Ravens Of Blackwater

Chapter Eight

Right sunshine had followed the uncertain start to the day and the earlier squall was a receding memory. The wind had now dropped to a token puff. Maldon was warm, dry, and positively throbbing with activity. It was market day and stallholders who had set out their wares during the last of the rain were now wiping the sweat from their brows and complaining about the heat. People streamed into the town for the occasion, some by horse or on foot from outlying areas, some by boat from Goldhanger or West Mersea and beyond. Fish was fresh, oysters were cheap, and vegetables were plentiful. The local cheese was much in demand. Live poultry, leather goods, basketware, dyed cloth, and pottery were also on sale with dozens of other items. There was even a man who simultaneously told fortunes and pulled teeth with an alarming pair of pincers. One glance at the blood-stained molars that lay in his earthenware bowl was enough to cure most species of toothache.

Gervase Bret was searching the market for a cutler. Having tethered his horse nearby, he made his way through the seething mass of people who had converged on the junction of High Street and Silver Street. The noise and bustle could not compare with the pandemo-nium that London had to offer but it still took him some minutes to find what he wanted. The cutler was a short, tubby man with a ragged beard. He wore a rough woollen tunic, which was making him perspire, and kept taking a swig out of a cup of water near his hand. When Gervase came up to the stall, the man was sharpening a blade on a whetstone, which he revolved by pressing his foot on a treadle. Sparks flew up into his pudgy face but they did not seem to bother him at all.

The cutler glanced at Gervase and scented a potential customer. He broke off from his task and gave a lopsided grin.

“Can I help you, young sir?” he asked.

“I hope so,” said Gervase. “I found a knife and I wondered if you could tell me anything about it.”

“Found one?” He was disappointed. “Is that all?”

“Your help could be important.”

“Not to me, sir. I only sell or sharpen knives.”

“I’ll pay you for your time,” volunteered Gervase, and the cutler’s manner changed at once. “Here’s the knife.”

The murder weapon was tucked in his belt and he pulled it out to

pass it across. It was a long-bladed implement with a stout bone handle, which had been worn to the shape of someone’s palm by constant use. The cutler took one look and gave a satisfied chuckle.

“What can you tell me?” asked Gervase. “Anything you want to know, sir. I made this.”

“You made it?”

“A kitchen knife. For slicing food of any kind.”

“Are you certain that it is yours?”

The man looked offended. “My mark is upon it!”

“Of course.” Gervase thrust a hand into his purse and gave him a few coins. “Tell me all you can.”

“There’s not much more to say,” admitted the man, “but this is my

workmanship. Look, sir. I have the twin to your knife lying here on my stall.” He picked up one of the knives on display and placed it beside the other. They were virtually identical. “I have made and sold a hundred or more like this.”

“And who buys them?” said Gervase. “Everybody with an eye for quality.”

“So you cannot tell me who bought this particular one?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” The cutler waved a stubby hand at the crowd. “There is my market, sir. I work for all and sundry. This knife of yours might have been sold to a baker to slice his bread, a butcher to cut up his meat, or a fisherman to gut his catch. Any wife might have bought it to use in her kitchen.” He gave a dark laugh. “Or on her husband! For it will go through live flesh just as easily as dead.” Gervase could vouch for that. He took the implement back and turned it over in his hand as he examined it.

“How long ago did you make this?” he said.

“A year at most. Maybe as little as six months ago.”

“Could it get so worn in such a short time?”

The man gave his lopsided grin. “I can see you do not work in a kitchen, sir. If you hold anything in your hand for ten hours a day, you will leave your imprint on it. This knife has been well used but it has been looked after. The blade is as sharp as any razor and the point is like a needle. My guess is that it belonged to a cook.”

“Someone from Maldon?”

“Who can say?” He started the whetstone. “You’ll find my knives in Barking and Brightlingsea, in Colchester and Coggeshall. Why, sir, I daresay that knives just like the one you hold are being used by the monks of Waltham Abbey at this very moment to cut their venison.”

Gervase smiled. “Forest law forbids them to hunt deer and the Rule of St. Benedict prevents them from eating rich meat.”

“Laws and rules don’t bother them,” said the man as he sharpened his blade again. “Most of the brothers I’ve met are fatter than me and they didn’t get bellies like that from eating gruel and fish.” He glanced at the knife that Gervase was putting back in his belt. “Give it to me, sir.”

“Why?”

“So that I can sell it again. It’s no use to you.”

“But it is, my friend.”

“In a Kitchen?”

“No,” said Gervase. “In a court of law.”

