Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Six

As soon as he heard the noise, he knew that they had come for him. They were still half a mile away but the distant baying of the hounds sent a hideous message echoing across Northey Island. Wistan flew into a panic and took to his heels. He ran the fifty yards to his next lair and dived into it like an animal going to ground. Even there he did not feel safe and he soon abandoned the first burrow for another that he had picked out. Keeping low as he raced across a field, he flung himself down with panting gratitude as he reached his new hiding place. It was beneath the roots of a huge old elm. Nature had capriciously gouged a massive handful of earth out of the ground beside the tree and created an inviting refuge for someone who was prepared to crawl in under the exposed roots. Wistan caught his breath. He began to think clearly for the first time.

Know your enemy. Algar had taught him that. Before he dropped back to his next burrow, he ought to assess the strength of the pursuit. Only when he knew exactly what he was dodging could he best decide on his tactics. Wistan came slowly out of his cave beneath the tree and climbed up the side of the pit, putting his hands on the rim before raising his head with furtive care. When he got his first glimpse of them, his heart nearly stopped. There were dozens of them and they seemed impossibly closer. Their horses cantered gently at the heels of the hounds who were sniffing and yelping their way along in high excitement. Wistan was not looking at a solitary old man in Viking battle dress this time. These were Norman soldiers in full armour and he could even identify the FitzCorbucion crest of a raven. The might of Blackwater Hall had been unleashed against him.

Blind fear took over once more and he completely forgot about the little bundle that he had carried with him into the hollow beneath the elm. Instead, he crawled out of the pit and into the undergrowth before he dared to stand up again. Ignoring the other hiding places that he had found and made ready, he sprinted the few hundred yards towards the coastline. Wistan was now on the little promontory to the northwest of the island and water was on three sides of him. The thought gave him confidence. Even a pack of hounds could not find his scent in the sluggish movement of the river. He ran into the shallows then swam to a thick clump of reeds, which were diverting the current with their obstinate tenancy. Wistan went in amongst them, his body still submerged by water and his head concealed by the spikey reeds.

He did not have to wait long. The frisky dogs grew louder and he caught the jingle of harness for the first time. Spread out in a long line, the search party had combed the island thoroughly and their hounds had scattered sheep, cattle, and any other livestock that got in their way. The barking became more agitated and men’s voices were raised in a shout of triumph. They had found his burrow under the elm tree. Wrapped in some old rags were the few things that he had taken with him when he fled from the house. Worthless to any-one else, the belongings had a sentimental value to Wistan. A club, a carved snake, and a necklace of oyster shells, which his father had made, had now betrayed him. One voice rose high above the others and Wistan shivered. Hamo FitzCorbucion was there.

The hounds set off again and searched the promontory with moist noses and wagging tails while the soldiers hacked at the undergrowth with swords and lances to make sure it did not conceal their quarry. When figures appeared on the bank opposite him, Wistan held his breath and sank below the water, staying there for as long as he could while praying that they would not see him. His fear had been tempered by the spirit of revenge and he wanted to fight back. Hamo had returned from Normandy. Another target for his hatred was now standing on the bank no more than twenty yards away.

His mind was bursting and his lungs were on fire when he finally dared to come up for air. They were still there but the reeds hid him from their gaze. He was about to sink below the water again when Hamo FitzCorbucion gave an order and they all moved off to continue their search elsewhere. Wistan stayed there for an hour before he felt safe enough to return to the bank. Days of freedom had ended dramatically. They had tracked him to his lair and made a decision for him. When darkness fell, Wistan would have to get back to the mainland.

“Domesday Book is indeed an apt name for it,” said Gilbert Champeney. “It spells doom for so many people.”

“It is a survey,” corrected Canon Hubert pedantically. “King William ordered it to be undertaken chiefly for financial and military purposes.” “It is essentially a tax inquest,” argued their host. “And it is made so much easier, as I have always claimed, by the efficiency of the Saxons.”

Ralph Delchard grinned. “If they were so efficient, why did we beat them at Hastings?”

“That is another matter.” Gilbert was into his stride now. “This survey of yours, this Domesday Book, or whatever you choose to call it, provides the King with an exact record of contributions to Danegeld or Heregeld-the one great Anglo-Saxon tax that was levied uniformly on the country. We Normans inherited their system and that makes your job so much the easier.”

“Easier!” snorted Ralph. “If only it were, Gilbert!”

“Do not forget the legal implications,” said Gervase Bret. “Part of the function of the survey is to legalise the changes in land ownership that occurred after the Conquest and to root out the irregularities that have taken place since. It is indeed a kind of Domesday Book.”

Hubert snuffled. “That notion is sacrilegious!”

“I wondered why I liked it so much,” said Ralph.

“The Last Judgement does embody a legal concept,” said Gervase. “And we do seek to uncover sin. It was you, Canon Hubert, who told us we were engaged in a spiritual battle between good and evil.”

“He drags religion into everything!” said Ralph. “So why do you object to this nickname, Hubert? If we are engaged in compiling a Domesday Book, then you are the bold St. Peter who is standing at the gates of Heaven to prevent the unworthy from sneaking in. I should have thought that role would suit you admirably.”

Gervase smiled and Gilbert laughed breathily but the canon inhaled deeply through his nose and chose to maintain a dignified silence until he suffered an inconvenient outbreak of flatulence and had to disguise it beneath a flurry of protests. It was a lively debate. The four of them were sitting over the remains of another fine meal and watching the last hour of a long day slowly expiring. Apart from a few servants waiting to clear the table, everyone else had taken to their beds. Ralph and Hubert were sipping from cups of French wine, Gervase was sampling some home-brewed ale, and the Saxon-loving Gilbert was drinking mead.

“What lies ahead for your tomorrow?” asked Gilbert. “Further deliberations in the shire hall,” said Hubert.

“We will not begin until ten,” Ralph reminded him, “and that will give us ample time for other things. I will take my men out for exercise shortly after dawn.”

“I may join you,” volunteered Gilbert. “Gervase?” “I will stay here.”

“Come with us. A gallop will invigorate you.”

