Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Seven

Blackwater Hall was less like a house of mourning than a castle under siege and it was striking back hard at its attackers. Hamo FitzCorbucion was furious when his charge across Northey Island failed to capture the fugitive, but that fury turned to manic violence when he was told that Peter de Valognes, the Sheriff of Essex, had arrived in town to take over the investigation. The servant who passed on the news was beaten savagely, the soldier who tried to help him was kicked senseless, and the rest of the men around him were put to flight when Hamo began to break furniture and throw the pieces at them. It was left to Fulk the Steward to calm Hamo down but there was only a temporary lull. The sheriff rode into the courtyard with his men. Expecting to be welcomed as an officer of the law, he was instead repulsed by such a torrent of abuse that he felt as if he were having boiling oil poured over him.

Matilda’s anger was self-inflicted. The man whom she had sent with a message for Miles Champeney had been followed and reported. What horrified her most was that it was Jocelyn who betrayed her. While her father was tearing madly across Northey with his knights, she thought that it would be safe to dispatch her servant with the letter for her beloved, but her brother had been expecting such a move and he had put a watch on Miles Champeney. When the meeting took place on the wooded embankment, the spy witnessed it from his hiding place, then brought word back to Blackwater. Jocelyn promptly incarcerated her servant in the dungeon and then took the outrageous step of locking his own sister in her room. When his father’s temper cooled, he would earn his gratitude by telling him how he had foiled his sister’s attempt to defy paternal wishes and escape from the marriage that had been arranged for her.

She was beside herself. Not only had she committed the servant to certain punishment, she had also put Miles in danger. Blackwater would be waiting for him now and he would be quite unaware of it. Matilda paced her room in a frenzy, fearful of what might happen to her and desperate to warn her beloved. She blamed herself for her carelessness. Guy had been a constant trial to her but at least he had been a visible enemy. His hatred of Miles Champeney had been as open as it was virulent. Jocelyn worked more slyly to achieve his goals and she had not taken him seriously enough. Because of that, an innocent servant would take a dreadful beating and a hopeful lover would ride into a trap. She was so annoyed with herself that she hammered on the stone wall with her clenched fists until she drew blood, then she fell to the floor and wept bitterly.

With his brother not yet cold in his grave, Jocelyn did not brood or grieve. Like his father, he was taking action to repel an attack, but it was of a legal nature in his case. Royal commissioners had gathered evidence against Blackwater Hall and it was only a matter of time before the family had to defend itself against charges of spectacular theft and misappropriation. While Hamo ranted in the hall below, his son sat quietly in his chamber and went through the manorial charters and accounts once more. He wanted to beat the newcomers with their own weapons and that necessitated the most detailed preparation. Jocelyn stalked the battlements of the law with growing confidence, believing that they might outwit the commissioners with an amalgam of his father’s overbearing character and his own acumen.

It was Fulk the Steward who interrupted him. “Your father wishes to see you,” he said.

“Has he quietened down yet?”

“He has stopped throwing the chairs around.” “Good,” said Jocelyn. “What of Peter de Valognes?”

“The sheriff has been sent on his way with a flea in his ear. Your father asked him why it had taken him so long to begin a murder inquiry. His language was hot. The sheriff wisely withdrew to town to begin his investigation there and to wait until your father was more amenable.” A bellow rose up from below. “He is calling for you.”

“I will come at once.”

Fulk led the way downstairs and was dismissed with a glare by Hamo FitzCorbucion, who wanted a private conference with his son. Jocelyn saw that his father was marginally calmer but still capable of exploding. Hamo was also drinking heavily and that introduced a maudlin note into his voice. He waved his son to a seat with his cup of wine and spilled some on the floor. Jocelyn picked up one of the few chairs that had not been dismembered and righted it so that he could sit down. His father strutted over to him.

“I am surrounded by fools!” “Yes, Father.”

“We buried Guy this morning,” said Hamo blankly. “My son went into his grave. That surely entitles me to respect. That surely earns me some sympathy. But what do I get? Eh?” He lurched a few steps and swayed over Jocelyn. “I get fools and idiots upsetting me! I get

people daring to argue with me. I get that buffoon of a sheriff riding in here as if he is doing me a favour, trying to pick up a trail that is already three days’ old.” He emptied his cup then dashed it to the floor. “Why does nobody actually help me!”

“I’m helping you, Father.”

“How?”

“Sit down and I’ll explain.”

Jocelyn stood up and guided his father into his chair. Then he picked up a stool so that he could sit in front of him. Hamo was swaying slightly but quiescent at last.

“I have tried to share some of the load,” said Jocelyn. “You went all the way to Coutances to negotiate something and I did not want it to be thrown back in your face.”

“Thrown back?”

“I speak of Matilda.”

“Why? What has she done?”

“Sent word to Miles Champeney.” “Hell-fire! She was forbidden!”

“That is why I kept him under surveillance,” said Jocelyn quickly, before his father’s anger was ignited beyond control again. “Matilda is cunning and resourceful. If I watched her too closely, she would have known. So I set a man to spy on Miles Champeney and the fellow’s vigilance may yet redeem your voyage to Coutances.”

“Why, Jocelyn? Tell me. What happened?” “A messenger was sent today …”

When he described the sequence of events, it was all he could do to stop his father from storming up to Matilda’s chamber to take a whip to her. Hamo’s ire shifted to the servant who was now locked in the dungeon below.

“I’ll leave him there to rot!” he vowed. “I’ll starve him to death then send in the dogs to eat the bones!”

“Forget him, Father,” advised his son. “He is nothing.” “He was part of a plot against me. I want revenge!” “Then take it out on the right person.”

“On Matilda?”

“On Miles Champeney. She sent for him. He will come.”

A slow grin spread over Hamo’s face. “He will come and I will prepare a welcome for him!” He nodded eagerly. “You are right, Jocelyn. He is the culprit here. It was he who led my daughter astray and I’ve not forgotten his fight with Guy. Yes, that is the way to take revenge.” He patted Jocelyn. “You have done well here. You have done very well.”

His son basked in the praise for a few minutes then turned to what he considered a much more important topic. Matilda’s happiness was of no real concern to him now. When Jocelyn had been at the mercy of his brother, she had been a useful ally against Guy, but the balance of power within the family had now shifted. To advance himself, he was quite willing to sacrifice her. In six weeks, she would be packed off to Coutances for the wedding and Jocelyn would not have to see her after that. Matilda had no place in the new dispensation at Blackwater Hall. She would only get in his way.

The royal commissioners were the serious problem.

“They will call us soon, Father,” he cautioned. “Who?”

“Ralph Delchard and his cohorts.” “Let them call. I will defy them.”