He thanked the man and moved off through the crowd. The stroll to the Church of All Souls’ took no more than a minute and he was pleased to find Oslac inside. The priest was kneeling in prayer before the altar and he remained there for some time. Gervase waited quietly at the rear of the nave then stepped forward. Oslac was pleased to see him and hustled his visitor straight into the vestry.

“I have a message for you.”

“For me?”

“You are to return to Champeney Hall as soon as possible,” said the priest. “One of the soldiers from your escort called in at the church even now. He knew that you would be coming here at some point.”

Gervase frowned. “Did he say why I was summoned?”

“No, but he was anxious to reach you. That suggests the matter is of some importance.”

“I will go at once,” said Gervase, turning away.

“Wait!” said Oslac, with a restraining hand on his arm. “I must hear your news first. And you must hear mine. You can stay in Maldon two minutes longer, surely?”

Gervase relaxed slightly. “At least.” “Tell me what you have found.”

“I tracked down Tovild the Haunted once more.” “Was he still fighting?”

“Furiously.”

“Which army was he in this time?”

“The Saxon,” said Gervase. “I found him killing Vikings and quoting his poem.”

“They say that the Battle of Maldon lasted for fourteen days, but Tovild has been fighting it for fourteen years and more.” He smiled sadly. “Did you draw anything out of him?”

“A stream of riddles.” “That is his way, I fear.”

“I proved one thing for certain,” said Gervase. “He did witness the

murder. Of that there can be no doubt.” “Why?”

“He gave me this.” He took out the knife. “It was used to kill Guy FitzCorbucion then tossed into the water.”

Oslac looked at the weapon with horrid fascination as if wanting to take it but fearing its taint if he did so.

“Can you be sure that this is the murder weapon?”

“I would swear it, Father Oslac.” “And Tovild found it for you?”

“At the scene of the crime.”

The priest grew wary. “Did he tell you who the killer was?” he asked. “Did he give you a name?”

“No name, only another riddle.”

“What was it?”

“I cannot remember it all,” confessed Gervase, “and I am nowhere near solving it yet. There were some letters in it but I would need to rack my brain to tease each one out again. Tovild gabbled away at me, gave me the knife, and then vanished into thin air.”

“He gave you the knife?”

“From the place where it had been thrown. He had to lie on his chest and grope about in the mud.”

“But he knew exactly where to look, it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

Oslac stared at him with a level gaze and Gervase realised what he was suggesting. It was a notion that had never crossed his mind and he was shocked that the priest would even consider it. Gervase dismissed it out of hand.

“No, no,” he said. “Tovild is quite innocent.”

“Then how could he lead you straight to the knife?”

“He saw where it was tossed.”

“Could he not have put it there himself?” said Oslac. “If a man wanted to get rid of a murder weapon, would he not cast it right out into the marshes? Yet you tell me that Tovild lay down on the ground and reached for it.”

“That is true.”

“It was in its hiding place.”

“Then why give it to me at all?” asked Gervase. “If he was the killer, he would do everything to conceal the crime and not assist me in solving it. You said yourself that the man is completely harmless. Can you see that gnarled old warrior committing a murder?”

“Frankly-no.”

“Then put the whole idea aside.”

“I fear that I cannot,” said Oslac tenaciously. “I love Tovild as much as I pity him. He is in the grip of some benign madness that makes him play the soldier. Tovild could never commit a murder because that needs sanity and a degree of premeditation.” He pointed to the knife. “But he could kill a man by accident in the heat of battle.”

“By accident?”

“You have seen the way he hacks the air with his sword and jabs at his unseen enemy with his spear.” Oslac shook his head slowly. “His very harmlessness may be the key to it all here. Guy would not have been troubled by his approach.”

“But why should Tovild approach him?”

“Because Guy came to laugh at him. Because Guy was there to taunt a ridiculous old man in rusty armour.” He developed the idea with a growing belief in its virtues. “That must have been it, Master Bret! Do you not see? Guy FitzCorbucion was trespassing. He was treading on the sacred battlefield where Tovild worships each day. It was sheer sacrilege. A young Norman Knight was goading a decrepit old Saxon. Is it not conceivable that Tovild lashed out at him? He has been killing imaginary invaders all these years, why should he not cut down a real one? Guy did not have time to defend himself because he was taken unawares.” Oslac was talking with great intensity now. “I viewed the body and it had been cruelly disfigured. Such mutilation happens in combat. We may smile at Tovild the Haunted because of his strange antics, but there is a lot of wanton violence in a man who fights a bitter foe every day of his life.”

Gervase had to concede that it was within the bounds of possibility.