“I will be too busy trotting through more documents,” said Gervase. “Besides, if I can find an hour, I need to spend it with one of your neighbours.”

“Which one?”

“Tovild the Haunted.”

Gilbert chuckled. “Better you than me!”

“Why do you say that?”

“The fellow is crack-brained. He has been fighting the Battle of Maldon these past forty years and he still cannot decide whether he is Saxon or Viking.” Gilbert gave a compassionate shrug of the shoulders. “Tovild will not harm a fly but his company can be troublesome.”

“Where might I find him?”

“On the battlefield,” said Gilbert. “Where else?” He turned to Canon Hubert. “Which will you choose? An hour in the saddle with us or an hour of amiable madness from Tovild the Haunted?”

“Neither,” said Hubert. “Horsemanship does not interest me and I already have enough fools and madmen to deal with. When I have worked and prayed, I will visit the convent. Prioress Mindred invited Brother Simon and me to call on her and her little community.”

“Take me with you,” offered Ralph with enthusiasm.

“The invitation was for two of us only.”

“Then two of us only will go. Brother Simon goes weak at the knees when he gets within a hundred yards of a woman. To take him into the priory would be an ordeal both for him and for the holy sisters. Just think how unhappy he was in Barking Abbey.” Ralph tapped his chest. “I will take Simon’s place. I’ll even wear his cowl, if you wish.”

“I wish that you would reconsider, my lord,” said Hubert. “I do. I’ll omit the cowl but I’ll still come.”

“Prioress Mindred may be a trifle disturbed.”

“Then you will be on hand to comfort her.” Ralph warmed to the prospect. “It will be good to see her and Sister Tecla again. I’ll give both of them your love, Gervase.”

“My regards will be sufficient.”

“Shall I pass them on to Sister Gunnhild as well?” “Who is Sister Gunnhild?” asked Hubert.

“A Danish nun,” explained Gilbert, “and a lady of some distinction.

She takes a leading part in the running of the priory and has only one flaw.”

“Flaw?”

“She disapproves of men.”

“There you are, Hubert,” said Ralph jovially. “Sister Gunnhild is ripe for conversion. She does not sound like my ideal of womanhood so I will leave you to introduce her to the delights of male companionship. I will reserve my attentions for dear Sister Tecla.”

Time had been both kind and cruel to Sister Gunnhild. At an age when most nuns were vexed by failing eyesight and brittle bones, she remained in robust health and shirked none of the manual labour that fell to her. While the years had dealt lightly with her body, however, they had been altogether rougher with her mind and heart.

Sister Gunnhild felt that her qualities had never truly been appreci-ated and that this had militated against her on a number of occasions. She studied hard to make herself devout and cultured but others still persisted in the belief that her education was somehow suspect, and that the very fact of her Danish ancestry disabled her from becoming a true Saxon nun. Abbess Aelfgiva had valued her as a reliable workhorse rather than as the worthy successor that Gunnhild had hoped to be. She was coming around to the dispiriting view that the abbess had released her to join the priory as much to get rid of her as to provide Mindred with a wholly dependable helpmeet. It was a sobering reflection.

Sister Gunnhild was a martyr to her own unpopularity and it gave her a sometimes abrasive streak. There were compensations and she thanked God daily for them. If she could not rule her own house, she would exert a degree of control through Prioress Mindred. It was a slow process, which could not be hurried, but her position was increasingly influential and it enabled her to correct the recurring mistakes that the prioress made out of sheer inexperience. In a small community, too, relationships were more intense and she derived much pleasure from some of these. Sister Lewinna might exasperate her but the others were friendly and respectful. Then there was Sister Tecla. Thoughts of Tecla lifted Sister Gunnhild out of her bed that morning.

It was her self-appointed duty to ring the bell for Matins and start each day of the spiritual life. Other nuns found it difficult to wake at such an early hour but she could do so without apparent effort or discomfort. St. Benedict was no remote and insensitive dictator who imposed his Rule without making provision for human frailty. The order might be strict but it was shot through with an understanding of the limitations common to all. Instead of decreeing that the brothers should be torn rudely from their sleep by the clanging of the Matins bell, Benedict advised that they should first be brought from their slumbers with a gentle shake so that they were properly awake when they were summoned to the first service of the day.

Holy sisters were no less deserving than holy brothers of this act of consideration, and Sister Gunnhild shuffled out to perform it. Each of the nuns had a small, bare room off a narrow passageway and it was along this that Gunnhild now crept in the darkness. There was a set order to her morning ritual. Sister Lewinna had to be roused first because she took longest to wake and a vigorous pummelling of the shoulder had to be substituted for the soft touch of an arm, which could rouse the others. Last to be awakened was Sister Tecla. This gave her an extra minute of precious sleep and enabled Gunnhild to show her favouritism in yet another way.

Padding down the passageway, she slipped first into one room and then into another until all five nuns had been brought back to the realities of the world. Prioress Mindred slept behind a locked door and a sharp knock was used to intrude into her dreams. With duty over, Gunnhild could now turn to pleasure and she found her way to the last room.

“Wake up, Sister Tecla,” she whispered. “It is time.”

There was no groan of acknowledgement and no shifting of the blanket under which she slept. Tecla often woke as soon as Gunnhild entered the room and the excuse to touch her was taken away. Gunnhild approached the bed.

“Wake up, Tecla,” cooed Gunnhild. “It’s me.”

But her hand met no warm body and no smooth skin. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that Sister Tecla was not in her cell. Wherever could she be at that time? It was unimaginable that she was sharing a bed with one of her holy sisters, but Gunnhild nevertheless went quickly back into the passageway and checked each room more carefully. She then went to the front door of the priory but it was still bolted from the inside and locked by the key that was kept in Mindred’s quarters. Gunnhild flitted around in mild alarm until she remembered the one place where Sister Tecla might be and headed straight for it.

The garden reposed in deep shadow. A crescent moon was shedding only the most grudging tight. A distant owl joined a choir of nightingales to sing an occasional solo. Sister Gunnhild hurried out onto the grass and peered around intently, trying to make sense of the dark shapes all around her. At first she could find nothing, but a closer inspection yielded success. Sister Tecla was lying on the grass, tucked away in the far corner of the garden. Evidently, she had been there for some time and was fast asleep. Relief at having found her jostled with concern for her health and Gunnhild knelt down to bend right over her and take her by the shoulders. She rocked the supine figure with a tender hand.

