Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Five

The day began early at Champeney Hall. Guests of such standing and in such number imposed considerable extra burdens and the servants were up before dawn to clean the house, prepare the table, and serve the breakfast. The visitors, too, were soon out of their beds to wash themselves before sitting down to a meal of frumenty, enriched with egg yolks and a flavouring of dried saffron, and watered ale. Canon Hubert had recovered completely from his overindulgence the previous evening and attacked his food with his customary relish, but Brother Simon, stricken with guilt at his enjoyment of the banquet, and fearing that it was the first sign of moral decay, sat in his place like a repen-tant sinner and refused even to slake his thirst with water. The two of them went off for an hour of prayer and contemplation before they addressed their minds to the temporal commitments that lay ahead of them.

Gervase Bret returned to the chamber, which he shared with Ralph, so that he could once again study the documents around which all their deliberations in the shire hall would revolve. It was laborious but highly rewarding work. Under his expert scrutiny, simple facts about property ownership yielded a complex story of fraud, misappropriation, and violent seizure. A bewildering set of figures gave him a clear picture in his mind of the geography of the whole area. Bare names like Tovild the Haunted and Reginald the Gross helped to people the landscape and define the character of Maldon. The first commissioners had been regarded with the obedient derision that greeted all royal tax collectors but the returns that they had brought to the Treasury in Winchester, and that were set down in abbreviated Latin, were an ornate tapestry of English life to the discerning eye of a man like Gervase.

Ralph Delchard had never heard of Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule of St. Benedict and he would have been astounded to learn that one of his own beliefs had monastic authority, but he was convinced that idleness was bad for the body and soul of his knights. It was important to keep them alert and well disciplined at all times. If the threatened invasion of the Danes had, in fact, taken place, Ralph would have been called to lead his knights into battle and their military worth would have been put to the test. He was determined that his men would not be found wanting in any emergency. Ralph had planned to take them on an invigorating gallop before putting them through some training exercises with sword and lance. Gilbert Champeney’s invitation to go hawking was thus particularly welcome because it enabled Ralph to combine a ride with his men and an hour’s sport.

“What have we caught so far?” he asked.

“Duck, pigeon, and pheasant,” said Gilbert, glancing at the game bag, which his servant carried. “They will make fine dishes during your stay with us. Canon Hubert tells me he is partial to hare as well.”

“Hubert will eat anything that moves,” said Ralph. “My cook has a magical touch with hares.”

“I prefer rabbit. I wish King William would bring more of them over

from Normandy. They breed well and are easier to catch.” Ralph winked at him. “Hubert gobbled them up by the dozen when he was serving the Lord in Bec.”

“We must keep the Church happy.”

They had ridden a few miles from the manor house and were on the edge of a small wood. Miles Champeney had joined them and his falcon was the most deadly of all the hunting birds. Ralph watched the young man as he un-hooded the creature yet again and flicked his arm so that the falcon left its leather perch and shot into the sky. It did not need to fly very far. Hovering above a clearing in the wood, it saw something that sharpened its instinct and concentrated all its fierce attention. The steady beat of its wings suddenly changed, its neck stretched forward, and it hurtled towards the ground with fran-tic speed. Through a cluster of trees, Ralph was just able to pick out a glimpse of its quarry as talons of steel sank into frenzied fur.

“I think you may have found your hare, Gilbert.” “Give the credit to my son.”

“He has a rare talent for hawking.”

“Hawking, hunting, and chasing women.” Ralph sighed with nostalgia. “The bounty of youth!”

“And the consolation of old age.”

Ralph chortled in appreciation. When the sport was over, the hunting party set off in the direction of Champeney Hall with a full game bag. Partridge and squirrel had also been killed, although the latter was discarded as unsuitable for the larder. Under their captain, the seven knights rode off hard and left the rest of the company to return at a more sedate pace. Ralph rode between father and son. Gervase had told him what he had learned about Miles Champeney and his friend was fascinated to know more. He tried to disguise his enquiries behind a chuckling jocularity.

“You are a true falconer, Miles,” he observed. “I like the sport.”

“Every man should have a hawk and hounds,” said Ralph. “If I were

back on my estate in Hampshire, I would be out hunting right now. The King’s business has robbed me of that delight. I am grateful that I have been able to snatch this hour of pleasure with you and your father.”

“We mean to make you enjoy your stay,” said the genial Gilbert. “Is that not so, Miles?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Guests from the King are always welcome.”

“We have been blessed by our host,” said Ralph. “You keep a splendid house, Gilbert, and you know how to take the most out of this life of ours.”

“I love Maldon. It is the next best thing to Heaven.” “Your son may not agree.”

“Why?” asked Miles.

“Because the town has less to offer a sprightly young man like yourself,” said Ralph. “Maldon is full of Saxon women and celibate nuns. They are like the squirrel that your falcon caught-pretty to look at but hardly fit for the larder. How can you practise the arts of dalliance without a supply of fair maids?”

“We do not lack beautiful women, my lord,” said Miles with a defensive note. “They are here in plenty.”

“I have not seen them,” said Ralph. “They must be hiding behind

their doors in the town or behind their veils at the priory.” He paused for a moment then gave his companion a knowing nudge. “But you are right, Miles. There must be some ladies hereabouts who can make a man’s blood race. He found them, after all.”

“He?”

“Guy FitzCorbucion.” “Why do you say that?”

“Because it is what everybody else says,” explained Ralph. “Your

father among them. Guy was a ladies’ man. He had a reputation for liberality and spread his love around.”