He also saw that a murder committed in such a way would not be recognised by Tovild as a crime. It would be one more brave action in the eternal battle that he waged. Handing over the knife to Gervase was a circuitous way of boasting about his triumph. Somewhere in that final riddle Tovild might even have hidden a form of confession. It was all possible and yet Gervase could not somehow accept it. What really puzzled him was why Oslac was so ready to incriminate the old man. From the moment he saw the murder weapon, the priest had been speaking with a defensive urgency that Gervase had never heard before. He slipped the knife back into his belt and nodded.

“I will think on it,” he said, “but now I must go.”

“One second more, please.”

“They have sent for me. I am needed at Champeney Hall.”

“You have not heard my tidings yet,” said Oslac. “You have at least made progress. I have only found setback.”

“Setback?”

“Wistan. He spent the night in my house.”

“Was he discovered?”

“Worse than that.” “What has happened?”

“He has run away.”

“When they are still out searching for him?” said Gervase in dis-belief. “He might just as well give himself up to Hamo. What chance has an unarmed boy against all those soldiers?”

“He is not unarmed,” said Oslac solemnly. “There was a sword at my house. Wistan took it along with a supply of food. The boy has plans.” He pointed to the knife thrust into Gervase’s belt. “You have found a murder weapon-and I have lost one. Wistan wants revenge.”

It was the last place that they would dream of looking for him. Northey Island had given him a temporary refuge but they had flushed him out with dogs in the end. No hounds would sniff him out here. For the first time since he had been a fugitive, Wistan felt supremely safe. Gervase Bret had shown him unexpected kindness and Oslac the Priest had even taken the boy into his own house, but neither man understood the imperatives that drove him on. What they had done was to create some time for him in which to find his bearings before he moved on elsewhere. Gervase had used a word that had had no real meaning for him before. Sanctuary. He had spoken of the church as offering sanctuary to the runaway boy. Wistan learned quickly. Oslac’s house was a comfortable enough hiding place but there was only one building in the town that could provide true sanctuary and that was why he had made his way to Maldon Priory.

When he thought of the priest, he felt both guilty and relieved. Oslac had taken a great risk in protecting the boy and had shared his own home with Wistan, but the hours he had spent there had troubled him as much as they had restored him. The priest had a wife and four children who lived happily together in the cosy humility of their little house. They drew him to them and gave freely of what they had. Wistan was washed, fed, dressed in clean apparel, and shown to a mattress under the eaves. Their love had revived him but their very togetherness had pushed him apart from them. He was sorry that he had to hurt them but he was also helping them by leaving. His presence there put them in danger and they would now be safe. Oslac had created a well-knit family but Wistan had nobody else now, and it underscored another difference between the two of them. The priest had a reason to live: The boy was ready to die. It gave him an inner strength, which would sustain him through his last few days on earth. All he had to do was to stay alive long enough to avenge his father’s murder and then he would happily join him in the grave. That was the only kind of family reunion that was now open to him.

Wistan had sneaked out of his bed in the night and stolen the sword and the food. Running to the priory in the dark, he had shinned up its wall and dropped into the garden. Shrubs and bushes ran along one side and there was thick cover for him. He was even sheltered from the worst of the rain. Wistan resolved to stay in his place of sanctuary until nightfall, then make his way to Blackwater Hall to see if there was any hope of gaining access. In the meantime, he would lie low at the priory while the hunt still continued for him outside. He was in a most privileged position. He could watch.

The first thing he noticed was the bell. It was chimed at regular intervals and its doleful clang called the holy sisters to the chapel for the sequence of offices. Wistan could hear faint voices raised in song but the Latin words were indecipherable. When the nuns eventually came out into the garden, he drew back into the burrow he had scooped out in the soft earth behind the bushes. They did not even throw a glance in his direction. He was thirty yards or so from the priory and his corner of the property held no interest for the women that morning. They were too busy with their appointed tasks.

Wistan was enthralled. He had never even seen a nun before. When the priory was first erected, there had been a lot of crude jokes made about its occupants by the slaves on the demesne, and he had duly sniggered at things he only vaguely grasped. One leering peasant had even boasted what he would do to all eight women if he could spend a night at the convent. Wistan’s experience of a night there was very different. Climbing into the place out of necessity, he found a haven of peace and was given a brief insight into a world that was utterly spellbinding.