“Wake up, Sister Tecla. You cannot sleep here.” She began to stir. “What …?” she mumbled. “You are in the garden. Open your eyes.”

“Who is it?” said Tecla, struggling to awake. “It’s me, Sister Gunnhild.”

“Tired …”

“You can’t lie on the grass like that.” “Fell asleep …”

“Let me help you up.” “So tired …”

Sister Tecla allowed herself to be lifted up into a sitting position and became aware of where she actually was. She rubbed her eyes and gave an involuntary shudder. It was enough to make Gunnhild throw protective arms around her.

“Oh, my poor child!” she said. “What ails you?”

Before Sister Tecla could answer, another figure stepped across the grass in the darkness and stood beside them. There was a slight note of reprimand in Prioress Mindred’s voice.

“Thank you, Sister Gunnhild,” she said. “You may ring the bell now. I will take over here.”

It was a moving service. Guy FitzCorbucion was universally disliked outside Blackwater Hall yet everyone who passed the Church of All Souls’ that morning had paid him the tribute of a passing sigh. Few wished him to be alive but the manner of his death aroused a spark of sympathy in most of the people of Maldon and they accepted his right to be buried with all due respect. In front of a full congregation, Mass was sung for the soul of the departed, then Oslac the Priest gave a short address, which struck exactly the right note. He praised Guy’s few good qualities while carefully sliding over his many bad ones, and he tried to draw positive lessons out of the searing tragedy. When the mourners followed the cortege out into the churchyard, most were weeping and some had to be steadied or even carried along.

Matilda found it totally harrowing and she clung to Jocelyn’s arm throughout, near to collapse at times and bursting into tears at the point where Guy’s body was lowered into the grave. Guy had been a destructive presence in her life but he was still her brother and the blood tie could not be denied. Part of Matilda herself was being sent into that gaping hole in the ground. Jocelyn bore up well. He was visibly shaken during the service but sensed that others would need to rely on him and that it was vital to show strength and control. Beneath the expressionless face was also a stirring of the ambition that had been ground down for so long. Guy was finally out of his way.

Hamo FitzCorbucion behaved with a restraint which few expected. He shed no tears and required no supportive hands. He subdued his anger beneath his grief and watched in mute torment as his elder son took his leave of the world. Fears that he might explode during the service were not realised and Oslac was especially relieved that the grave of Algar was neither attacked nor even reviled. The ravens looked like family members around this corpse and they were not cawing nor pecking.

When the service was over, the priest spoke first to the distraught Matilda and then to the dignified Hamo. His offer of help was well intentioned and sincere but neither would be able to take it. The daughter was too enmeshed in her own ambivalence and the father was too keen to take the edge off his sorrow by capturing his son’s killer. Most of the congregation would be returning to Blackwater Hall for the funeral bake-meats but the master of the house would not be with them. No sooner did he step off consecrated ground than he became a coarse apostate.

“Bring the men and ride to Northey Island.”

“Again, my lord?” said the steward. “He’s still there! I smelled his stink!” “Will you be at the hall, my lord?” “No! I will lead the search.”

“Now?” said Fulk in surprise.

“Now!” confirmed Hamo. “Guy is in his grave. We must find the slave who put him there.” He raised his voice to a bellow as his knights milled around him. “Catch him alive and fetch him before me. I’ll make him eat his own offal before I tear him to pieces with my bare hands! Away!”

Tovild the Haunted lifted his shield up on one arm and held his spear poised in the other hand. He was ready for battle. The tide was ebbing fast and the causeway, which reached out the island, rose briefly above the water before being washed under again. A stiff breeze tore at the white hair that streamed out from below his helmet. In the armour of a Saxon warrior of old, Tovild took his brave stance and declaimed his speech to the gulls.

“The tide went out, the pirates stood ready, many Vikings eager for battle. Then the protector of heroes commanded a warrior, stern in fight, to hold the bridge; he was called Wulfstan, bold among his race …”

Gervase Bret recognised him at once and he also knew the poem whose words were being thrown up into the sky with such challenge. Tovild was not just quoting from “The Battle of Maldon,” he was re-enacting it with weapon and gesture. Gervase watched as a phantom Viking was speared to death, then he stepped forward to interrupt the carnage.

“You are Tovild, I believe?” he said.

“My name is Wulfstan,” said the other. “Leave me be.” “I must speak with you, Tovild.”

“We are fighting a battle.” “The Vikings will win.”

“Not if I hold the bridge!” He killed another imaginary attacker then warded off a third with his shield. “Fight beside me, young man. Our leader commands it.”

“Rest yourself from the fray, sir. You deserve it.”

Gervase stood right in front of him and the spear was raised to strike him. He got a much closer look into the gnarled face this time. Tovild was ancient. The scrawny body looked ridiculous in the armour and the weight of shield and lance was already making him breathe stertorously, but he did not desist. He was animated by a spirit that drove him on to fight a battle that had been won and lost almost a century earlier on that same bank of the estuary. His eyes flared with anger and his arm drew back. When the spear was hurled, however, it sank harmlessly into the ground beside Gervase.

“Thank you, Tovild. I will not keep you long.” “Who are you?” croaked the old man.

“My name is Gervase Bret.” “Saxon or Viking?”

“Saxon, like you. We have met before.” “You fought at the battle?”

“We met yesterday. I searched among the reeds. You came out of the bushes to speak to me. Do you not remember?”

Tovild narrowed his eyes to squint at Gervase but there was no hint of recognition in his gaze. He put his shield down beside the spear then beckoned his companion over.

“Question me with wise words, young man,” he said. “It concerns a murder.”

“Let not thy thought be hidden.”

“You said you were a witness.”

“I will not tell thee my secret if thou concealest thy wisdom and the thoughts of thy heart.”

“We need your help, Tovild.”

“Wise men must needs exchange proverbs.” “You know something.”