“There is a better way,” said Jocelyn. “I have studied all the charters and the accounts. If we are astute, we can pull the wool over their eyes. Follow my advice and we can pick up the law and hit them over the head with it.”

Hamo pondered. “Will we get away with it?” “I think so, Father.”

“Thinking is not enough against royal commissioners.”

“Then I know,” vouched Jocelyn. “We have to face them in argument sooner or later. They have documents to hold over us but we have even more of our own. While they have been getting fat on the meals at Champeney Hall, I have been eating nothing but grants, leases, renewals, agreements, and purchases. They came to Maldon to talk about our crimes and forfeitures. Let me contest the issue, and I’ll have them out of the town within a couple of days and we’ll not be an acre of land worse off.” Jocelyn beamed with self-esteem. “What do you say, Father? May I speak for us?”

Hamo FitzCorbucion was no longer listening. One phrase had been enough to alter his whole strategy. Jocelyn might lust for the chance to prove himself as an advocate but that would involve long hours of litigation in a murky shire hall. His father believed in the simplest and most direct solution to a problem. He began to laugh.

“Do you agree, Father?” said Jocelyn hopefully, but Hamo shook his head and laughed even louder. “Why not?”

“They are eating their heads off at Champeney Hall!”

“What is so funny about that?” asked the son as his irritation showed. “They have a fine cook. He will fill their bellies until they are fit to burst. Gilbert Champeney is a generous host.”

“I know,” said his father. “I intend to partake of his hospitality myself. That is what makes it so funny!”

Cruel laughter brought the conversation to an end.

Oslac the Priest was not easily surprised. His vocation gave him an insight into the very worst aspects of life in Maldon and he had learned to take even the most jolting shocks in his stride. Experience hardened him. However, when he returned to the Church of All Souls’ that evening, he was met by a situation that even he had not encountered before and it astonished him. Gervase Bret was lurking inside the door of the mortuary to protect the hapless Wistan from discovery. Oslac recovered quickly. He took both of them into his vestry and locked the door behind them. A slightly greater degree of safety had been attained and Wistan was relieved. He now had two friends who were on his side.

The vestry was hardly big enough for the three of them together. It was the place where the priest hung his vestments, stored the candles, and kept his few books. It had never before contained a royal commissioner from Winchester and a runaway slave who was being hunted for murder. In the hours he spent with the boy, Gervase had won his trust enough to coax the truth out of him. Wistan was certainly innocent Accused of murder, he had no option but to flee. The pursuing pack would not even bother to listen to his alibi, still less believe it. Certain death was all he could expect.

Oslac the Priest was full of compassion. “You did right to come here, Wistan.”

“It was all I could think to do.”

“It was a sensible decision.” He ran a hand across his chin. “The question is, what do we do with you now?”

“Keep him away from my lord, Hamo,” said Gervase. “And there is

one sure way to do that.” “What?” grunted the boy. “Surrender to the sheriff.” “No! No! I’m innocent!”

“That’s exactly why you should go to him,” said Gervase softly. “To clear your name. Peter de Valognes is an honest man. He will hear you out. He will also look after you.”

“I am not so certain of that,” opined Oslac. “But he is the Sheriff of Essex.”

“I know his position and I respect the man who holds it but he

does not have much influence over Blackwater Hall. He and my lord, Hamo, have had many battles in the past and the sheriff has yet to win.” He put a consoling arm around Wistan. “If we deliver the boy, the sheriff will lock him in the town prison while he questions him.”

“No prison,” begged Wistan. “No prison. Please.”

“At least, you would be safe there,” argued Gervase.

Oslac shook his head. “I fear not. My lord, Hamo, has great sway here. He will bribe or bully his way into the prison. He will not rest until Wistan is in his hands.”

“Save me,” wailed the boy. “Please save me.”

The priest calmed him down and mulled over the matter. “You will come home with me,” he said at length.

“With you?’ Gervase was uneasy. “That would put you in danger as well, Father Oslac. Consider well. Hamo holds the advowson of this church. You are vicar here with his approval. Were he to find that-” “He will not,” said Oslac crisply. “In any case, I refuse to put myself before a child in need. Wistan will stay in here until it grows dark. Then I will take him back to my house. It is close by. They will not

search there.”

Gervase was contrite. “You are a brave man,” he said, “and you are right to chide me for reminding you of your self-interest. Wistan has suffered enough. He needs refuge until the real murderer is caught and then his life will be safe.” He turned to the boy and patted his shoulder. “This is the best way. Are you content?”

Wistan gave a lacklustre nod. Oslac might hide him for a short while but that would not solve a long-term problem. Even if the real culprit were apprehended and his own innocence proved, Wistan could not imagine returning to the demesne of Hamo FitzCorbucion. It was his son, Guy, who had slain Algar and further vengeance had to be taken for that. The priest might hide the boy in the belief that he was not a killer, but Wistan still had murder in his heart.

Oslac could see how fatigued and hungry he was. He sat him on a stool and found some bread and water to sustain him until the priest’s wife could cook him proper food. There was a service to be taken soon in the church. Oslac locked the boy alone in the vestry and came out into the nave with Gervase.

“We have much to thank you for,” he said. “Wistan is fortunate that it was you who walked into the mortuary. Anybody else would have raised the alarm and the boy would now be lying dead somewhere in Blackwater Hall.”

“Call on me if I can be of further assistance.”

“I will.”

“The town reeve will know where to find me.”

“God bless you for your kindness!” He looked back towards the vestry. “The only way to rescue Wistan is to find the person who killed Guy FitzCorbucion. Let us pray that Peter de Valognes does that.”

“He may need our help.” “Why?”

“The sheriff comes too late on the scene,” said Gervase. “He will waste time trying to track down Wistan instead of hunting the man whom Tovild saw.”

“Tovild the Haunted?” “He was an eyewitness.” “Is that what he told you?”

“He was about to,” insisted Gervase, “but he was frightened away by the knights from Blackwater Hall. I am certain that Tovild is our best ally.”

“A dubious asset. Where did you find him?” “In the middle of the Battle of Maldon.” “What did he say?”

“He spoke in gnomic utterances.”

Oslac sighed. “Yes, that is Tovild the Haunted.”

“But he knows. He was there in the marshes at the time. Tovild holds the vital clue that will lead us to the murderer.”

“Then we will never find him, I fear. Tovild’s mind is full of shapes and phantoms. He has witnessed so many imaginary deaths in his dairy Battle of Maldon that he could never separate them from any real one.” Oslac was fatalistic. “Look elsewhere for your vital clue. Tovild will not help.”

“He will, he will,” declared Gervase. “I sensed it.” “His wits have turned. You merely sensed madness.” “I must see him again. Tell me where he lives.”

“On the shore. In the battle.” “Does he not have a home?”