They actually worked. Saxon noblewomen, who had always had servants on hand in the past to perform any chores, were now doing those same chores themselves without any sense of shame. They brought wooden buckets and filled them from the well, they set up a line between two posts and hung up their washing, they even picked up tools to labour in the garden. Wistan was moved. He had watched his own mother engaged in constant toil in their tiny hovel, but they were slaves on the estate of a Norman lord and drudgery was the lot of such women. The holy sisters had been exempted by social position from such mundane work, yet they were doing it with apparent readiness. Wistan could not have been more surprised if he had seen Matilda FitzCorbucion felling a tree or hauling in fishing nets from the river. Ladies did not do such things.

The silence also intrigued him. They worked together but they did not speak, communicating instead with nods and smiles and gestures. One of them let out a suppressed giggle from time to time but she was instantly subdued by the warning finger of the stoutest of the nuns, a solid woman with her face almost completely obscured by her wimple. Another feature of the community struck the boy. They liked each other. There was the most extraordinary sense of union between them as if they really were sisters in one happy family. Even the stout nun was loved and cherished in the pervading atmosphere of shared joy. Wistan picked out the prioress as soon as she appeared because the gracious figure inspired such affection and obedience in the others.

Entranced by it all, he watched as the stout nun went back into the priory once more. The chapel bell began to chime and the holy sisters immediately abandoned their work and filed in through the door. One of them lingered for a moment as if unsure whether to stay or to follow, torn between conflicting loyalties and needs. She was a young nun whose grace of movement had already caught his eye and whose sweet smile rarely left her face. Wistan wondered why she was hesitating, then he gasped in dismay as she began to walk straight towards him. He had been seen. The holy sister was heading in his direction with a look of quiet determination on her face, as if she was prepared to grab the intruder for daring to trespass on the enclave.

His first impulse was to run but he saw the danger in that. If he was to be caught, he would far sooner face a nun with Christian benevo-lence than a search party with weapons. Wistan crouched down in his burrow and waited for her to part the bushes and accost him. But discovery did not come. A few yards short of his refuge, the young woman came to a halt, knelt down on the ground, and then lowered herself forward so that she could kiss the earth. He was totally mystified. There was such an aura of respect and devotion about her that he felt completely humbled. Sitting back on her haunches, she looked upwards and began to chant something to herself. She did not remain there for long. The prioress glided out of the building as if knowing exactly where to find the errant member of her little community.

“Sister Tecla!” she called gently.

The nun was too caught up in her ritual to hear. “Sister Tecla!”

A note of command was injected this time and it earned a prompt response. Sister Tecla rose quickly to her feet and flitted across the grass towards the prioress before following her meekly into the building without a word of protest.

Brother Simon worked with the cheerful frenzy of a man who had at last discovered his true mission in life. Everything now depended on him and it was such a unique situation for the unassuming monk to be in that he savoured every moment of it. On the rare occasions when he paused to take a sip of water or to sharpen his quill with a deft knife, he offered a silent prayer of thanks to God for calling on him at last to render a service of such magnitude. Brother Simon was in an ecstasy of true humility. He sat behind the table on which so many succulent dishes had been set out for their delectation. It was now covered in writs, charters, and tenurial contracts, in grants and bequests, in lists of names and inventories of possessions. The gaunt monk was gorging himself with ruinous self-indulgence on a banquet of the finest parchment.

Ralph Delchard was still not satisfied with progress.

“Make him work faster, Hubert,” he urged.

“Calligraphy is a painstaking art, my lord,” said Canon Hubert. “If you hasten the pen, you end up with scribble. Brother Simon is already working much more quickly than he would normally do. Only a steady hand will suggest authenticity.”

“Crack the whip over him at least.”

“He is a holy brother,” said Hubert, “and not a galley slave who is lashed to his oars. You speed up his pace at your peril.” He adjusted his paunch in disapproval. “I will not urge him on. I still have the most serious reservations about this whole enterprise.”

“Why?” said Ralph.

“You are encouraging Brother Simon to act as a forger.” “Perhaps that’s why he is enjoying it so much.”

“He is being led astray from the straight and narrow.” “A small crime is justified by a heinous one.”

“That is unsound theology,” argued Hubert. “And I do not accept that forgery is a small crime. Brother Simon may be selling his soul at that table.”

“No,” said Ralph. “He is saving Miles Champeney.”

Canon Hubert’s opposition was voiced rather than felt. Although he was obliged to register a token objection, he knew that they were taking the only option that presented itself. Hamo FitzCorbucion was stooping to the most disgraceful act of blackmail in order to gain the upper hand over the royal commissioners, and so a slight dip from their high standard of moral probity was perhaps permissible. Although he would never confess it openly, Hubert was entering into the spirit of the deception as willingly as any of them.

“One more is finished,” announced the drooping monk. “Give it to me, Brother Simon.”