“Guy was as lecherous as a monkey,” agreed Gilbert.

“Then the town must be full of lovely ladies. Unless he was the kind of man to take his pleasures with servant-girls and other poor wretches who were afraid to disobey him.” He looked across at Miles. “What do you think? I know we should not speak ill of the dead but then I do not hold carnal desire to be a sin, so it is no stain on his character. What was Guy really like, Miles?”

“You must ask of others, my lord.”

“But I am told you knew him well.” “Too well.”

Miles Champeney gave a nod of farewell then nudged his horse into a trot until he caught up to the servant who was carrying the wooden pole on which all of the hawks were perched and tethered. Ralph was disappointed. He had learned no more from him than Gervase. As before, it was Gilbert who tried to account for his son’s behaviour.

“It is a difficult time for Miles,” he explained. “He is not usually as

uncivil as this. There is much on his mind and it has made him withdraw into himself. Guy’s murder was bound to cause him anxiety.”

“Anxiety?”

“Yes, Ralph. He may be called to give evidence.” “Called? By whom?”

“The sheriff and his officers.”

“But Miles is not involved in the killing.” “They will want to make sure of that.”

“The murderer has already been named,” said Ralph. “A boy called Wistan whose father was struck down by Guy. They are combing the area now for the lad.”

“Yes,” said Gilbert, “and if they catch him and get a confession out of him, nobody will be more relieved than Miles. But I am not at all sure that this Wistan is the culprit. How could he get close enough to Guy to perpetrate such a foul crime? And what could a boy do against a man who was bigger, stronger, and properly armed?”

“Oslac the Priest thinks that Wistan is innocent.” “I agree with Oslac.”

“Then let us assume he is right.” “If the boy did not do the deed …” “Someone else did.”

“In which case, they will need to question Miles.”

“But why?” said Ralph. “Your son is no killer. Why on earth should the sheriff wish to bother him in any way?”

“Because of a certain incident.”

“Yes. Gervase told me about the fight.” “Did he tell you what caused it?”

“What often causes fights between young men,” said Ralph with

easy cynicism. “A young woman.” “Guy’s sister. Matilda.”

“Your son wishes to marry her.” “Madness!”

“And Matilda seems to requite his love.” “Chaos! It breaks my old heart, Ralph.”

“But you have still not told me why the sheriff and his officers may come looking for Miles. What has he done?”

“When they came to blows,” explained Gilbert, “there were witnesses. They heard what Guy said and they will be duty bound to

report it. Miles did not go in search of trouble that day. He went- against my advice-to see Matilda but her brother caught them together. An argument started and a fight developed. They had to be pulled apart.”

“What was it that Guy said?”

“He vowed that Miles would never marry his sister.” “Were those his exact words?”

“No,” admitted Gilbert. “What he actually said to my son was ‘As long as I live, you will never come near Matilda. I would die sooner than let you touch her.’ Now do you see why Miles is so vexed? He had the best reason of all to kill Guy FitzCorbucion.”

They were waiting for him at the quayside and he could read the disaster in their faces. As soon as the ship was sighted from the house, Jocelyn FitzCorbucion and the steward mounted their horses and rode to the harbour to meet it. They could see Hamo in the prow of the ship, waving happily to them and shouting something that was lost in the wind. When he got close enough to see their dour expressions, the waving stopped and the shouting was directed at the captain as Hamo vainly demanded greater speed from the craft. A successful visit to Coutances and a relatively calm voyage back across the channel had put him in a buoyant mood but it turned to black anger before he even set foot again on English soil. Bad tidings awaited him and Guy’s absence alerted him. The favourite son should certainly have been there to meet the returning father. As the stout bulwark rubbed the quayside in greeting, Hamo jumped nimbly ashore before the first rope had even been tied to steady the ship.

There was no point in delaying the news until they were in a more private place. Hamo FitzCorbucion demanded to know the truth there and then. Jocelyn told him. His father was completely dazed. He refused to believe what he had heard. His elder son, who modelled himself so closely on Hamo, who had his energy, his ambition, and his ruthlessness, who shared his vision in every way, and who stood to inherit Blackwater Hall in the fullness of time, this son, Guy, who had been so strong and unquenchable, was now lying dead. Killed by the son of a slave. It was quite inconceivable. All his love and his hope had been placed on Guy. His wife was now dead, his other son less worthy, his daughter less important, so it was Guy who bore the blessing of his pride and affection.

Hamo FitzCorbucion was a stocky man of moderate height with the narrow, hook-nosed face of a predator and yellow eyes that glared from beneath a mop of black hair. As he fought to accept and understand the dreadful news, his head dropped, his shoulders hunched, and his whole body sagged, but he did not stay like that for long. As incredulity gave way to pain, it was in turn replaced by a cold rage that started deep inside him and slowly coursed through his entire being until he was simply pulsing with fury.

“Where is he?” Hamo asked.

“At the mortuary,” said Jocelyn. “Take me to him.”

“You need time to prepare yourself first.” “Take me to him.”

“Father, there’s something I’ve not told you about-”

“I’ve heard enough!” howled Hamo, grabbing him by the throat and shaking him violently. “God’s wounds, Jocelyn! You say that Guy is dead. You tell me my son has been murdered. Take me to him now!” Jocelyn abandoned all hope of further explanation and led his father to the horse, which they had brought for him. All three of them were soon cantering towards the hill. They went past the priory, past the Church of St. Peter’s, and up to the dark shape of the Church of All Souls’. Oslac was taking confession but Hamo’s urgency brooked no delay and he raised his voice to such a pitch of anger inside the nave that the priest had to break off and calm him down. A sinful parishioner was sent on his way only half-shriven so that the lord of the manor of Blackwater could be conducted to the mortuary to view the remains of his son.