“Yes,” said Oslac, “but he is rarely there. He only visits the house to get weapons and change into different armour. I’ll tell you where it is, and how to get there, but you will be very lucky to catch him at home.”

Gervase took the directions and thanked him. The priest showed him out of the church. He was about to walk away when he remembered the request from Ralph Delchard.

“You celebrate Mass at the priory, I believe?”

“I am one of three priests in the town who do so.” “Does the chapel possess a wonderful silver chalice?” “Why, yes, Master Bret. How did you know?”

“Is that always used during Mass?” asked Gervase. “Whenever it is available.”

“Available?”

“It disappeared for a week while the prioress was away in Barking Abbey,” said Oslac. “She is inordinately fond of that chalice and probably locked it away for safety. I used another in her absence, far less ornate but it served the same function.” He smiled quizzically. “Does that answer your question?”

“Extremely well.”

“May I know what it concerns?”

“An ambush,” said Gervase. “I would like to see this silver chalice. It has been much praised.”

“Rightly so. It is a true symbol of Maldon.”

“Symbol?”

“Yes,” said the priest. “You have been here long enough to get the measure of us. What are the main features that you have noticed since you have been here?”

“Your kindness and Gilbert Champeney’s hospitality.”

Oslac laughed. “Those are only minor blemishes on the face of

Maldon. What is the major wart that you see?” “Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

“And is there any hint of beauty here?”

“Spiritual beauty, yes. The priory.” “Put them both together, Master Bret.” “Together?”

“Come, come,” said Oslac, almost teasing him. “You are a highly intelligent man. If you cannot spy my meaning, you will never solve any of Tovild’s riddles. Priory and Hamo. Or put it another way, if you wish. Priory and Hamo. Mass and FitzCorbucion. What else am I saying to you?”

“Chalice and raven.”

“Excellent! And what do you have now?”

“Chalice and raven,” repeated Gervase. “The emblem of St. Benedict was a broken cup, which held poison, and a raven that removes it at his bidding. Chalice and raven. Maldon is truly Benedictine.” They shared a smile and Gervase let his mind play with the image of an emblem that had been conjured up. “Chalice and raven. The mark of a saint sits upon the town. What an extraordinary coincidence!”

“Yes,” said Oslac, growing serious. “Except that this cup holds the blood of Christ and the raven will do nobody’s bidding but his own.”

Gilbert Champeney was at his most genial that evening. He presided over the feast with loquacious cordiality, passing on items of local gossip, extolling the virtues of the Saxon community, and pressing his guests to try each new, enticing dish which was brought in from the kitchen. There was no hint in his effusive manner of any domestic anxieties, and his cheerful boasts about his son completely hid the deep divisions that existed between Miles Champeney and his father. Such was his love of disseminating happiness that Gilbert could even believe he enjoyed some himself.

Canon Hubert was in his element. Rich wine, delectable food, congenial company, and the fawning attentions of Brother Simon allowed him to pontificate on his favourite themes.

“The Church has effected the real conquest of England,” he said, reaching for another girdle bread. “Archbishop Lanfranc is bringing about a revolution. No other word is strong enough to describe the fundamental changes he has wrought. A veritable revolution in matters spiritual. I have discussed it with him.”

“Canon Hubert has the archbishop’s ear,” said Simon. “Who has the rest of his body?” joked Ralph.

“You remind me of poor St. Oswald,” said Gilbert with a nervous laugh. “When he was killed in battle by King Penda of Mercia, his body was sacrificially mutilated to Woden. The head, arms, and hands of St. Oswald were hung up on stakes. They were later recovered and venerated in different places. The head was buried in Lindisfarne but moved elsewhere in time. The arms were deposited at Bamborough, although one was later stolen by a monk of Peterborough and taken to Ely. The body was buried at Oswestry, then translated to Bardney, then on again to Gloucester. Holy men in Durham claim to have seen his uncorrupted hands.” He gave a reverent giggle. “St. Oswald has been all over the country to spread his cult.”

“Wait till Humphrey dies!” said Ralph. “Every red-blooded man in England will want his relics.”

“Who is this Humphrey?” asked Brother Simon.

“May I continue?” said Canon Hubert, stepping up into the pulpit once more. “I was speaking with the Archbishop of Canterbury …” He omitted to mention that over fifty other leading churchmen were present at the synod. “… and he told me of his conviction that canon law must be our watchword. That is why he has created so many separate ecclesiastical courts in England. He is laying the foundations. Archbishop Lanfranc is making the free operation of canon law possible.” He almost choked on his girdle bread and swilled it down with some wine. “Look at the corruption and inefficiency of the Saxon church and you will see what a revolution this is. We are imposing real definition on the spiritual life of this land. We are cleansing it. We are saving it.”

“That ‘we’ being you and Lanfranc’s ear,” said Ralph.

Hubert snorted. “Is nothing sacred to you, my lord?” “Of course. Sister Tecla.”

“I must protest, Canon Hubert,” said Gilbert. “You are too harsh on the Saxon church. In my opinion …”

He and the prelate argued contentedly for an hour.

The food kept coming, the wine flowed, and their host’s benevo-lence reached new heights, but Gervase Bret was more interested in the one person who was absent from the table. When the feast was over and the guests rolled off to their respective bedchambers, he remarked on it to Ralph Delchard.

“Where was Miles Champeney?” he said.

“Where every virile young man ought to be,” replied the other. “Warm-ing the bed of his latest mistress.”

“He has pledged himself to Matilda FitzCorbucion and he is faithful

to her,” said Gervase. “Only true love could survive all the obstacles that they must have met. But why was he not at the table with us? He is the son of the house.”

“Perhaps he is away on business again.”

“His horse was in the stable when I returned.” “In that case, Miles may be unwell.”

“He was healthy enough first thing this morning.” “Then perhaps he and Gilbert have fallen out?”

“Why then did his father talk so fondly of him during the meal?”

Gervase sat on his bed and pondered. “Miles is less than welcoming to us. He has obligations to fulfill when there are guests of such distinction here, yet he keeps out of our way. He must have a reason.”

“And what might it be?” “Guilt.”

Ralph was incredulous. “Miles, a killer? Never!”

“We have, at least, to consider the possibility.” “What was his motive?”

“Hatred of Guy FitzCorbucion.” “Everyone had that.”

“They did not all fight with Guy. They did not all see him as a barrier between them and the woman they loved. We have been scour-ing the town for suspects when one might lie right here at Champeney Hall.”

“No, Gervase. You are wrong. Miles is a fine young man.” “He is a fine young man in love.”

“Would he try to kill his way to the altar?” “If there were sufficient provocation.”

“The brawl with Guy?”

“And the taunts that must have gone with it.” Gervase went over the sequence of events. “When we arrived, Miles had been away for a few days. During that time, Guy was stabbed to death. Could not Miles simply have pretended to leave the area so that he had an alibi?”