“Yes, Canon Hubert. It concerns four hides on Osea.” “Let me see.”

Hubert combed the document for errors of detail and instances of erratic handwriting. None appeared. He dried the ink by shaking sand over it, then laid the paper out on the floor. Brother Simon winced as his beautiful penmanship was subjected to the full weight of Canon Hubert’s dirty sandals. When the latter reclaimed the document from the floor, it was scuffed and discoloured. He threw an explanation at his wounded colleague.

“This charter must look as if it is twenty years old.” “Of course, Canon Hubert.”

“I have added wear and tear to your excellent work.”

“Thank you,” said Simon, brightening at the compliment. “I will continue with renewed zeal.” He reached out for the next document and read through it. Panic seized him. “Oh, no! My hand rebels at this! I cannot write these words!”

“What is the problem?” said Ralph. “The name of this subtenant, my lord.”

“Where?” He looked over his shoulder to read a name which called for a shout of celebration. “It’s Humphrey!”

“My quill would moult if I used it on such vileness!” “Why?” asked Hubert. “What is the fellow’s name?”

Ralph handed him the document. “See for yourself,” he invited.

“There he hangs-Humphrey Aureis testiculi!”

Canon Hubert reddened. “It is a dreadful mistake!” “Perhaps they are silver and not gold,” said Ralph.

“Do not force me to copy those words,” begged Simon. “I will serve

you in any way I can but I will not lend my pen to such sinful usage.” “It is a mistake,” insisted Hubert, flipping through the Latin alternatives in his mind. “Yes, I have it. Change that ‘t’ to an ‘r’ then alter the ‘i’ and what do you have?”

“Humphrey Goldenbollocks!” announced Ralph.

“My lord!” said Brother Simon in scandalised horror. “Humphrey Goldenropes,” corrected Hubert primly. “Ropes!” Ralph spluttered. “Golden-ropes!” “Resticula-a thin rope or cord.”

Ralph guffawed. “Humphrey is even more remarkable than I thought

if he has golden ropes where his testicles ought to be.” He passed another document to the monk. “Forget this one. It belongs to me. You copy the next one instead.”

Brother Simon croaked his gratitude and attacked the less offensive Latin of the next charter. The outraged canon was still vainly trying to cover Humphrey’s shame with the fig leaf of an alternative translation when Gervase Bret came striding into the room to ask why he had been summoned back to Champeney Hall. Ralph took him by the arm and led him off to a chamber where they could talk in private.

“Whatever is Brother Simon doing in there, Ralph?”

“Breaking the law.”

“In what way?”

“He is feeding the ravens at Blackwater Hall.”

Ralph explained the situation and the action he had taken to meet it. Gervase was alarmed at the development but in total agreement with the response. While anxious to help their host, however, he was disappointed to hear that Gilbert Champeney might actually have robbed his guests.

“The poor man was distraught,” said Ralph in mitigation. “Put yourself in his position, Gervase. His son falls into the hands of his sworn enemy. There is no other way to secure his release. What would you have done?”

“Taken my complaint to the sheriff.”

“Peter de Valognes would not wish to get involved.” “I would not have stolen someone’s property, Ralph.”

“There speaks a lawyer! You value your charters as much as

Humphrey values his golden testiculi.” “Theft is unforgivable.”

Ralph was more pragmatic. “That depends on what you take and from whom you take it,” he said. “But do not lose complete faith in Gilbert. My guess is that he would not have been able to go through with it. He was a very halfhearted thief. Forgery is much more to his taste.”

“Let us hope that it deceives Hamo.”

“We will soon know, Gervase. I have sent word to him to appear before us in the shire hall at ten in the morning. If he thinks he has relieved us of much of our evidence, he will not miss the chance to gloat.”

“What of Miles Champeney?”

“He will be set free.”

“Is his father angry with him?”

“Infuriated. He’ll have stern words for his son.”

“I’ll add a few of my own,” said Gervase. “He has caused us an immense amount of unnecessary trouble.”

“Come now. You would do exactly the same as he.”

“I think I would have more sense.”

“Sense has no place in a love affair,” said Ralph easily. “If Alys were imprisoned in that house instead of Matilda, you would not hesitate to try to rescue her. Show some fellow-feeling for Miles. I admire the lad.”

Gervase gave a nod. “So do I, Ralph,” he said, taking a more chari-table view. “And he has helped us in a strange way. Our hand has been forced but we may have found the ideal way to lure Hamo within reach of the law.”

He rested against the table. “What else have you learned?”

“A most curious connection.” “Between what?”

“The chalice and the raven.”

“St. Benedict’s emblem?”