But the old man clearly did not trust him and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The eyes now had a cunning glint to them as if Tovild was enjoying a game with his questioner. He began to hum quietly to himself.

“Listen to me,” said Gervase, enunciating his words carefully. “There was a murder. A young man was stabbed to death in the marshes. You saw it, Tovild.”

“Yes, yes,” he admitted with a cackle. “Tell me what happened.”

“A raven was killed.”

“How?”

“I hate all ravens.” “What happened?”

“The knife cut his wings off.”

“Who did it?”

Gervase put a hand on his arm but he jumped back as if he had been scalded and rubbed the place where he had been touched. The Saxon warrior now looked like a beaten child.

“Keep away!” he begged. “You’re a friend of the ravens. You’ve come to peck at me. I won’t help them. Keep away.”

“I’m a friend of Oslac the Priest,” said Gervase, trying to soothe him. “You saw me with him. Yesterday.”

“Oslac?”

“He will vouch for me. I am a visitor here.” Tovild grew faint. “I saw nothing, young sir.” “You did. You told me.”

“The ravens will come for me.”

“I have nothing to do with Blackwater Hall.” “They’ll eat me alive with their beaks.”

“You saw me with Oslac.”

Gervase was up against a powerful blend of madness and apprehension. The old man was an impossible witness. All he wanted was to be left alone to fight his battle once more. Tovild the Haunted patently knew something about the murder of Guy FitzCorbucion but he was too confused to remember much about it and too frightened to admit the little he did recall. Gervase made a vain attempt to pluck a few details out of him but his efforts were short-lived. There was a rumble of thunder behind him and he turned to see what it was.

The sight was daunting. Hamo FitzCorbucion had shaken off all the restraints of mourning. He was riding towards them at full pelt with his sword in his hand and forty armed men at his back. It was a veritable cavalry charge and there was no doubt where it was heading. Gervase was forced to jump back as Hamo pounded past him onto the causeway. Fulk and the leading riders went after him in clamorous pursuit and urgent hooves sent up a thick spray that obliterated them as they splashed their way to the island. Gervase dodged as best he could but they came at him too fast from too many angles. The flank of one horse eventually caught him a glancing blow and knocked him to the ground, leaving him stunned. The hooves of another drummed past his ears. He lay there awhile until the entire troop was safely past him and churning up the water on the surface of the causeway. Hamo and his men were thirsting for blood.

When Gervase felt able to get up, he looked after them as they fanned out across Northey Island. There was no pack of hounds this time. Hamo had the scent of his quarry in his nostrils. It had been a perilous place to be standing and Gervase was grateful that he had survived with no more than a few bruises. He hoped that Tovild had not been hurt by the furious passage of the knights. But the old man was no longer there. The Battle of Maldon had been suspended for the day. Tovild had vanished into thin air like the ghosts who haunted him.

Ralph Delchard was on his best behaviour as they made their way to Maldon Priory with an escort of four men. Canon Hubert had grave reservations about his companion but he also had a profound respect for his abilities as a soldier. Like the canon, Ralph had been chosen by King William himself and no recommendation was higher than that. Other teams of commissioners had been sent out to correct the multiple illegalities unearthed by their predecessors, but few had their reputation for effectiveness. Hubert liked to believe that this was largely due to his presence in the quartet, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that Ralph Delchard’s zestful leadership and Gervase Bret’s penetrating intelligence were the key factors in the commission’s success. It reconciled him to Ralph. When the latter was not making irreverent observations about the Church or about the appetite of one of its luminaries, Canon Hubert could easily tolerate him.

By the same token, Ralph had a sneaking admiration for the prelate and for his undoubted skills both as a lawyer and as an administrator. Although there was much to mock, there was even more to praise. Canon Hubert was a man of some renown at Winchester, possessing all the political shrewdness that was needed for advancement in the Church. There were times when Ralph discovered that he had a bluff affection for his colleague and he enjoyed the ride into Maldon with him.

“What do you expect to find, Hubert?” he asked. “Find?”

“At the priory.”

Hubert was guarded. “Do I detect sarcasm here?”

“No,” said Ralph seriously. “I ask in all humility. You are more well versed in the ways of holy women than I. Until we stopped at Barking Abbey, I had never been inside a nunnery. I was most impressed with Abbess Aelfgiva.”

“We all were and rightly so.”

“In what way will Maldon Priory differ?”

“It will be much smaller,” said Hubert, slipping into homiletic vein. “And it will share the faults of all new foundations. A religious house takes time to achieve the requisite tone and spiritual resonance. Prioress Mindred is a devout lady but she has come late into claustral life and may not as yet fully appreciate its intricacies. On the other hand,” he continued, “I judge her to be a true Benedictine who will not allow the laxity that used to bedevil so many of the English nunneries.”

“Laxity?”

“Women do not always enforce the Rule with appropriate vigour,” he said. “Vanity is their downfall. They wish to wear fine dresses, expose their hair, cover themselves with adornments, and even to dance within the enclave! It is reprehensible. When they take the veil, they should turn their back on all worldly things.” He rolled his eyes in disapproval. “Some nuns have even kept pets.”

“Pets?”

“Dogs, cats, caged birds.”

“They are showing Christian love to God’s creatures.”

“No,” reproved Hubert. “They are flouting Chapter Thirty-three.” “What is that?”

“St. Benedict is quite specific. Chapter Thirty-three of the Rule leaves no room for misinterpretation.” He quoted it in Latin then translated the first line for Ralph’s benefit. “‘The sin of personal possesion, above all others, should be cut out by its roots …’ St. Benedict calls it a most pernicious vice. I am sure that Prioress Mindred abhors it.”

“So that is what awaits us,” observed Ralph. “No fine dresses, no long hair, no adornments, no dancing, and no pets. They have to deny their womanhood in every way.” He glanced at the hill, which loomed ahead of them. “There is one thing that has always puzzled me. Why are there so few nunneries and so many monastic foundations?”

Canon Hubert’s detailed explanation lasted all the way to Maldon

and they were soon dismounting at the priory gate. Their escort remained outside but they were admitted by Sister Gunnhild and conducted to the prioress’s quarters. Mindred received them warmly and motioned them to seats before turning to Gunnhild with a gracious request.