“Yes, he could. But I would doubt it very strongly.”

“Why?”

“Damnation! He is Gilbert Champeney’s son!” “That does not guarantee his innocence.”

“He would not kill merely because he hated someone.”

“I think he did it because he loved someone.” “What proof do you have?”

“None,” admitted Gervase, “beyond the fact that he has been acting so strangely since we came. But as you say, he is Gilbert’s son and a Champeney is always single-minded. Look at this manor house, Ralph. Think what an effort of will it must have taken to create it in the teeth of opposition and mockery. Fired by his love for Saxon culture, Gilbert has stuck to his mission.” He stood up again. “Miles would stick to his mission as well-fired by love of Matilda.”

“You are forgetting one thing, Gervase.”

“What is that?”

“The mutilation,” said Ralph. “It is possible, I grant you, that Miles just could have stuck a knife into the loathsome Guy. But why would he castrate him?”

“An accidental injury in a frenzied attack.”

“No, Gervase. The killer knew what he was doing.” “Then Guy must have goaded him about his manhood.”

“You’re guessing here,” said Ralph sceptically. “You will tell me next that Guy was castrated as part of a ritual mutilation to some pagan deity. After all, they dismembered St. Oswald. That must be it! Miles Champeney worships Woden!”

Gervase smiled. “I think you will find that Woden looks remarkably like this Matilda of Blackwater Hall.” He gave a shrug. “The evidence is slight, I know, but somebody killed Guy FitzCorbucion and Miles has to be a leading suspect. If he did not commit the murder, then who did?”

“An irate husband. Maldon must be full of them.” “Irate husband?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “We know that Guy was a demon lover who rode far and wide in search of pleasure. Such men are catholic in their taste. Wives, widows, or spinsters, it does not matter to them. They are all grist to the mill.” He walked to the window and peered out into the courtyard. “Somewhere out there is a cuckolded husband who decided to put an end to Guy’s romping. That’s why he lost his bollocks, Gervase. They became golden with overuse. He stole one wife too many.”

“That, too, is a possibility,” said Gervase.

“It is more than that. It is the only explanation.”

Ralph turned away from the window and crossed to his bed. It was getting late. There was no session at the shire hall on the following day but he and Gervase had more than enough to keep them occupied. When they had set out from Winchester, the assignment in Maldon had seemed perfectly straightforward. The murder had complicated everything. Until that was solved, they would never be able to complete their work. Ralph lay down on his mattress.

“What will you do tomorrow?” he asked. “Arrest Miles?” “Gather more evidence.”

“From where?”

“Tovild the Haunted. He is still our best witness.” “A raving madman fighting a long-dead battle?”

“He saw something in the marshes, Ralph.” “The Viking invaders!”

“I still have faith in him,” said Gervase. “It may take time to separate the wheat from the chaff of his mind, but it will be worth it. Even madmen can make a sane comment.”

“Yes,” agreed Ralph. “Look at Hubert. To be serious for a moment, what about the boy?”

“Wistan? He is safe with Oslac the Priest. I will call on both of

them as well. A night’s sleep in a real bed will refresh the lad’s memory. He has much more to tell us yet.”

“About what?”

“Life on the Blackwater demesne,” said Gervase. “He has endured it for fifteen years and will have his own stories about Hamo and his two sons.” He lowered himself onto his mattress and put his hands behind his head. “Yes, I will be kept busy tomorrow. I need to see if I can draw anything more out of Brunloc the Fisherman and take another look at the place where he found the dead body.” He reached over to the candle and snuffed out the flame between moistened finger and thumb. “What about you, Ralph?”

“I will devote the day to searching for Humphrey.” “We have a case of brutal murder on our hands.”

“Yes,” said Ralph with mock annoyance. “And I have the feeling that it will be easier to solve than the mystery of Humphrey’s shining spheres. I need to spend more time with Peter de Valognes. He was in a vile mood today because Hamo had spurned his offer of help, but our sheriff is a man to be cultivated. He knows what has been going on at Blackwater and any information on that score may advantage us.” He stifled a yawn. “What I would really like is an excuse to return to the priory.”

“Why?”

“Cakes and wine with Sister Tecla.”

“You told me that you did not even see her there.”

“That is why I wish to return, Gervase. To meet the beauteous Tecla and ask her about her prioress. Why does Lady Mindred wear jewelry under her habit? What really took her to Barking Abbey and why did that chalice go with her? There are many things I would love to ask her.”

“Let me add one more,” said Gervase. “Why did the prioress use a Saxon charm when she prayed with Sister Tecla in that church at Mountnessing?”

“Then we come to the biggest question of all.” “Biggest?”

“Sister Gunnhild.”

“What about her?”

“Is she really a woman-or a man?”

Prioress Mindred stood in front of the mirror in her chamber and brushed her long hair before plaiting it with care and letting it hang forward over one shoulder. She wore a plain white shift and a pair of slippers, which had been embroidered with gold thread. Both arms were adorned with gold clasps and there was a necklace of mixed stones around her neck. She tilted her head to admire the noble profile then fingered the jewelry at her neck. She might have repudi-ated her former life when she entered a religious house, but she could not disown all the gifts that her husband had bought for her.

On the table before her were several gold and silver rings. One had a large ruby in a setting of tiny pearls, another bore a sapphire, a third had a fierce agate, which sparkled in the flames of the candles. Mindred put the rings on her fingers and held them up to admire them. After another day behind the veil, she now felt a sense of release and elation.

Pleasure was soon replaced by remorse. The prioress was there to lead an exemplary life and not to indulge in the vanities of feminine behaviour. Pulling off the various pieces of jewelry, she put them into a box and shut the lid tight, then she turned away from the mirror and began to undo her hair before reaching for her wimple to hide it completely. Mindred then slipped on her gown and tied the drawstrings. She was about to leave the chamber when she remembered her footwear. Kicking off the embroidered slippers, she went barefoot to the door and let herself out. It was no new struggle in which she was engaged, but one that claimed her at regular intervals. Temptation was very strong and she sometimes yielded to it. But there was a perverse pleasure in repentance as well.

She went silently along the passage way and let herself into the chapel, intending to spend some time on her knees in contrition before returning to her virtuous couch. But there was someone already there. Even in the darkness, she knew it was Sister Tecla. Seen in dim outline, the young nun was lying prostrate on the steps in front of the altar, raising her head from time to time to gaze in longing before lowering it again to the hard stone. It was not the first occasion when the prioress had disturbed her nocturnal prayers. Mindred genuflected, then stepped slowly forward. Taking the nun by the shoulders, she helped her up from the ground and wrapped an arm around her.