Oslac unlocked the heavy door and led the way into the dark, dank, little chamber, which was filled with the stench of decay. Herbs and fresh rushes had been placed around the slab to freshen the atmosphere but they were unable to compete with the reek of rotting flesh. Hamo retched.

“Dear God in heaven!” he exclaimed.

Oslac steadied him with an arm and Jocelyn moved in to support him as well but he soon shook them both away. He needed no help with a father’s duty. The body lay on the cold slab beneath a thin shroud. Candles burned at its head and feet. Oslac had washed the corpse and tended its wounds but blood and filth still oozed out to stain the material. Hamo was overwhelmed with nausea and contempt. A son who had come into the world to such wealth and advantage was ending it in a fetid cavern that smelled of his own corruption. He reached forward to take the edge of the shroud and peeled it back to reveal the face. Guy FitzCorbucion did not rest in peace. His face was contorted with pain and his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. Hamo let out a low moan and swayed to and fro.

When he steadied himself, he tried to pull back the shroud even further but Oslac the Priest stopped him with gentle firmness.

“You have seen enough, my lord,” he suggested. “Take your hand from me,” hissed the other. “Guy was most cruelly slain.”

“I wish to see my son.”

Oslac gave a little bow and stepped away. Hamo drew back the material and saw the worst. The two candles were throwing an uncertain light and much of the horror was lost in the shadows but Hamo saw enough to appall him even more. Deep gashes covered the muscular torso and the most hideous mutilation had been practised. With a cry of anguish, Hamo pulled the shroud back over the corpse to hide its shame and stormed out of the mortuary towards his horse.

Jocelyn and Fulk could hardly keep up with him. “Has the murderer been caught yet!” he screamed. “He soon will be, Father.”

“Where is he?”

“The search continued at first light.” “Why haven’t you found him, you idiot!” “It is only a question of time.”

“I want him!” growled Hamo.

“We have dozens of men out looking,” said the steward.

“Yes,” said Jocelyn. “The sheriff and his officers will be here to help in a couple of days.”

“I need no sheriff,” sneered Hamo. “I’ll deal with the killer my

way. I want him now. I’ll find that boy if I have to search every corner of the shire for him myself. And when I get my hands on him, I’ll show him what FitzCorbucion vengeance is like.” He was leaping into the saddle now. “I’ll pull off his ears. I’ll gouge out his eyes. I’ll stuff his pizzle down his throat.” He looked back at the morgue. “Nobody does that to my son. I’ll cut the devil into tiny strips and feed them to the ravens!”

Hamo FitzCorbucion galloped off to Blackwater Hall.

The commissioners arrived at the shire hall well before the appointed hour so that they could organise themselves properly for what promised to be a long and exacting day. They were due to hear a series of witnesses whose land had been taken away in a variety of ways by a grasping baron. Their predecessors had identified the abuse without being able to do anything about it and it was up to the second team of royal officers to rectify this situation. The town reeve had prepared everything for them and had even set out some jugs of wine and a plate of honey cakes in case they needed refreshment. Revived by their early-morning exercise, all eight knights were stationed at the rear of the hall. After discussing the broad lines of their approach, the commissioners took their places behind the table as before and set the documentary evidence in front of them. Jostling for position started immediately.

“Introduce me and stand aside,” said Canon Hubert with an imperious flick of the hand. “I will take charge of the business of the day.”

“You will wait your turn, Hubert,” insisted Ralph. “I preside here.” “But I will speed up the whole process.”

“Haste would be an injustice,” said Gervase reasonably. “The people we have called deserve a full hearing and an impartial judgement. We can give neither if we are trying to hurry them along. Law is a tortoise and not a hare.”

“That is very well put,” said Brother Simon. “Be quiet, man,” said Hubert.

“Tortoise and hare.”

“Who sought your opinion?”

“We are delighted to hear it, Simon,” said Ralph. “And we are glad that you side with us for a change. Were we to take a vote on this matter, three of us would outweigh one of Hubert. Although if he eats his way through any more meals at Champeney Hall, he’ll outweigh the whole household.”

“I merely draw attention to my superior abilities,” said Hubert with a supercilious air. “I bring the power of the Church to bear on the proceedings.”

“That is my fear,” said Ralph. “God will hear your blasphemy.”

“I am relieved to know that he still listens to me.”

“My presence here is crucial.”

“It is certainly welcome, Canon Hubert,” said Gervase without irony. “You were rightly chosen for your legal acumen and you lend a gravity to this tribunal that is only proper, but I would remind you that we are engaged in a civil dispute and not an ecclesiastical one.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Not again!” groaned Ralph.

“We are about to move into a spiritual sphere.”

“How can a civil action have spiritual connotations?” said Gervase with curiosity. “I have read all the relevant charters and I perceive no sign of them.”

“Then you have not seen the wood for the trees.” “Please explain,” said Gervase.

“In a single sentence,” pleaded Ralph.

“I may do it in a single phrase, my lord, and it is one that you yourself used only yesterday in this very hall.”

“What was it?”

“The Battle of Maldon.”

“Yes,” agreed Ralph. “Invaders versus Saxons.”