“Will you ask Sister Lewinna to serve refreshment?” “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

“Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”

When he heard her name, Ralph Delchard took a closer look at the departing nun. Gervase had complained of her inhospitable manner but she had been perfectly polite to her two visitors. What Ralph did notice was how little of the woman’s face was visible and how thick and calloused her bunched hands were. There was no whiff of laxity about Sister Gunnhild. Her hair was completely hidden by her wimple. Given a beautiful dress, he mused, she would probably take it straight into the garden to bury it.

Canon Hubert made polite enquiries about the running of the convent and Prioress Mindred’s answers seemed, for the most part, to satisfy him. She was very much at ease in her surroundings and told them that she had dedicated the remaining years of her life, without a backwards glance, to the service of God. Ralph said little but showed a touch of gallantry when the nervous Sister Lewinna brought in wine and cakes on a wooden tray. He rose to take the tray from her to place it on the table and thanked her with such a kindly smile that she blushed the colour of beetroot. When she had served the refreshments to the prioress and to the guests, she dropped a hesitant curtsey then went out. Ralph nibbled a cake and found it still warm.

“How is Sister Tecla?” he asked solicitously. “She is well, my lord.”

“I was hoping that we might see her.”

“Sister Tecla is too busy, I fear,” said the prioress sweetly, “but she wished me to give you her regards. They are sent to you as well, Canon Hubert.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Are you both fully recovered?” asked Ralph. “Recovered?”

“From that ambush on the journey home.”

“We have prayed to St. Oswald for our rescue.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them as she spoke. “It was a frightening experience, my lord, but one that we must endeavour to put behind us. These are dangerous times and the countryside is full of such outlaws.”

“That may be, my lady prioress,” said Ralph, “but this was no ordinary band of outlaws. How did they know that you were coming?”

“I do not understand, my lord.”

“That ambush was well laid,” argued Ralph. “When they chose that copse, they picked the best possible place along the way to make their surprise attack.”

“They were lurking in wait for anyone who passed,” said Canon

Hubert.

“No,” said Ralph. “They might have waited for days before anyone rode by. Those men knew what they wanted and when it would be coming towards them. How?”

Prioress Mindred shook her head. “I really cannot say.” “Perhaps they had a confederate.”

“A confederate, my lord?”

“Someone who gave them forewarning of your journey,” said Ralph, “and who described the valuables you carried.”

“A holy relic and some sacred books. That is all.”

“In that case, they may have wanted something else.” “What was that?”

“Sister Tecla.”

The prioress shook her head. “I do not think so,” she said firmly. “Desperate men will attack any travellers and we were unfortunate to be their victims.” Ralph was about to speak again but she moved swiftly to quash any further comment on the subject. “As I told you, my lord, we are making every effort to erase that ugly memory from our minds. It is unhealthy to dwell on such things. Sister Tecla and I are back here, safe and sound, among the holy sisters. That is all that matters.” “I agree,” said Canon Hubert. “Thank God for your deliverance and continue steadfastly in His service.”

When they finished their wine and their cakes, she took them on a brief tour of the building. Hubert was fascinated by every aspect of the priory but Ralph was more interested in somehow making contact with Sister Tecla. He had the feeling that she would not so easily

have swept the ambush out of her mind. His hopes were dashed. Although he saw four of the nuns working in the garden, they had their backs to him and thus looked virtually identical. All that he recognised was the stouter frame of Sister Gunnhild. She was using a spade to dig a patch of earth and working with a rhythm and zeal that her sister nuns could not match. Ralph Delchard had never seen a noblewoman doing manual work of this kind before and he found the sight oddly chastening.

The tour ended in the tiny chapel where the nuns sang their offices each day. Ralph thought the place was chill and forbidding but Canon Hubert nodded his approval. Both men noticed the chalice at once. It stood in a small recess to the right of the altar and its quality was evident from the most cursory glance. Hubert was so taken with it that he asked if he could examine the object. With obvious misgiv-ings, the prioress handed it over.

“Norman craftsmanship,” noted the canon. “This chalice would grace a cathedral. Was it a gift to the priory?”

“No, Canon Hubert.”

“You donated it yourself?”

“It was part of a dowry,” she explained. “One of the nuns included this in her payment to us.”

“Which one?” asked Ralph.

“That is a confidential matter, my lord.” “Of course,” he apologised.

It was a question that he did not need to ask because he felt he already knew the answer. The chalice provided a second possible answer as well. Canon Hubert was holding it up to the light to appraise its engraving but Ralph wondered if he might be looking at a reason for an ambush. An object of such value would be worth stealing if it had been carried by two nuns travelling from Barking Abbey. Yet why would it be in their possession on the journey? If it belonged to the priory, it would have stayed there during their absence. He could see no just cause for removing it from its home. Ralph was bemused.

Their short visit was over. The chapel was now needed for the next service of the day and they themselves had to adjourn to the shire hall to continue their work. Canon Hubert knelt ostentatiously in prayer and Ralph felt obliged to bend his own knee. While they were thus preoccupied, the prioress took the chalice across to the altar and reached up to place it beside the crucifix. The folds of her sleeve fell back for a moment and Ralph opened his eyes to catch a fleeting glimpse of a thick gold bangle halfway up her arm. The prioress tugged the sleeve quickly back into position so that the arm vanished. Ralph Delchard was astonished at himself. When he had first met the two nuns on the road, he had been moved by abstract desire to speculate on what exactly lay beneath the habit of Sister Tecla. Yet now, incredibly, he was far more curious about what the prioress would look like without her cloak and her wimple. He remembered what Canon Hubert had told him about Chapter Thirty-three of the Rule of St. Benedict. Personal possessions were strictly forbidden inside a religious house. The piece of jewelry he had seen was elaborate and costly. It certainly had no place in a convent where simplicity of attire was enforced. Prioress Mindred insisted that she took the veil without a single regret, but the adornment clearly belonged to her earlier life. The stately figure assumed a new interest for Ralph. He wondered what else she was hiding beneath her apparel.

Miles Champeney took his horse from the groom and mounted it in one fluent movement. He was trotting away from the stables when his father came out from the house to intercept him.