Sister Tecla made no protest. She permitted herself to be led out of the chapel and back to her little room where she was lowered onto the bed and covered with a blanket. Mindred bent down to kiss her on the forehead and the nun began to sing quietly to herself and to rock very gently to and fro. The prioress used tender force to still her movement, then she put a finger on Tecla’s lips to silence the song. The nun turned over and drifted off to sleep. Mindred was happy. She felt that her good deed would help to atone for her bad impulse of vanity. After a last look at the slumbering Tecla, she tiptoed out and went back towards the chapel to offer her own prayers.

The splashing noise was clearly audible. As she went past the bathhouse, she heard the unmistakable sound. It was now past mid-night and all the sisters should be in their beds. Who could possibly want to take a bath at that hour? There was not even a flicker of light under the door. She groped her way to her chamber and brought one of the lighted candles back with her. The splashing continued. Bath

times were strictly regulated and each nun bathed alone. Heating the water was a communal effort. Whoever was in the bath now had not only filled it herself, she must be lying in water that was stone cold. Prioress Mindred hesitated to burst in, but her duty was clear. Someone was breaking the rules in the most flagrant way and would have to be punished.

Lifting the latch, she held up the candle and entered.

“Prioress Mindred!” exclaimed Sister Gunnhild. “Dear God!”

The prioress was completely unprepared for what she saw. Sister Gunnhild was reclining naked in the bathtub and rubbing her body all over with some rough twigs. Huge breasts bobbed in the water, a fat stomach protruded, thick white thighs were braced against the side of the tub. But it was something else that alarmed Mindred so much that she emitted a soundless scream and dropped the candle. The flame went out and she was left in total darkness with the Danish nun.

Sister Gunnhild was the first to recover. Her voice was calm and reassuring as she hauled herself out of the water.

“Go to the chapel,” she said. “I will get dressed and join you there. We must pray together.”

Miles Champeney waited until the whole household was asleep before he let himself out by a door at the back of the building. Moonlight guided his steps to the stables where he found the two horses he had saddled earlier. He led them a hundred yards away from the house before he mounted, and the soft thud of the hooves went unheard as he cantered away towards the hill, pulling the second animal behind him with a lead rein. It was a fine night with only the lightest of breezes to disturb his mantle and his cap. Miles rode steadily on and rehearsed the details in his mind. Months of planning had gone into an operation that would last no more than a few minutes, if all went well, and it was important to adhere to what had been agreed. By the time the daunting outline of Blackwater Hall rose before him, he had been through it all a dozen times.

He approached the property from the rear so that he did not disturb the dogs who were kennelled in the courtyard at the front. Close to the perimeter wall, he tethered the two horses and proceeded on foot. The coil of rope he brought now came into its own. A high stone wall was easy enough for a fit young man to scale, but Matilda would need assistance to get back over it. So he tied the rope securely to an abutment and let the end fall down to the ground. He tested it with a hard pull, then lowered himself down. Miles was now inside Blackwater Hall. The first hurdle had been cleared. Keeping low, he moved stealthily towards the house.

The ground floor was used for storage and the main entrance was at the front. Steps led up to the first floor so that provisions could be taken to the kitchens, but the occupants only used the external flight of steps to go into the house. Matilda would now use the rickety kitchen staircase to come down to him, but not before she had first signalled that everything was in order. Miles hugged the shadows and fixed his eyes on a window at the very top of the house. It was in darkness at the moment but his faith in her did not waver. She would come. If necessary, he was ready to wait for Matilda all night.

Ten minutes was all that she took. A light moved twice across the upstairs window and then vanished again. Miles came out of his hiding place and scurried across to the stout oak door of the storeroom. He was rescuing her at last from the home that she despised. They did not know exactly what would happen once they got over the wall together but they did not care. Escape was an end in itself. All else would follow naturally. They would be together and nothing else mattered besides that fact. Miles was on edge as he waited. It was weeks since he had seen her, months since they had been able to talk properly and exchange their vows. Matilda was coming to him and he shivered with anticipatory delight.

When he heard the bolt being drawn, he stepped forward with his arms out wide. The door shuddered, then swung back on creaking hinges to reveal Matilda. She wore a cloak with a hood that was pulled over her head and she came willingly into his embrace. When Miles tried to kiss her, however, she grabbed him by his tunic and swung him so violently against the wall that he could hardly stand. A kick from his beloved sent him to the ground and a blow from her club made him groggy. He tried to protest and reach out for her but the club descended again with greater force and Miles Champeney pitched forward into oblivion.

Hamo FitzCorbucion stepped out of the storeroom with four more of his men. The fifth now pulled back the hood and enjoyed the crude ribbing of his colleagues. The trap had been set and their quarry had strolled right into it.

“Take him away!” ordered Hamo, giving the prone figure a gratu-itous kick. “Throw him in the dungeon!”

Two men grabbed Miles by the legs and dragged him unceremoniously into the building. They bumped him down a flight of stone steps into a passageway that was lit with guttering torches. They came to a massive door into which an iron grille had been set. A key went into the lock and the door was opened. Miles Champeney was flung headfirst into the dungeon. The servant who was curled up on the ground in the pitch darkness yelled in pain as the body landed right on top of him, and the two guards roared with laughter.

“Howl as loud as you can,” said one. “Nobody can hear you.”

The door clanged shut and freedom became a memory.

Clouds drifted in not long after dawn and Maldon was soon washed by a heavy drizzle. The breeze had stiffened into a gusting wind. Those who could, stayed indoors, those who could not, braved the elements and cursed their luck. Farmers saw their harvest soaked and their livestock drenched. Sailors and fishermen felt the worst of the weather, wet through from the downpour and blown around on the normally placid waters of the River Blackwater. When the drizzle eased, they were the first to be aware of the slight improvement.

The figure on the shore was untroubled by the damp. His armour was bubbled and his mantle sodden but he still fought on in slow motion, his words blown across to Northey Island on the wind. Tovild was haunted.

Then came the clash of shields. The seamen strode up, angered by war. Often a spear went through a doomed man’s body. Wistan then went forward, the son of Thurstan, and fought against the foe. He was the slayer of three of them in the throng before Wigelm’s kinsman lay among the slain. It was a fierce encounter there. They stood fast, those warriors in the strife. Fighting men fell weary from their wounds. Blood fell to the ground …

His sword-arm flashed and more Viking blood stained the battlefield of Maldon. Tovild the Haunted was fighting well that morning. The rain seemed to refresh him. He was proud to stand alongside the other hearth-warriors to defend the town. Nobody had told him that the Vikings would eventually drive them all back and exact tribute. Tovild was haunted by the wild idea that the Saxon army could win this time.

Gervase Bret had been to Tovild’s cottage and found it deserted. Riding down to the shore, he saw the lonely figure engaged in his daily ritual and paused to admire him. The demons that drove him did not relent when foul weather came. Tovild would go on fighting in a snowstorm.