“Look closer,” said Hubert with booming condescension. “The bulk of our work involves annexations made by one particular person. We have set aside the whole of today to hear Saxon witnesses contesting with a Norman lord.”

“The town of Maldon against Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

“No!” said Hubert, clapping his hands suddenly together for effect and making Brother Simon sit up in alarm. “What you see is merely the civil action-Maldon against Hamo: What I see is the spiritual- good against evil.”

“Stop playing with words, Hubert,” said Ralph.

“Good against evil,” he reiterated. “They are abstracts,” said Gervase.

“Wait until you meet him,” warned Hubert. “We only saw the younger son in this hall yesterday but even he exuded a sense of natural wickedness. When his father appears before us, you will not think him an abstraction.”

“Perhaps not,” said Ralph with light sarcasm. “It is as well that we have you on hand to exorcise any demons.”

“Do not mock, sir. You will need a force for goodness.”

“We have one,” argued Gervase. “It is called the rule of law.” Brother Simon piped up. ‘It is named Canon Hubert.”

“It is a combination of both,” announced the prelate. “That is why I

am your chief weapon in this trial of strength. No man here could question my goodness. When Hamo FitzCorbucion enters this hall, you will be in the presence of evil made manifest.”

“Save your sermons for another day, Hubert,” said Ralph dismissively. “The people of Maldon need practical help, not windy moralising from you. Let us get on with our work.”

He gave a signal to one of the soldiers at the rear of the hall and the man went smartly out through the door. The commissioners readied themselves. Ralph Delchard sat bolt upright in his chair, Gervase Bret looked through the list of names, Canon Hubert inflated himself to his full pomposity, and Brother Simon lifted his quill pen in anticipation. But nothing happened. They were expecting over twenty witnesses to come flooding into the hall with their claims but not one appeared. Minutes elapsed and there was still no surge. Ralph grew impatient. His command had the power of royal warrant behind it and he had ordered a prompt start. He was about to dispatch a second man in search of the witnesses when the first came back rather shamefacedly.

“Where are they?” demanded Ralph. “They are not here, my lord.”

“Twenty-four were summoned for ten o’clock.” “They have not come.”

“None of them?”

“One or two only,” said the man, “and even they are hesitating to appear before you. They are fearful.”

“They have no need to fear us,” affirmed Ralph. “We are here to

help them regain their land.”

“It is not you that they fear, my lord.”

“Then who is it?”

“Hamo FitzCorbucion. He is back in Maldon.”

“I warned you,” said Hubert in self-righteous tones. “Evil stalks the town. We must fight it with goodness.”

“We will fight it with the King’s writ,” said an irate Ralph, rising

to his feet before addressing his full complement of knights. “Go outside and bring them in here. Then fetch the town reeve so that he can conduct you to the homes of those who have dared to resist our summons. I want every one of them inside this hall within the hour. Do not stand on ceremony.” He stamped a foot. “Drag them here!”

The soldiers went out at speed and Ralph Delchard sat down. Gervase Bret was disappointed at the setback and Brother Simon was deeply disturbed. Canon Hubert, however, was quietly congratulating himself on his correct assessment of the problem that confronted them.

“You will need the power of my goodness now,” he said with a complacent sniff. “True evil has returned.”

Matilda waited on the fringe of her father’s displeasure and felt a pang of sympathy for her brother. Jocelyn was bearing the full brunt of his father’s wrath.

“You are to blame for all this!” roared Hamo. “I do not accept that, Father.”

“When Guy was missing, you should have searched.”

“I am not my brother’s keeper.” “You might have saved him.” “That is highly unlikely.”

“Yet you did nothing!” Hamo was livid. “You turned your back on him. When Guy was away for that first night, you should have wanted to know the reason why.”

“I thought that I already did, Father.” “You let your brother down!”

“That is not true.” “You betrayed him!”

“No,” said Jocelyn without flinching. “Guy often spent a night or two away from here when it suited him and we both know where he went. He would not have thanked me for going after him each time and disturbing his latest rendezvous.” He gestured towards his sister. “Matilda will vouch for me. I assumed that Guy was taking his pleasure somewhere and I said as much when she pressed me to go in pursuit of him. It was not my place to organise a search party to find out which bed my brother was in.”

“You should have cared!”

Hamo FitzCorbucion was still shaking but his anger had abated slightly. There was reason in Jocelyn’s argument and he was defending himself with controlled vigour that was impressive. In the past, the younger son would have buckled in front of his father’s tirade but he was standing up to it well and showing something of Guy’s spirit. It made Hamo pause to consider. He had lost one fine son but another seemed to be emerging. It was a small consolation.

Jocelyn was anxious to prove his mettle to the full.

“We have another problem, Father.” “All else pales beside this.”

“Royal commissioners are in town,” said Jocelyn. “They have come to vex us. Blackwater Hall is the main subject of their enquiries and they mean to prosecute their case against us with zeal.”

“Ignore them!”

“They will not easily be ignored.” “Then defy them.”

“I have already taken action,” said Jocelyn coolly. “Fulk and I appeared before them yesterday at the shire hall and let them know who we are. They were left in no doubt about the power of the FitzCorbucion name.”

“Good,” said Hamo.

“Several witnesses were due to be called against us this morning,” continued Jocelyn. “Yesterday evening, I sent Fulk out with a dozen men at his back to visit these same witnesses. He did not even have to speak to most of them.”

Hamo smiled for the first time since his return. His son had done exactly what he himself would have done. He gave him a pat of appreciation on the shoulder. Jocelyn chose the moment to advance his claims.