“Hold there!” said Gilbert. “Where are you going?” “I will be away for most of the day.”

“Why?”

“I have business to attend to, Father.” “Of what nature?”

“Private matters.”

“There should be no privacy between father and son,” said Gilbert in hurt tones. “We used to be so close at one time yet now you have become detached and secretive. This is not good, Miles. It is not fair.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do you still blame me?”

Miles bit back the reply he was going to make and tried to stay calm. “You are entitled to your point of view, Father.”

“I have never stopped you doing anything before.”

“That is true,” conceded his son, “but I wish you were not determined to get in my way now. It’s disheartening. There are enough obstacles to overcome without having another one on my own doorstep.”

“I am not an obstacle!” rebuked his father sharply.

“Then why are you obstructing me?” “I’m your father, Miles! I have a right.”

“To advise me, yes. But not to coerce me.” “To do whatever I choose!”

“I, too, have rights, Father.”

“Not in this instance,” said Gilbert with rising anger. “You’ve thrown them away. If you will not listen to sense, I have to impose my wishes in another way. God save us! I’m helping you! One day, you will thank me for it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Forget her, Miles! Find someone else.” “There can be nobody else for me.”

Gilbert was scornful. “Then you must resign yourself to bachelor-hood for you will never marry her,” he said. “Even if I died tomorrow- even if one obstacle were removed-they would still not let you anywhere near Matilda.”

“We will see.” He glanced away. “I have to go, Father.”

“Give her up now! Stop torturing yourself!”

Miles Champeney saw the futility of further argument. They had been over the same ground a hundred times and it always produced the same barren harvest. He tugged on the reins to pull the horse’s head around, then set off across the yard. Gilbert took a few steps after him.

“Will you be at table with us this evening?” he called.

“No, Father.”

“But we have guests. They expect entertainment.”

His son did not even answer. The duty of playing host to the visitors from Winchester was irksome to him when his mind was elsewhere. Gilbert watched him ride away for a few minutes, then went discon-solately back into the house. The rift with Miles was like an open wound that festered. What troubled him most was that he could see no means of healing it. He was in an impossible dilemma. Gilbert Champeney was a doting father who would do anything to help his son except the one thing that was being requested of him. An affable and gregarious man was being asked to ally himself with the only family in Maldon whom he loathed.

Miles rode on. His father had many endearing virtues but they counted for nothing now. The son had priorities that had turned the man he most loved and respected into a stubborn opponent. Miles had reasoned with his father and even pleaded with him, but all to no avail. At a time when he most needed moral support and practical help, he was totally isolated. His mother echoed her husband in all things and was far too weak and vague to make up her own mind. She hated to see the dissent between the two men but there was nothing she could do to alleviate it, let alone to bring about any kind of reconciliation. Miles was on his own and that put him into the exact position that Matilda herself occupied. It was a further bond between them. Both were imprisoned within the hostile attitudes of their respective families. Matilda’s predicament seemed to be the worse of the two, because her father had never loved her enough to take a serious interest in her, but the mild and doting Gilbert Champeney could be just as uncompromising as Hamo FitzCorbucion.

After riding towards the town, he kept his horse at a steady canter and swung off towards a wooded embankment. He twisted in the saddle to make sure that nobody was following, then scanned the landscape on both sides. Distant figures were scything yellow corn. Children were engaged in scaring birds with yells and missiles. Animals grazed. When Miles was convinced that he was unobserved,

he went into the trees and brought his horse to a halt. Dismounting at once, he tethered the animal to a hawthorn bush and walked on foot to the top of the embankment. Foliage was thicker here and concealment total. He leaned against an ash and waited.

Miles was patient but, when the first hour had passed by, he began to get restive. He went back to check his horse, which was still happily chomping the grass in the shade of the trees. He climbed up the gradient again to resume his vigil beside the ash, but another half hour brought him no relief and anxiety set in, deepened, as more time passed, by a profound sense of helplessness. There was simply nothing that he could do. It was infuriating. Another half hour drifted away. He was about to abandon his long wait when he heard the thud of approaching hooves. Miles took out his sword and prepared to defend himself. Hoping for a friend, he could just as easily get an enemy from the same source. Only when he saw the man’s face did he relax. It was the servant who had been used as an emissary before and he was riding the same roan. Furtive and scared, the man brought the horse towards him at walking pace.

Miles rushed eagerly up to him and held out a hand. The servant pulled a letter from inside his tunic and passed it to him. Breaking the seal, Miles opened the missive and read it with a mixture of excitement and fear. Matilda’s love for him was unchanged but a more immediate shadow now hung over their romance. A marriage had been arranged by her father. Having buried a dead son in Maldon that morning, Hamo was now planning to bury a daughter alive in Coutances. Her letter ended with a plea to her beloved and his reply needed no consideration. He looked up at the man and nodded firmly. The servant pulled the roan in a half circle and picked a way swiftly through the trees. He had no wish to linger and run the risk of being seen with Miles Champeney. Loyal to his mistress, he was all too aware of what might happen to him if his role as an intermediary were discovered. All he was now carrying back to Blackwater Hall was an oral message and that put him in less danger.

Miles ran back to his horse and leapt into the saddle. The words of the letter had burned themselves into his brain like a hot brand. Matilda was to be married to a man in Coutances. If that were allowed to happen, he would never see her again and he was prepared to go to any lengths to prevent it. As his horse took him off in the direction of the town, his mind sizzled with pain and confusion. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not see the man who arose from his hiding place in the undergrowth to stretch his aching limbs and curse the amount of time he had been forced to lie there. It had been an ordeal but it had brought its reward and the soldier would earn the gratitude of his master. He crept away to the brake where he had concealed his own horse and mounted.

Another message made its way back to Blackwater Hall.