Wrapped in a cloak, Gervase rode right up to him. “Good morrow, Tovild!” he called.

The old man pointed his sword. “Friend or foeman?” “Friend. We spoke near here only yesterday.”

“You fought in the battle beside me?”

“Yes,” said Gervase. “You slew three Vikings.” “I will slay more if they keep coming at me.”

He flailed away with his sword and quoted more of the poem. Gervase

dismounted. He caught Tovild’s sword-arm with gentle firmness and took his weapon from him. The old man began to whine piteously.

“I cannot fight without my sword,” he wailed. “They will cut me down. These fierce warlords will murder me.”

“Let us talk of another murder first.”

Tovild peered at him. “You came to me before.”

“Because we need your help. You saw a man killed in the marshes. A young man, stabbed to death by his assailant. Or maybe he was attacked by more than one.” He pulled Tovild to him so that the horse screened the two of them from the sudden punches of the wind. “Four or five days ago,” said Gervase. “Not far from here. I met you at the spot.”

There was a long pause as Tovild scrutinised him. His manner was more friendly but there was still distrust and caution. He gave a little whoop and turned in a circle.

“Do you like riddles, young man?”

“That is why I am here. The riddle of the murder.” “Who am I? Who am I?”

“Tovild the Haunted.”

“No, listen to me. Listen. And tell me who I am.” The riddle was accompanied by a graphic mime. “The sea fed me, the water covering enveloped me, and waves covered me, footless, close to earth. Often I open my mouth to the flood; now some man will eat my flesh; he cares not for my covering, when with the point of his knife he tears off the skin from my side and afterwards quickly eats me uncooked.” Tovild danced up and down like a child. “Who am I?”

Gervase knew the answer because he had heard the riddle before but he also knew the importance of entering into the spirit of the game. Tovild was testing him. Only if he talked in the roundabout language of the old man would he get any help out of him. He scratched his head and pretended to be having difficulty working out the answer.

“Who am I? Who am I?” “A fish?”

“No, no. I’m not a fish!” “A crab?”

“No, not a crab either. Who am I? Guess!”

Gervase clicked his fingers as if it had just dawned on him. “I

know who you are-an oyster!” “Yes, yes. That’s right.”

“Try me again, Tovild.”

“Another riddle?” asked the old man excitedly. “As many as you like.”

“They are very cunning.”

“I will have to think hard, then.” “Who am I? Who am I?”

Gervase played with him for fifteen minutes to secure his trust and win his friendship. Always taking time to work out something he soon guessed, he identified Tovild as a whole range of things-fire, swan, badger, weathercock, key, and even battering ram. The old warrior chortled with glee. Someone was actually playing with him on his own terms. He threw a final challenge at Gervase.

“Who am I? Who am I?”

“Tell me the riddle.”

“It is the most difficult of all.”

“Who are you, Tovild? Who are you?”

“I’ve heard of a bright ring interceding well before men, although tongueless, although it cried not with a loud voice in strong words. The precious thing spoke before men, although holding its peace:

‘Save me, Helper of souls!’ May men understand the mysterious saying of the red gold, the magic speech; may wise men entrust their salvation to God, as the ring said.” Tovild clapped his hands. “Who am I? Who am I?”

Gervase really did need time to consider because he had not heard this riddle before. He repeated snatches of it to himself as he wrestled with its meaning. Tovild sensed victory and cackled happily. He taunted Gervase by throwing some of the phrases at him again.

“Who am I? Who am I?” “A chalice.”

Tovild was deflated. “How did you know?”

“The bright ring is the sacred vessel that brings thoughts of Christ to the minds of men during the celebration of Mass. In short-a chalice.” He put a congratulatory hand on the other’s shoulder. “It was the most cunning riddle of all. You are very clever.”

The old man took his sword from Gervase and ran twenty paces away before turning to face him again. He beckoned him to follow. Gervase had at last established his credentials. As Tovild scampered across the wet grass, Gervase led his horse and walked after him. The drizzle had all but stopped now and the sky was lightening. Tovild was skipping as if he had just won the Battle of Maldon single-handed.

They eventually came to the place in the marshes where Brunloc the Fisherman had first found the dead body. It was a convenient venue for murder. Trees and bushes were in full bloom on the bank and the river was dotted with clumps of reeds and masses of water lilies. A corpse that was hurled in at a well-chosen point might lie undetected for weeks in the slime. Guy FitzCorbucion had been lucky to be discovered so soon by a fisherman making his way home.

“Think carefully,” said Gervase. “What did you see?” “A raven from Blackwater Hall.”

“He was killed and thrown into the water right here.”

“The war-knife shed his blood.”

“How many people attacked him, Tovild. One, two, more?” “One only plucked his black feathers.”

“What happened? Tell me?”

“Who am I? Who am I?”

“We’ve had enough riddles, Tovild.”

The old man banged his chest. “Who am I?” He used his sword like a knife to stab at the air. “Who am I?” He jabbed a finger at the reeds. “Who am I?”

Gervase was to get his answer in the form of a riddle. “You are a killer, Tovild. Tell me your name.”

“I am a wondrous creature” sang the old man. “I vary my voice; sometimes I bark like a dog; sometimes I bleat like a goat; sometimes I cry like a goose; sometimes I scream like a hawk; sometimes I mimic the grey eagle, the laugh of the warbird; sometimes with a kite’s voice I speak with my mouth; sometimes the song of the gull where I sit in my gladness. They call me G, also A and R; O gives aid, and H, and I. Now I am named-who am I?”

Gervase was baffled and he was given no time to solve the riddle. Instead of waiting to urge him on, Tovild ran to the water’s edge and fell forward. Gervase thought at first that he was diving in but he was merely hanging over the bank to fish in the muddy water with a long arm. He brought something up in triumph and ran across to give it to his new friend. Gervase was so hypnotised by the object that he simply stared at it for minutes on end. When Gervase finally broke out of his trance, Tovild the Haunted had gone and taken his riddles with him. He had, however, left behind an invaluable item. Gervase Bret knew exactly what it was. He wiped the knife in the grass to get the worst of the slime off it.

He was holding the murder weapon.

Ralph Delchard was deeply dissatisfied with his day so far. It began badly when the lusty-throated cockerel at Champeney Hall brought him rudely out of his dream at the very moment when Sister Tecla was about to tear off her habit and submit her body to his passionate embraces. It was not helped by the general consternation that seized the house when it was learned that Miles had been missing all night along with two of the horses. The loss of a nun was compounded by the loss of a son. There was worse to come. Having waited until the rain had stopped, he set off for Maldon in the sunshine with four of his men, only to be caught in a sudden shower when he was too far away from the demesne to turn back and not close enough to the town to seek immediate shelter. It was a wet and decidedly jaded Ralph Delchard who finally met with the man he had come to see.