“Take me with you, Father,” he asked. “When you are called before these commissioners, let me be your advocate. I know that I can confound them. Guy was the stronger of us but I am the more cunning. I have studied hard. My brain is agile enough to fend off these royal officers and to send them on their way. Have me beside you, Father.” Fatigue began to clutch at Hamo and he looked drawn. The voyage from Normandy had tired him and the news about Guy was like a physical blow that left him bruised. His initial rage had spent itself and weariness set in.

“I will think about it, Jocelyn,” he promised. “You will not regret it. If you let me-”

“No more,” interrupted Hamo. “I will think.”

Jocelyn was satisfied. He had survived the tempest of his father’s anger and gained a purchase on his attention. It was progress. Since nothing more could be achieved, he backed his way out with the excuse that he was going to join the search for the killer who was still at large. Hamo waved him off. He was about to climb the stairs to the gallery when Matilda glided across the hall towards him. Her father blinked in astonishment. He had hardly noticed that she was there.

“We have given you a poor welcome home,” she said. “Leave me be, Matilda.”

“But I wish to speak with you, Father.” “I need to be alone with my thoughts.” “This will not take a moment.”

“Talk to me later.” “It will not keep.”

“I have no time for you now,” he said, walking towards the stairs.

“Hold off a day or two at least.” “No, Father!”

She got to the steps first and blocked his path. His eye kindled with irritation but she did not move aside. Hamo was not used to such a display of temper from her.

“Out of my way, Matilda.”

“I share your worries,” she said. “I grieve with you over Guy’s death. I am as concerned as you must be about what these royal commissioners may do. You are bound to be oppressed and I feel that same oppression.” She touched him lightly on the arm. “But I have worries of my own.”

“This is not the time,” he whispered.

“I know why you went to Coutances. I heard the jokes. I heard them laughing at me behind my back.” She took her hand away and drew herself up. “Your visit concerned me.”

“Among other things.”

“Am I not to be told what transpired?’’

“Yes,” he said. “When I am ready to tell you.” “This is important to me, Father. I have a right.” “The only right you have is to obey me.”

“You went to Coutances to find me a husband.” “Matilda …”

“But I have already found one for myself.”

“That’s enough!” he said.

“There is only one man I wish to marry.” “Your wishes do not come into it.”

“Miles Champeney is my-”

“Silence!” His bellow sent her cowering away. “Guy has been murdered. Some slave has dared to hit out at Blackwater Hall. Royal commissioners are in the town to harry me with their questions. And I have to listen to your bleating!”

“All I wish to ask is-”

“It is settled,” he said peremptorily. “The marriage has been arranged. You will sail for Coutances in six weeks. No father more willingly parted with his daughter.”

Matilda stepped forward again but he brushed her aside and went up the stairs. Her cries of protest followed him but he was deaf to all entreaty. He walked along the gallery and in through a door before closing it behind him to keep out the sound of her complaint. Hamo was in Guy’s chamber. He seemed to sense his son’s presence. Jocelyn’s apartment was full of books but Guy was a true soldier. Swords and shields decorated the walls. The bed was covered with the skins of animals he had killed in the hunt. Jocelyn had carved himself a chess set out of wood but Guy had fashioned knives and arrowheads out of a stag’s antlers. Guy had lived in his father’s image. As Hamo looked sadly around, a first tear began to form.

He crossed to kneel beside the oak chest where Guy kept his most treasured belongings. The key was in the lock. It did not need to be hidden away. Nobody would steal from Guy FitzCorbucion. Servants would not even dare to enter the chamber without his permission. Turning the key and lifting the lid, Hamo sorted his way gently through the contents. He took out fine apparel and a whole assortment of weapons. He found brooches, handkerchiefs, and other keepsakes from the ladies in his son’s life. There were rings and bracelets and a large drinking horn. Hamo saw everything he had expected to find except the object he most wished to see. It was not there. He searched again more thoroughly and lay everything on the floor beside him until the chest was empty. But it was still missing.

Jumping to his feet, he scoured the room to see if it was kept somewhere else but there was no sign of it. He went over to the ransacked chest again and picked through the objects on the floor with increasing frenzy. The one that he wanted had gone. The precious heirloom, which his wife had left in her will to her eldest son, was missing. Hamo’s fatigue had lifted. Fresh anger seized him. He grabbed the lid and slammed it down with such force that the sound echoed throughout the whole house. The most valuable item in the chest had been taken. It was like a further mutilation of the body of Guy FitzCorbucion.

Prioress Mindred polished the cup with loving care then set it beside the crucifix on the tiny altar in her quarters. The silver chalice sparkled afresh and she allowed herself a few minutes to admire its quality. The workmanship was truly superb. Tall and elegant, the chalice had the most intricate designs etched into its gleaming surface and they were thrown into sharp relief by the four rubies that had been set into the silver with equidistant care. Mindred could only guess at its cost but she was more concerned with its value to her little community. Poverty was enjoined upon the holy sisters but Mass

deserved to be celebrated with the finest chalice and paten. Anything less was an insult to the Almighty. The prioress glanced at the crucifix and then genuflected before crossing herself in gratitude.

There was a gentle tap on her door. She opened it. “Come in, Sister Tecla,” she invited.

“You sent for me, Reverend Mother?” “Indeed I did. Please sit down.”

Mindred closed the door while Tecla lowered herself onto a stool so that her back was to the altar. The prioress gave a sweet smile and sat opposite her.

“It is good to be back in Maldon, is it not?” she said. “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“God watched over us on our journey.”

