was too busy,” said Ralph, almost distraught. “He was here in front of my nose and I missed him. I will not rest until I know.” He executed a dance of delight. “By all, this is wonderful! Goldenbollocks is real!”

“He is-and they are.”

“You saw him?”

“He was not difficult to pick out.” “In the flesh?”

“Humphrey sat in the middle of the hall,” said Gervase with mock

seriousness, enjoying a chance to tease Ralph for a change. “I singled him out at once.”

“But the place was full of people. How ever did you recognise my

Humphrey in that crowd?” “Easily.”

“By intuition?”

“No,” said Gervase. “Latin translation.”

Ralph Delchard shook with mirth for fifteen minutes.