Peter de Valognes did little to raise his spirits. The sheriff was still smarting from his brush with the prickly Hamo FitzCorbucion on the previous day. Having ridden all the way to Maldon from some distance away, he had expected at least a welcome and a show of gratitude. Instead, he had been given a reprimand for his tardines and a total lack of cooperation at Blackwater Hall. Peter de Valognes, a tall and dignified man in his thirties, was Sheriff of Essex and Hertfordshire. He was also a nephew of the Conqueror and brother-in-law to Eudo dapifer, one of the King’s stewards. A powerful member of the Norman aristocracy, he did not appreciate the brusque treatment he had so far received in Maldon.

“What have you discovered, my lord, Sheriff?” said Ralph.

“That I wish I had stayed in Hertfordshire.” “You caught Hamo on a bad day.”

“Does he ever have a good one?”

“He has had far too many,” said Ralph with feeling. “That is why we are here. To call this raven to account.”

“I came to solve a murder,” said Peter irritably. “When I left Blackwater, I was in a mood to commit one.”

They were in the shire hall where the town reeve had provided some refreshment for them. Ralph had the chance to dry out slightly and Peter de Valognes was able to work off some of his frustration by parading his complaints. Under Edward the Confessor, the sheriff was merely a landowner of second rank whose status depended on being the agent of the King. The office was now held by more senior nobles whose position resembled that of a vicomte in Normandy. Peter de Valognes was thus a high-ranking royal officer with a wide field of jurisdiction and he was not being accorded the immense respect due to him.

“Where are your men?” asked Ralph.

“Most have joined the search for this boy, Wistan,” said Peter, “even though I am not convinced that he is the culprit. We must catch him before Hamo does or the lad will be slain on the spot at once.”

“What if you do not find him, my lord Sheriff?”

“Then we will impose the usual fine on the hundred.”

“Maldon is assessed as a half-hundred.”

“Do not quibble with me, my lord,” said Peter. “You know the law as well as I. When we came to England, the King had to protect his followers from random attack. He decreed that whenever a Norman is killed by an assassin who escapes, the hundred has to suffer a fine. Guy FitzCorbucion’s death will be paid for by everyone.”

“That will not content his father.”

“I have lost interest in his contentment!”

“Have you called witnesses?” said Ralph. “Dozens.”

“What has emerged from your enquiries?”

“That is our business, my lord,” said Peter with a touch of haughti-ness. “It can have no interest for you.”

“It has every interest. Hamo is the chief subject of our investigation. Anything that pertains to him and his egregious family has interest for us.” He sat back in his chair. “What exactly did the stricken father say when you rode out to Blackwater Hall?”

Peter de Valognes was quite prepared to describe the encounter in detail and Ralph gleaned a lot of information about their adversary. Hamo’s grief at the death of his son had been sharpened by the theft of an object from Guy’s chamber, which had great significance for both men. Ralph’s ears pricked up when he heard that it was a silver chalice that was missing. The sheriff had nothing useful to add about the murder investigation and it became clear that he would need at least a week to get anywhere near the point that Ralph and Gervase had already reached. It was up to them to solve the crime. A man of Peter’s eminence only frightened the townspeople and his bustling officers were all too reminiscent of members of the conquering army that had first moved into Essex twenty years ago. An official enquiry imposed from above would accomplish little. Two men like Ralph and Gervase, working from below, might be able to insinuate themselves into the places where the truth lay.

“How long do you expect to stay, my lord, Sheriff?” “It already feels like a year!”

“Maldon is a pleasant enough town.”

“I will think twice before I come here again.” “What if Hamo presses an invitation upon you?”

Ralph was tactful enough to withdraw before the sheriff could answer the question. The storm had passed and the sun was out again but his attire was still damp. Ralph dismissed his men and gave them the freedom of the town for a couple of hours while he rode back to Champeney Hall to change out of his wet tunic and mantle. He needed no escort on such a short journey and valued the opportunity to be alone. He could speculate on whether the silver chalice at the priory might actually be the one taken from Blackwater Hall, and think luscious, highly irreligious thoughts about the divine Sister Tecla.

They were a hundred yards or more away when he first sighted them and he reined his horse in behind the cover of some bushes. Three men were cantering towards Champeney Hall and they soon passed close enough to him for Ralph to recognise their leader. It was Fulk the Steward, the man who had accompanied Jocelyn FitzCorbucion to the shire hall on that first afternoon. He rode with the air of a man on an important errand and Ralph wondered what it might be. Gilbert Champeney loved the whole world but even his spacious affection could not accommodate Blackwater Hall. The very sight of these emissaries would make the mild-mannered Gilbert froth with rage.

Ralph followed at a discreet distance and watched them ride into the courtyard. By the time that he had stabled his horse, the three men had disappeared into the house. Ralph let himself in quietly and went up to his chamber. Raised voices could be heard from below and then a door banged. When he crossed to the window, he saw Fulk and the two men walking towards their mounts. The steward seemed to be in high humour as he rode off the premises. Ralph slipped out of his wet apparel and found a clean tunic. He was about to put it on when he heard a soft creak on the stairs outside. Somebody was approaching the chamber with a furtive step and he reached instinctively for his sword, moving into an alcove to conceal himself.

There was a tap on the door to make sure that the room was unoc-cupied and then someone entered. Ralph drew himself right back into the alcove and listened. The intruder went straight to the satchel in which Gervase Bret carried all of his writs and charters. Ralph heard the leather strap being undone and the rustle of parchment. The thief was trying to steal their documentary evidence. Without that, the commissioners would be severely handicapped in their forthcoming tussle with Hamo. Ralph was furious. Hurling himself out of the alcove, he threw his back against the door so that it slammed shut, then held his sword at the throat of the man who was taking their property.

Gilbert Champeney turned white with guilt then fell to his knees in supplication and burst in tears.

“Ralph!” he exclaimed. “Thank God! Please help me!”

They were together at last and yet kept cruelly apart. She knew that he was there. From her chamber window, Matilda could see the two horses down in the courtyard of Blackwater Hall. Miles Champeney had come for her during the night and been taken prisoner by her father. The two horses on which they would have ridden away were now drinking contentedly from the water trough. She was trembling with impotent rage. Matilda blamed her father for his ruthlessness and her brother for his duplicity, but she reserved the greatest scorn for herself. It was her fault that Miles had been captured. The man she loved had been delivered into the hands of those who hated him and she had to take the responsibility for that. Atonement could only be made if she rescued him but the chances of that were slim. Locked in her chamber, with an armed guard outside her door, she was not even sure where Miles was being kept.