The shire hall had a much smaller number of witnesses that morning but they brought much louder complaints. Norman landholders had not been spared by Hamo FitzCorbucion out of any sense of comrade-ship. He stole property and livestock from them with the same easy contempt that he showed to the Saxon subtenants. His main tech-nique was to seize the outliers or berewics, those outlying portions of land that were separate from a manor but taxed with it rather than as a detached holding. Bordars, cottars and other peasants who served one lord had suddenly been given a more demanding master. Slaves who had gone to sleep under the aegis of one Norman baron awoke to find that they were now under the heel of another. Slowly but inexo-rably, Hamo FitzCorbucion had completely redrawn the map of Maldon and its environs. Those now in the hall had protested strongly to him but he was powerful enough to ignore them and they were now in the humiliating position of paying taxes on land that someone else had annexed for his own advantage.

“Was this land granted to you by King William?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Were you given a charter?” “Yes, my lord.”

“Did it bear the royal seal?”

“It did, my lord.”

“And can you produce that same charter now?” “No, my lord.”

“It has been mislaid?”

“Destroyed,” said the man ruefully. “When I took it to Blackwater Hall to wave under his nose, he grabbed the charter from my hand and held it over a flame. I could do nothing to stop him.”

“Were there witnesses to this alleged crime?” “My two sons, who sit with me here.”

Ralph Delchard called both of the young men to substantiate their father’s claim under oath and they did so. It was only one of a number of documents that Hamo FitzCorbucion had burned, stolen, torn into pieces, thrown into the river or-in one case-scrunched up into a ball to force down the throat of the minor baron who had dared to show it to him. Ralph was much more attuned to the minds and hearts of the witnesses. They were Norman soldiers of his own ilk- two from his native Lisieux-and they had earned their property in Essex and elsewhere by service in the army of the Conqueror, only to have it taken from them in slices by the avaricious Hamo.

Gervase Bret examined what documentary evidence could be produced and attested to its authenticity. Canon Hubert put more searching questions to the witnesses and disentangled the legitimate claims of pillaged landholders from the deep envy that they were bound to feel towards someone who was more powerful and wealthy than they. More than one of them was using the occasion to pay off old scores against Hamo, which had nothing to do with any annexation of property. They were treated to some wordy vituperation from Hubert for wasting the time of the commissioners with matters that did not come within their jurisdiction.

What did emerge was precisely what they expected when they first studied the returns for Essex in the Treasury at Winchester. There had been massive theft of property over a lengthy period. Disguised in all manner of ingenious ways, it had finally been brought into the light of day in its full horror. The rapacious Hamo FitzCorbucion was the undoubted victor in the Battle of Maldon.

“As I predicted,” boomed Hubert “Good against evil.” “It is not quite as clear-cut as that,” said Gervase.

“No,” added Ralph. “Hamo may be evil but these barons we have just examined are by no means entirely good. Some of them would have done what he did if they could have got away with it. As it is, we have uncovered a few abuses of which they themselves were guilty.” “Seventeen,” said Brother Simon, leafing through the parchments on which he had set down the details. “Seventeen clear instances of illegal seizure of land. These men were not all saints.”

Canon Hubert sniffed. “Compared to the lord of the manor of Blackwater, they were holy angels. We must keep everything in proportion.” The witnesses had departed and the four men were alone in the shire hall. It had been another gruelling session but they had worked well together to extract all the detail they needed. The complexities of land tenure in and around Maldon were now clearly established.

They could prosecute their case against Hamo FitzCorbucion.

Canon Hubert looked forward to the encounter.

“Call him before us tomorrow,” he said. “We will give him an opportunity to answer these charges before we bring him face to face with his accusers.”

“What if he will not come?” asked Brother Simon. “We will compel him,” said Ralph.

“But he has scores of knights at his command.”

“A royal warrant gives us power over any subject.”

“Perhaps we should delay,” said Simon meekly. “It may be untender of us to call him so soon. Blackwater Hall is a house of mourning.”

Ralph was scornful. “Thanks to Hamo, this town is full of houses of mourning. He has killed off property rights in every part of the borough. Summon him before us. We will only be trespassing upon the grief of a man who has caused widespread anguish himself.”

“I agree,” said Canon Hubert. “Your anxiety is wholly misplaced, Brother Simon.”

“It is not anxiety,” said Gervase. “It is respect for the dead and Brother Simon is right to remind us of our duty here. Hamo FitzCorbucion buried his son this morning and you wish to haul him before us tomorrow. Give him another day at least to come to terms with his loss.”

“What about the losses he inflicted on others?” said Ralph. “He paid them no respect.”

“Indeed, not,” replied Gervase, “and we must call him to account. But we cannot do that until we have fully mastered all the new evidence we have collected and I would value another day to prepare our case. There is much to study here. If we spare him tomorrow, we show him an indulgence that he may appreciate and give ourselves time to become so familiar with the fine detail of our argument that it will be quite unanswerable.”

“That is sound reasoning,” conceded Hubert. “I endorse every word,” said Brother Simon.

Ralph was still keen to press ahead on the following day but he caught Gervase’s eye and read the message in it. The delay was not principally for the benefit of a bereaved father at all, nor was it being suggested because it would create valuable time in which the commissioners could assimilate the mass of evidence which had been gathered. Gervase wanted an opportunity to pursue the investigation into the death of Guy FitzCorbucion because he felt it was in some way intertwined with their visit to Maldon. Only when they solved a murder would they be in a position to deal properly with the lord of the manor of Blackwater.

“Gervase counsels well,” said Ralph. “We will resume the day after tomorrow. That will content Simon and I daresay that Hubert will not object to an extra day in the tender care of the cook at Champeney Hall. He will think it the best possible reason for staying our hand.”

“The thought never entered my mind!” said Hubert.

The meeting broke up good-humouredly. Canon Hubert and Brother Simon left with part of the escort while Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret compared their experiences that morning. Gervase told him about his encounter with Tovild the Haunted and how certain he was that the man had some vital information locked away in his distracted mind if only they could find a way to release it. Ralph talked about the visit to the priory and his feeling that the silver chalice might in some way have provoked the ambush.

“There is only one problem,” he admitted. “What is that, Ralph?”

“Why should Prioress Mindred have been carrying it in one of her leather pouches? When she went to Barking Abbey, the chalice would have stayed at the priory.”

“There is a certain way to find out.”

“How?”