“Do you remember the cup I saw at the priory?” said Ralph. “I believe it may have belonged to Guy FitzCorbucion. Someone stole it from Blackwater Hall. Hamo was ranting about it when the sheriff called on him yesterday. It was a family heirloom, it seems, and much prized.”

“Then how did it end up in Maldon Priory?”

“Lady Mindred told me that it was part of a dowry that was paid to the priory by one of the nuns, and I assumed that she must be talking about Sister Tecla. But I was deliberately misled, I think. I warned you that nuns could tell lies, Gervase. It seems that they might be

capable of other sinful acts as well.” He raised an eyebrow. “Our prioress has a wandering hand.”

“A holy thief?”

“You have seen the way she guards that chalice,” said Ralph. “It is very precious to her. We know that she is fond of jewelry that she is not supposed to wear. I saw that gold bangle on her arm. Perhaps she also has a passion for silver. Vanity dies hard behind the veil. Lady Mindred needs to wear bright adornment and to have valuable possessions about her.”

“I cannot believe that she would steal anything.” “Then we must settle for the other explanation.”

“What is that?”

“The prioress is a witch,” said Ralph with a wink. “Sister Gunnhild is her familiar. She turned that Danish nun into a raven and sent her to fetch the chalice back in her beak like a true Benedictine. How does that idea sound?”

“Ludicrous!”

“Find me a better one.”

“I will,” promised Gervase. “In time. If that chalice at the priory really is the one from Blackwater Hall, then it opens up many new lines of enquiry. But let me give you my news first.” He produced the knife from his belt and handed it over. “Do you know what this is, Ralph?”

“I have a feeling you are about to tell me.”

“The murder weapon used on Guy FitzCorbucion.” Ralph inspected it. “Where did you find it?”

“Tovild the Haunted gave it to me.”

He told his story once more, described his visit to the cutler, and spoke of how Oslac the Priest had reacted to the same tidings. Ralph was not pleased to hear that Wistan was once again on the run. A boy of fifteen would not have enough guile to outrun Hamo FitzCorbucion’s men for long, especially as they had now been joined in the search by the sheriff’s officers. Gervase had wanted to question him further in order to help him more effectively, but Wistan clearly felt that justice was something that he would have to dispense himself. The boy was a worrying complication.

Ralph and Gervase went through all their evidence with meticulous care but it still did not give them the name of the murderer. Tovild’s riddle might help them but it was still unsolved. Gervase shifted the angle of approach.

“Perhaps we should be asking another question.”

“Go on.”

“What was Guy FitzCorbucion doing there?”

“In the marshes?”

“He must have had a good reason to go to such a place.”

“Unless he was taken,” said Ralph. “That is more logical. He may have been killed elsewhere and then carried to the water’s edge and dumped in.”

“I doubt it. Think of his wounds. He had been stabbed many times. There would have been a trail of blood and the killer would also have been covered in it.” Gervase tapped his finger on the table. “I believe he went to that place to meet someone. That same person had chosen the spot with care because it was ideal for his purposes.”

“Who would Guy have gone to see? And why?”

“Let us try a process of elimination,” said Gervase. “We know that

Wistan is not the murderer.” “Nor is Miles Champeney.”

“Perhaps not.”

“You were wrong there, Gervase.”

“We had to look at every possible suspect.”

“Does that include Tovild the Haunted?”

“I fear that it does. And Oslac the Priest.”

“Oslac?”

“His behaviour was most odd,” said Gervase. “And he has as much reason to hate the FitzCorbucions as anyone. Hamo took his land after the Conquest. Hamo holds the advowson of his church. Hamo has killed more than one of his parishioners. Oslac is a strong man.” He saw that Ralph was unconvinced. “Yes, I know. Oslac is a true Christian and believes that the taking of a human life is anathema. But look at Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. Nobody could be more devout than they, yet they are condoning this forgery of ours in order to expose a much larger act of fraud.”

“Oslac killed in order to prevent more killing?”

“Guy FitzCorbucion was a symbol of oppression.”

“So is Hamo,” said Ralph. “Why murder the son when the father’s death would remove an even worse tyrant?”

“Hamo is too wily and well guarded. He would never have gone off alone to a secluded spot in the marshes. The killer waited until he was out of the way before he set to work on Guy.”

“And you think that Oslac could do that?”

“I’m not sure,” said Gervase uncertainly. “But I wonder about the sword that Wistan stole from him. Why does a man of God have a weapon of war in his house? And what I do know is that Guy would have trusted him. If the priest had arranged to meet him at that spot, he would have gone without fear of danger.” He took the knife back and held it up.