“God and St. Oswald.”

“We must never forget the blessed saint,” agreed the older woman. “Shall I make a confession to you?”

“You are the one to receive confession.”

“I have sins of my own, Sister Tecla,” said Mindred with a wry expression. “Although I cannot believe that this thought is in any way sinful except that it shows too much ambition.”

“Ambition?”

“I wish I had taken the veil at your age.”

Sister Tecla was not quite sure how to react to this disclosure. It aroused somewhat mixed feelings in her own breast but she was in no mood to discuss those at that moment and so she opted for an obedient nod and a modest enquiry.

“Is that your only confession, Reverend Mother?”

“It is but the beginning,” explained the other. “If I had entered a religious house when I was young and strong enough, I would have prayed to God to put my youth and my strength to some real purpose. I could have fulfilled my ambition and kept the memory of St. Oswald alive in his own part of the country.”

“Northumbria?”

“That name has perished along with so much else. But I would have tried to revive some of its former glory. When Christianity first came to England, it took the firmest root in Northumbria.” She took Sister Tecla’s hands in her own. “Do you remember what Abbess Aelfgiva was saying to us about houses of nuns?”

“There are but nine in all-and this small priory.”

“Each and every one of them serve the Lord truly but they all do so in the south of the country. There is no nunnery to the north of the River Trent.” Mindred squeezed her hands. “Can you not see why I was fired with ambition? I would like to have founded this priory where it could rekindle a flame of hope. Maldon may need us but Yorkshire would need us even more. We would have been missionaries.”

“St. Oswald would have blessed the enterprise.” “I am too old and weak to pursue it now.”

“The wish is a noble one,” said Tecla, “and I am honoured that you have shared this secret with me.”

Prioress Mindred released her hands and sat back to appraise her. There was a serenity about the young nun, which was altogether pleasing, but she still found herself unsure about the depth of Sister Tecla’s belief and commitment.

“Are you happy with us?” she said.

“A bride of Christ enjoys the greatest happiness.” “That is not what I asked, Sister Tecla.”

“I have no cause whatsoever for complaint.” “Sister Gunnhild is still concerned.”

A long pause. “Sister Gunnhild is most kind,” she resumed, “but her concern is quite unfounded. Everything I want is within these walls.”

“That is as it should be.”

“I am at peace with the world.”

“It gladdens my heart to hear that.”

“I have seen the face of Jesus,” said Sister Tecla.

Prioress Mindred reached forward to squeeze her hands again then stood up and walked around behind her. She took a moment to find the right words.

“Sister Gunnhild has voiced some worries.” “Worries?”

“About your spiritual needs. I have asked her to … look after you.” “Is that your wish, Reverend Mother?”

“It is, Sister Tecla.” “Then I abide by it.”

Her voice was as soft and submissive as ever but the prioress could see that her body was tense. Mindred felt the need to reassure her.

“Sister Gunnhild is a woman of rare qualities,” she said. “I know it well.”

“Nobody in our convent has her insight and holiness. Such things only come from long years of devotion. I am the prioress here but I tell you this. There are times when I feel inadequate in that role if I compare my humble gifts with those of Sister Gunnhild.”

“All this I accept,” said Tecla quietly. “Then take her as your mentor.”

“I will.” “Good.”

The prioress felt relieved that she had passed on her directive. She knew that it would not be entirely welcome to the nun, and she herself had vestigial reservations about it, but her word had been given to Sister Gunnhild and she had to honour it. Mindred was

more relaxed when she came back round to face the other woman, able to relate to her more easily now that her decision had been announced. They discussed the books that they had brought back from Barking Abbey, and they shared a smile at Sister Lewinna’s propensity for laughing at Aesop’s Fables at the most inappropriate times.

“I heard her giggle in the chapter house today.”

“Why?”

“She said that she was thinking about the fable of the fox and the grapes.” The prioress gave a fond sigh. “I suppose we should be grateful that dear Sister Lewinna was at least thinking.”

“There is no harm in her, Reverend Mother.”

“Indeed, no. But she must learn to curb her giggling.” “Thank heaven that Sister Gunnhild was not there!”

Sister Tecla blurted out the comment before she could stop herself and it brought the conversation to a halt. Sister Lewinna was a devout nun with a girlish exuberance, which had not yet been suffocated beneath the demands of convent life. The prioress and the others treated her with an affectionate indulgence while trying to correct her by means of persuasion. Sister Gunnhild merely admonished her and tried to frighten the last sparks of vitality out of her. Sister Tecla obviously feared that the Danish nun would do the same to her.

After a strained silence, she rose to go. The prioress conducted her to the door and put her hand on the latch.

“You have been working in the garden, I see,” she said.

“It needs constant attention.”

“Weeds grow much faster than flowers and vegetables.” “I love the garden here.”

“It has profited from that love.”

“I am always happy to work there,” said Sister Tecla. “There is no part of the priory I would rather be.”

There was another taut silence then Mindred opened the door for her to leave. When the nun had gone, the prioress shut the door once more and turned back to the altar. The sight of the chalice restored her at first; then it began to dampen her spirits. She moved quickly across to it and removed it from the altar, putting it away temporarily in the leather pouch that had borne it on the journey from Barking Abbey. It was out of sight but not out of mind. Prioress Mindred kneeled in front of the crucifix and offered a prayer for forgiveness.