“I will ask Oslac the Priest,” said Gervase. “He celebrates Mass at the priory and will know what chalice he used during the absence of the two travellers. I need to speak with him about Tovild again and I will raise this other matter with him as well.”

“Do so straightway,” urged Ralph. “In the meantime, I will acquaint myself with the sheriff of this blighted county. The town reeve tells me that Peter de Valognes was due to ride in with his men this afternoon. The sheriff may be able to solve this mystery.”

“The murder of Guy FitzCorbucion?”

“The name of Humphrey Aureis testiculi.” Ralph led the way to the door. “If I lived in Maldon, I would fear for my manhood,” he said. “It is a town of extremes. Humphrey may have goldenbollocks but poor Guy has none at all. Ask the priest if he can explain that as well.”

There were six of them. When Gervase Bret walked through the churchyard, they gave him a raucous welcome. The most recent occupant of the consecrated ground had already acquired some feathered tenants. Six ravens stood on the grave of Guy FitzCorbucion and kept vigil. They were not there to peck or scavenge but simply to honour one of their own. Three more flew in to join them on the mound of fresh earth and others circled in the air. Gervase was reminded of his last glimpse of the Tower of London. Like the birds he had seen on that occasion, these ravens were disturbingly at home.

The church was open but it seemed to be empty. A smell of incense hung in the air. He closed the door behind him and genuflected towards the altar before walking down the nave and into the chancel. He tapped on the door to the vestry but there was no reply and the door was locked. The priest was evidently not in the little Saxon church and Gervase decided he might well have returned to Blackwater Hall with the mourners to offer what consolation he could. After a last glance around, he went back down the narrow aisle towards the exit and was about to leave when he heard the noise from the mortuary. It was the shuffle of leather on the stone paving. Oslac the Priest was there, after all.

The door to the mortuary was at the rear of the nave and Gervase knocked politely. When there was no answer, he used a bunched fist instead of his knuckles but there was still no invitation to enter. Gervase tried the door and it swung back to reveal the dank chamber where the dead of Maldon were laid out to await burial. The candles had been extinguished and the window slits admitted such meagre light that the place was in almost complete shadow. The mortuary seemed empty, but Gervase was certain that he had heard movement so he went down the steps and into the tiny chapel. Guy FitzCorbucion had quit his lodging that morning but his odour still lingered to offend the nostrils.

There were four stone slabs on which to lay out the dead of Maldon and three were bare. But the slab that Guy had briefly occupied now had a new corpse. The body was covered by a shroud. He walked around it in reverential silence until he noticed something that made the cadaver highly unusual. Its feet were poking out an inch or two from beneath the linen and they had rough leather shoes on them. Gervase recalled the noise he had heard. Moving to the other end of the slab, he took the edge of the shroud between his fingers and peeled it gingerly back.

The result was startling. As soon as the tousled head came into view, the body came back to life and leapt at him. A knife flashed in the gloom but he was ready for it and seized the wrist in a firm grip, twisting the blade away from him, then forced the arm down so that it struck the side of the slab. There was a yell of pain and the knife dropped to the floor. Gervase grappled with him but his adversary had a surge of power and threw him off. Snatching his weapon, he was about to lunge at Gervase once more but the latter had realised who he must be and held up his palms in a conciliatory gesture.

“Calm down, Wistan,” he said gently. “I am a friend.” The boy was unappeased. “Out of my way,” he grunted.

“If you wish,” said Gervase, standing aside to let him leave. “But you will only be running back into danger out there. Sanctuary lies here. Oslac the Priest will help.”

Wistan edged his way towards the door with his knife brandished and Gervase made no effort to stop him. The boy had second thoughts. He was bedraggled. The torn woollen tunic had been soaked during Wistan’s second nocturnal swim in the River Blackwater and it had still not dried out. He had made his way to the Church of All Souls’ under cover of darkness and hid among the churchyard yews while the burial service took place, waiting until they had all left before he gained the relative safety of the mortuary. His hair was unkempt, his arms and legs scuffed, his face hunted.

“Who are you?” he said.

“I told you, I am a friend. My name is Gervase.” “You know me?”

“Oslac the Priest spoke of you,” said Gervase, trying to soothe him. “You are Wistan, son of Algar. Your father was most cruelly treated. He lies in the cemetery outside. I know little beyond that, Wistan, but I know the most important thing about you.”

“What is that?”

“Put the knife away and I will tell you.”

“Keep off!” said Wistan, holding the weapon up as Gervase took a step forward. “You are lying.”

“Take your chance to run, then,” offered Gervase. “I will not stop you. But ask yourself this. How long will you last out there?” The boy

hesitated. “Go and they will catch you. Lower the knife and you will hear what a good friend I am. What do you have to lose?”

Wistan studied him with beetle-browed intensity. Gervase had an

honest face and an unthreatening manner. The boy was so unused to kindness from anyone that he was highly suspicious of it. When he left Northey Island, he decided that Oslac was the only person who might help him, yet this stranger was now offering his assistance as well. Wistan slowly lowered his arm until the knife hung by his side.

“What can you tell me?” he said.

“I know that you did not kill Guy FitzCorbucion.” “I wanted to!” retorted the boy.

“You were not alone in that desire,” said Gervase. “It was a common feeling in Maldon. But his death was not your work, Wistan. I would swear to it. You are innocent.”

The boy was so taken aback by this unexpected support that he wanted to burst into tears. Days on the run had made him fear everyone and he was prepared to kill in order to retain his freedom, yet this young man believed in him. Gervase had never met him before, but he somehow had enough faith in the boy to want to save him. Wistan did not know what to do. Gervase made the decision for him.

“Give me the knife,” he said. “Show that you trust me.”

He held out his hand and waited. Wistan realised that a bargain was being struck. Gervase would help him but only if the boy surrendered his weapon. It was a big risk and he needed a long time to think about it, but he finally came around to the view that he had no alternative. Flight from the church in broad daylight would be madness. He was bound to be seen. If he stayed at the Church of All Souls’ the priest would not betray him, nor would this new-found friend. Wistan had to choose between being an eternal fugitive and placing his trust in this stranger.

“Come, Wistan,” said Gervase quietly. “Let me help.” Wistan lifted his arm and handed over the knife.