“Until he saw this.”

“Oslac still seems an unlikely assassin to me,” said Ralph. “But you are right about one thing. Guy would only go to that place to meet someone he knew and trusted.”

“That rules out Wistan and Miles completely.”

“Who does it leave?”

They sifted through all the names once more but they could not agree on any one of them as the perpetrator of the crime. Gervase wondered if it was time to widen their search.

“Guy FitzCorbucion is killed,” he said. “Cui bono?”

“Cui bono?”

“Who stands to gain by his murder?”

“Every man, woman, and child in the town.”

“But who will gain most?” asked Gervase. “Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong place, Ralph. We have only considered enemies of the family instead of the family itself. That would certainly give us motive. And there would be ample opportunity.”

“The family itself?”

“Think back to our first afternoon at the shire hall,” he said, moving around the chamber as he developed his argument and becoming more and more persuaded by it. “He went out of his way to challenge us. Remember how cool and assured he was? Did you see how eager he was to assert his authority? Did you notice how important it was for him to put us in our place?”

“Jocelyn FitzCorbucion?”

“Who else?”

“But what did he stand to gain?”

“Power.”

“The younger son,” mused Ralph. “Weary of staying in his elder brother’s shadow. More intelligent and gifted than Guy but forced into the background.”

“Biding his time. Waiting to fulfill his own ambitions.” “He was certainly a self-possessed young man.”

“Indeed, he was,” said Gervase. “Consider the position he was in that afternoon. His father was away, his brother was lying on a slab at the church, his sister was agitating about Miles Champeney, and there was still bad feeling among his slaves as a result of Algar’s death. Jocelyn had much to do. There was a search party to organise and a huge demesne to administer, yet he rolls up at the shire hall as if he did not have a care in the world. What does all that tell you, Ralph?”

“Put his name at the top of our list.” “Cui bono?”

“Joceyln FitzCorbucion.”

Jocelyn FitzCorbucion fretted quietly in a corner while his father guzzled his way through his food. He felt cheated of his fair reward. Thanks to him, Matilda was imprisoned in her chamber at the top of the house while Miles Champeney was languishing in the dungeon below it. He had discovered the planned elopement and been instrumental in stopping it. The political marriage, which Hamo had arranged in Coutances for his daughter, could now take place without the hindrance of a rival. But something else rankled even more. Jocelyn had taken considerable pains to prepare a solid defence against the accusations of the royal commissioners. Blackwater Hall would be saved by his mastery of detail and brilliance as an advocate. Hamo had swept him aside uncaringly and chosen a much quicker and cruder method of defying his enemies. It was galling. Jocelyn was deprived of his chance to prove himself in legal debate and robbed of the glory, which he was convinced he would have won.

Hamo swilled down his food with some wine and belched.

“He will not come,” decided Jocelyn. “Gilbert has to come. Give him time.” “He would never steal from his guests.”

“He is not stealing,” said Hamo, sitting back in his chair. “He is merely borrowing a few documents.”

“They will be missed. He will be caught.”

“Gilbert Champeney will do exactly what I told him.” “But suppose that he does not, Father?”

“He has no choice.”

“Suppose he does not?” repeated Jocelyn, crossing to face him. “You will need my skills then. You will have to rely on my advocacy in front of the commissioners. I have prepared a stout defence with walls as thick as those of Colchester Castle. We would be invincible in battle.”

Hamo was unimpressed. “When Gilbert follows his orders, there will be no battle. Why waste all that time in a draughty shire hall when we can send these idiots packing in less than an hour?” His fingers ran over the fruit bowl and settled on an apple. “You still have much to learn, Jocelyn,”

“Nobody has studied harder.”

“Study is only part of it. Instinct is the key.” “I have that, too.”

“Not like me. Not like your brother, Guy. He had real instinct. Guy knew how to find out a man’s weakness.”

“It was usually his wife!” said Jocelyn ruefully. “Don’t you dare speak ill of Guy!”

“No, Father.”

“He was twice the son you are!” yelled Hamo. He stifled a rejoinder. “Yes, Father,” he said.

Hamo bit into the apple and chewed it noisily. It was early evening

and the sun was still putting a bright sheen on Blackwater Hall, but its rays had failed to penetrate the house itself and to thaw out the cold fury of its master.

“Where did they search today?” he snarled.

“To the north, Father. As you directed.”

“That boy has to be here!”

“After all this time? I doubt it.”

“Where else could he go?” demanded Hamo. “He has no money and no horse. Everyone is out looking for him. I’ve put such a high price on his young head that even his father would have turned him in for the reward.”