Ralph Delchard did not believe that his dignity could only be preserved if he sat behind a table in judicial pose. He was a leader of men who talked best in the language of soldiers and that is what he chose now. Strapping on his sword and adopting a military swagger, he came out into the body of the hall and berated the skulking burgesses who had just been rounded up like sheep by his soldiers. He tried to shame them into a semblance of valour.

“Do you call yourselves men?” he demanded. “You have lost your land and you will not raise a finger to get it back. Do you not have wives? Do you not have children? Do you not care if you behave as cowards and weaklings in front of them? Hell and damnation! What is wrong with you?”

“They came to talk to us, my lord,” said a spokesman. “Who did?”

“Fulk the Steward with a dozen knights.”

“If he had brought a hundred, he would not frighten me out of my rightful claim!” asserted Ralph. “What has happened to the red blood of Maldon? Has it been thinned down over the years? The warriors of this town fought a famous battle against the Vikings and gave their lives sooner than yield up their land. Yet twelve knights and a donkey-faced steward ride out to show off their armour and you surrender all.”

Canon Hubert was highly critical of his colleague’s method of argument and he grimaced repeatedly but Brother Simon was mesmerised by the performance. It was left to Gervase Bret to appreciate the irony of a situation in which a Norman soldier who had spent his formative years fighting Saxon housecarls was now reminding a Saxon audience of their warrior heritage and their famed encounter on the banks of the River Blackwater with the Vikings. Moreover, Ralph was doing it in order to stir up their passions against a fellow-Norman. The burgesses first began to whine, then to protest, and then to challenge. When he had them thoroughly roused, Ralph had achieved his objective and he took his place behind the table.

Gervase took command and called the men one by one to make sworn statements and to produce whatever contractual evidence they had. The burgesses were subtenants, holding their small amounts of land either directly from the King or from the tenant-in-chief who owned it. Hamo FitzCorbucion had systematically hived off part of their property for his own use so that they were in the invidious position of having to pay rent for land that they could not farm and that was adding more money to the coffers of the lord of the manor of Blackwater. Hamo was no crude landgrabber. He acquired his extra property in all manner of ways. Bemused subtenants had awakened one day to learn that their most productive acreages had been bought, borrowed, or repossessed by Hamo even though he produced no written evidence of these transactions.

Other abuses appeared. One man had lost twelve cattle when they strayed onto Hamo’s land and another lost forty sheep by the same means. In both cases, dogs had been used to drive the animals away from their pastures and onto the Norman’s property. A third man was

exercising his rights of pannage in the wood when sixty of his pigs were rounded up by Guy and taken off to stock the kitchens at Blackwater Hall. During a hard winter, a fourth had gone to cut down some trees on his land for firewood and found that they no longer existed. He traced the logs to Hamo, made vociferous complaints, and returned home to discover that half his land had been annexed by way of punishment. And so it went. Stories that had been missed by the first commissioners now came thick and fast. People who had been too intimidated even to appear at the shire hall on the previous occasion now spoke angrily and-for the most part-honestly.

There were a few exceptions, men who had a personal grudge to work off and who overreached themselves by making claims and accusations that arose more from malice than from fact. Canon Hubert exposed such falsehood at once and was scathing in his condemna-tion of the perpetrators. He was anxious to uphold any legitimate charges against Hamo FitzCorbucion, but he would not tolerate any random Saxon venom against a Norman lord. Sententious to a fault, Hubert was also merciless in cross-examination and he uncovered a series of disputes between the burgesses themselves. They might be united in their hatred of a local tyrant, but they were bitterly divided in other ways. As the full facts were exposed, a more rounded portrait of life in Maldon came to light.

Ralph Delchard unblocked the dam to allow the river of allegations to surge through, Gervase Bret used the water to turn the mill wheel of legal process, while Canon Hubert was simultaneously filtering out any impurities. It was a most productive session in the shire hall and Brother Simon’s hand was aching from hour upon hour of neat callig-raphy. When the material had all been amassed, Ralph told them they should not be intimidated by threats from Blackwater Hall when there was a higher authority in the town. Hubert added his own rider to this advice.

“Today,” he said, “we have heard the testimony of Saxon subtenants. Tomorrow, we shall call Norman witnesses before us, some of whom will be your own landlords with evidence that may contradict or coun-termand your own. Only when we have decided where the real truth lies will we summon the lord of the manor of Blackwater to marshal his defence.”

The session was over and the burgesses began to rise from their benches to leave, considerably more pleased than when they arrived, although still afraid of repercussions from Blackwater. Ralph went after them to detain them briefly at the door with a confidential question. Hilarious laughter broke out and knowing looks were exchanged all around. He repeated his enquiry but they shook their heads in denial and left the hall in mirthful moods. Ralph turned to Gervase with a gesture of despair.

“Will nobody tell me where Humphrey got his name?”

Blackwater Hall was trembling with fear by the time that Hamo FitzCorbucion rode off with his men. All the servants were hauled into Guy’s chamber to be challenged about the missing heirloom. None could help him. Even when cuffed and kicked by him, they denied any guilt and suggested that the object might be in another part of the house. A complete search failed to uncover something that Guy would never have parted with and that meant that it had to have been stolen, but an even more rigorous interrogation could not identify the thief. When their master finally left, the household was in a state of utter panic.

Hamo let his horse feel the sting of his rage as he led a detachment of his men across his estate. His fortnight in Normandy had proved to be a ruinous expedition. He came back to find his elder son murdered, his demesne besieged by royal commissioners, his daughter recalcitrant, and a prize family heirloom stolen. What new afflictions awaited him?