Noises from the courtyard took her to the window once again and she saw Fulk riding in with his two men. Hamo and Jocelyn came out to greet them and the steward gave them his news. Hamo burst into laughter and clapped the man on the arm in appreciation before striding back into the house. Jocelyn was also delighted at the turn of events but he wanted the pleasure of gloating. He gazed at her window with a sly grin and gave her a mocking wave. Guy had been killed but another brother exercised power over her now. Matilda drew back in cold horror. She had the terrible feeling that she might never see Miles Champeney again.

The dungeon was small and airless. A thin sliver of light came through an aperture high in the rough stone wall but an oppressive darkness filled most of the chamber. The straw that half-covered the uneven floor had been there for weeks and was ripe with souve-nirs of former occupants. The stench of human excrement was almost unbearable. Insects crawled up the walls and across the low ceiling. Spiders were spinning their patient webs. A rat nestled in the darkest corner. Miles Champeney was outraged that he had been cast into such a foul cell, but his cries of indignation went unheard and his pounding on the door went unregarded. He soon came to understand the seriousness of his plight and the sheer irrelevance of any protest.

His companion in the grim dungeon was the servant who acted as an intermediary between him and Matilda, and the man had no hope of ever leaving the place alive. Miles felt a stab of guilt. Indirectly, he had helped to put the man in the fetid prison. The servant’s only crime had been loyalty to his mistress but he would be forced to pay a dreadful penalty for it. Compassion touched Miles. Even though he was concerned for himself and distracted by fears for Matilda, he could still spare a thought for an incidental casualty of their love. The man did not deserve his fate.

Miles shuffled about and hurled a kick at the door. “We must get out of this hole!” he urged.

“It is impossible, my lord.” “There has to be a way!”

“Nobody has ever found it before.”

“I still have my dagger,” said Miles, pulling it from its scabbard. “They did not take that away from me.”

“What use is one dagger against a dozen swords?”

“I will attack the guard when he brings food.”

“He will not even come, my lord,” said the servant. “We get no food. Starvation is part of our punishment.”

“They can’t treat us like this!” yelled Miles.

“My lord, Hamo, can do whatever he wishes.”

Miles Champeney railed aloud but he knew that his cries were futile. He was an enemy of Blackwater Hall who had dared to trespass on it. Hamo FitzCorbucion would show no mercy. Matilda was trapped as helplessly as her beloved so there was no possibility of rescue from her. Only one person could save him now but he had estranged himself from that same person by his flight from Champeney Hall. Gilbert had threatened to disown him if he persisted in the folly of trying to wed Matilda. Why should a father come to the aid of a son who so blatantly defied his wishes? Miles began to resign himself to the inevitable. He was doomed.

Ralph Delchard listened to Gilbert Champeney with gathering impatience, then smashed his fist down on to the oak table. They were in Gilbert’s chamber and the latest example of Hamo’s perfidy had been exposed to view. Ralph demanded action.

“Take your men and ride to Blackwater Hall!” he said.

“What good would that do?” asked Gilbert sadly. “Hamo has four times my number of knights and he will mock me.”

“Let me go in your stead!” volunteered Ralph. “That would serve no purpose.”

“I will insist that he hand your son over.”

“Hamo would not receive you,” said Gilbert. “He would simply close his gates upon you and keep you outside. Even your writ does not extend to Blackwater.”

“Then we must call on Peter de Valognes.”

“No, Ralph!”

“He is the sheriff.”

“Then he has business enough to keep him occupied.” “Peter de Valognes has the authority to compel Hamo.”

“Not in this instance, Ralph.”

“Send in the sheriff. Demand the release of your son.”

“How do we know that Miles is held at the house?” said Gilbert balefully. “Fulk was far too wily to tell me more than is needful. They may have him hidden anywhere on the demesne. We cannot ask the sheriff to go searching for a missing son when he is already hunting for a murderer.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “Besides, this is a domestic matter. It must be sorted out between Hamo and me.”

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“Offer him money. Try to buy him off.” “Money!” Ralph was fuming. “Danegeld!”

“What other way is there?”

“Brute force,” said Ralph. “He may have his army of knights but most of them are still out searching for Wistan. Add my men to yours and we have a sizeable troop. Join them with the sheriff and his officers and even Hamo will have to pay attention to what we say.”

“It is not that simple, Ralph.”

“Miles is your son. Fight to get him back.”

“I would,” said Gilbert in despair, “but Hamo holds all the weapons. He sent his steward here to strike a bargain. Miles will be set free if I hand over the documents that accuse Blackwater Hall.”

“That would disarm us completely. When we meet him at the shire hall, we would have no case to offer against him.” He flashed an admonitory glance at his host. “Would you really have betrayed us in that way, Gilbert?”

“I was sorely tempted, I know that.”

“To steal from your own guests!” “My son’s life is at stake here.”

“Then take your case to the sheriff!”

“No!” shouted Gilbert vehemently, rising to his feet. “What am I to tell him? That my son ran off against my wishes and was caught in a snare by Hamo? What proof do I have? You saw Fulk enter this house but you did not hear what he told me. He has only to deny every word that passed between us and my case crumbles.” He walked up to Ralph with his hands spread in a plea. “There is no help for me here. Peter de Valognes is a power in the shire but he will not thank me for trying to drag him into a dispute of this kind. Where is the crime in his eyes? A sheriff must stay above the petty squabbles of barons.” More tears formed. “And besides, I have my pride, Ralph. I would be too ashamed to admit what has befallen me and how I was even driven to steal from worthy friends like you. People may laugh at Champeney Hall but it has a reputation to uphold.”

Ralph Delchard could hear what the other man was saying and he had profound sympathy. The son may have inadvertently plunged them into the mess but the father was not entirely free from blame. His attitude had been one of the pressures that forced Miles to follow such a reckless course of action. Ralph was angry that a host would dare even to think of stealing from his guests, but his real venom was directed solely at Hamo FitzCorbucion. The master of Blackwater Hall was entirely without scruple. To disable the commissioners who could threaten his position, he had turned a generous man like Gilbert Champeney into a common thief. He would have no compunction about starving the son to death if the father did not meet the terms of the corrupt bargain.

After lengthy brooding, Ralph spied a possible solution. “I would like to meet this Matilda,” he said.

“Matilda?”

“If she can inspire such love in your son, she must be a remarkable young lady.” He gave a reassuring smile. “Miles risked his life to get to her. He may be foolhardy but I like his courage. It must not go to waste. Take heart, my friend. We will save him.”

“How?”

“By turning Brother Simon loose on Hamo.” “Brother Simon?”

“Yes,” said Ralph with a grin. “He may seem a timid creature who is afraid of his own shadow, but he is the strongest weapon in our armoury. Let us find him. Two lovers may yet be rescued by a Benedictine monk.”