“That was the house, my lord,” said the steward. “Where?”

“That pile of ashes. Jocelyn ordered us to burn it.” “Good!”

“Algar lived there alone with the boy.”

“A slave and his miserable whelp!” Hamo reined in his horse and the whole company came to a halt. “Ride to the next dwelling. Bring me Algar’s neighbour.”

“We have already questioned him.” “I will speak to him now.”

Fulk rode off with two of his men while Hamo dismounted and walked into the middle of what had once been a hovel. He kicked the ashes viciously then looked up towards the town.

“Did they bury him up there?” he yelled. “I’ll dig his foul body up and bring it down here to roast it!”

The steward soon returned with the prisoner. The man was another

slave on the estate and he was being dragged along by the two soldiers with ropes. He could barely keep his feet and fell headlong to the ground when he reached Hamo. A kick made him moan and writhe. The soldiers jerked their ropes and the man was hauled upright. He already bore the marks of a beating but Hamo did not even notice them. He took out his sword and used the flat of the blade to strike the prisoner across his chest. The man doubled up in agony.

“Where is the boy?” demanded Hamo. “I do not know, my lord …”

“Where is Wistan!”

The sword hit his thighs this time and brought him to his knees. He swore that he knew nothing but Hamo did not relent for a second. The

pain was excruciating and the man gabbled for mercy. Wistan had fled in the night and nobody had any idea where. Hamo kept striking him until a stray remark finally brought the savage assault to an end.

“Wistan was a strong swimmer, my lord …” “Swimmer?”

Hamo turned to look at the estuary with brooding ire. “Fulk …”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Have you searched Northey?” “No, my lord.”

“Why not?”

“Jocelyn did not think the boy could have-” “He may be wrong.”

Hamo snapped his fingers and the two soldiers released their ropes. The prisoner collapsed to the ground and lay there in a twitching heap. Unaware of the truth, he had unwittingly given them a clue, which might lead them to Wistan. His pain was now mixed with remorse. Hamo put a foot in the stirrup and mounted his horse.

“When is the next low tide?” he said.

Oslac the Priest was a reliable friend. When Gervase Bret walked across to the Church of All Souls’ to remind him of his promise, the man went off with him at once to the Hythe. The fishermen had been back hours ago to unload the day’s catch but many loitered throughout the afternoon to talk with the crews of any trading vessels or to make running repairs to their own boats. There was a chance that Brunloc was among them. Since it was Brunloc who had found the body of Guy FitzCorbucion in the water, Ralph Delchard had declined the opportunity of making his acquaintance. Fishermen and sailors made him queasy. Therefore, when Gervase went off, he stayed at the shire hall to question the town reeve more about the problems of collecting taxes in the community. Canon Hubert had been separated from food for far too long and was riding back to Champeney Hall on his donkey with Brother Simon and an escort They felt it had been a profitable day. While Hubert revolved on a spit of self-congratulation, Simon basted him with flattery.

Gervase was in luck. Among the boats that crowded into the harbour was the one that belonged to Brunloc. It did not take the priest long to find the man and to introduce him to Gervase, but he was an unwilling witness. Authority of any kind unsettled him and the sight of a royal officer made him doubly wary. Brunloc, a dark, wiry man in his thirties, possessed the ruddy face of his occupation as well as its unambiguous stink. He was a simple soul who made a simple calculation. Gervase was only in town for a short while. When the young man left, Hamo FitzCorbucion would still be there and the father of the murder victim might not be pleased if Brunloc had passed on too much information to this stranger.

“I have my work,” he grunted.

“We will not keep you long, Brunloc,” said the priest. “We just wish to know how and where you found the body.”

“I’ve already told you.” “Tell me again, please.”

“It could help,” said Gervase.

The man looked at him with suspicion, then gave a very brief account of what had happened. Even when Oslac tried to coax more out of him, the fisherman remained laconic. Gervase tried his own form of persuasion and seemed to be winning the man’s confidence, but he extracted no more information. He thanked Brunloc and walked away with the priest towards the place where the body was actually found. The fisherman’s directions had been exact but it still took them some time to locate the correct part of the marshes. Oslac watched with amazement while Gervase hitched up his gown and plunged into the filthy water, squelching along the muddy bottom of the river and pushing his way through the reeds. It was a bold and dangerous method of research but it told him precisely what he wished to know. When Gervase had examined the area carefully, he came back to the bank to be hauled ashore by Oslac’s outstretched hand. He squeezed the worst of the water out of the hem of his gown and rubbed the mud off his shoes in the long grass. He was cold and sodden but he felt that the experiment had been worthwhile. Gervase was still trying to tidy himself up a little when a figure suddenly jumped out of the bushes. A wizened, white-haired man had been watching him from cover and now hopped up to him with a vacuous grin on his face. At the sight of the sword and shield, Gervase backed away but the newcomer clearly intended him no harm. He simply came in close so that he could whisper a secret that was giving him an intense pleasure.

“I saw who killed him!” he said with a cackle.

Before Gervase could reply, the old man let out a whoop and scuttled off quickly before vanishing into the bushes. His mad laughter could be heard mingling with the cries of the birds.

“Who on earth was that?” asked Gervase. “Ignore him,” said Oslac. “He talks in riddles.” “But he said he witnessed the murder.”

“He says lots of things, I fear. Pay no heed.” “Why not?”

“Because the poor man has lost his wits.”

“Who is he?”

Oslac smiled. “The friend you sought.” “Friend?”

“That was Tovild the Haunted.”