“Perhaps he is already dead. Drowned in the estuary.” “He is still alive. I feel it.”

“Then they will find him eventually.”

“Tomorrow, I will ride out with them myself.”

“But we are summoned to the shire hall, Father.”

“That business will not detain us long,” said Hamo through a mouthful of apple. “I’ll go along to spit in the eye of the commissioners then join the hunt for my son’s killer. They’ll have no case against me.”

“Only if Gilbert Champeney does your bidding.” “He will, Jocelyn. Mark my words.”

“So many things could go wrong,” warned his son. “My way is slower but more secure. Let me explain how I would go about it, Father. I have taken the measure of these royal commissioners so I know precisely what to expect from them. First of all …”

Hamo ignored him. He had heard something else and it got him up from the table and across to the window. He let out a throaty chuckle and tossed his apple core to Jocelyn.

“I told you that Gilbert would come.”

He led the way to the main door and went down the stone steps and into the courtyard with an irritated Jocelyn a few paces behind him. Gilbert Champeney had brought two of his knights as an escort and they waited near the gate. Fulk the Steward was giving him a welcome and holding the bridle of his horse while the visitor dismounted. Gilbert was in a feisty mood. Jocelyn recognised the satchel that he was carrying. It belonged to one of the commissioners and had lain on the table at the shire hall when Jocelyn had gone there to confront them.

“I knew that you would see sense!” said Hamo. “Where’s my son?”

“He is quite safe, Gilbert. I give you my word.”

“Where is he? I wish to see him.” “You are in no position to haggle.”

“Neither are you, Hamo.” He put a foot in the stirrup once more. “I will return these documents to their owners.”

“Wait!”

Gilbert stayed ready to mount. “Well?”

“Show me what you have and you will see your son.”

“Where is he?”

“He can be brought here very quickly.”

“Then send for him.” Gilbert was firm. “Send for him now, Hamo, or I ride out of this accursed place.”

Hamo regarded him with a mixture of contempt and admiration, then he gave a signal and Fulk went towards the ground floor of the house. Gilbert consented to let go of the saddle and remove his foot from the stirrup. Hamo held out a hand and his visitor reluctantly opened the satchel and took out a sheaf of documents. Jocelyn came forward to peer at them. Gilbert would not surrender anything until he had been assured of his son’s safety but he did let the two of them see the first parchment. It was an abstract of all the charges that were to be levelled against Blackwater Hall on the following morning. They would be forewarned about the whole prosecution case. Jocelyn read through it carefully and nodded to his father. The document was authentic.

Fulk reappeared and waited until he got another signal from Hamo then he gestured in turn to somebody inside the building. Through the open door, two sturdy guards brought a dishevelled Miles Champeney, who was squinting in the unaccustomed light. His hands were bound with ropes and the guards had a firm grip on him but he seemed otherwise unhurt. Gilbert started forward towards him but quickly controlled himself. There was more bargaining to do.

“I want the servant as well,” he said. “What servant?”

“The one who carried the message between them. If he stays here,

you will only beat him to death or starve him to a skeleton. Give him to me, Hamo.”

“He is my servant.”

“I will buy him from you.”

Miles had adjusted to the light well enough to see his father. As he tried to lunge forward, the soldiers held him.

“Father!” he called. “Help me.” “Be patient, Miles.”

“They threw me in a dungeon!”

“I have come for you. Hold still a little longer.”

“What is this nonsense about my servant?” said Hamo.

“I am trying to prevent a murder.” Gilbert would not budge on the issue. “No servant, no documents.”

“And no son.”

“Keep him, then,” said the father. “He ran away from me and forfeited my love. I want him back to chastise him as much as anything else, but Miles comes with the servant or you can sling the pair of them back into your dungeon.”

“He is bluffing!” sneered Jocelyn.

“Put me to the test.” Gilbert patted the satchel. “You have seen

what thunderbolts they mean to hurl at you tomorrow. Do you really think you could withstand them without the help that I have brought you?”

“Yes!” insisted Jocelyn. “Be quiet!” said Hamo.

“We don’t need him, Father.” “Stand aside!”

Hamo shoved his son out of the way and walked up to Gilbert until they stood face to face. The visitor had none of the other’s dark ferocity but his gaze did not falter. Hamo stared at him for some minutes before he came to a decision.

“What is a miserable servant between friends?” he said with a grim chuckle. “Take the rogue. He is no use to me now except to provide sport.”

“Give me a price.”

“You pay it with that satchel.”

He tried to grab it but Gilbert drew it back and shook his head. Hamo turned to signal to Fulk once more and the steward went into the building. He soon returned with the servant who was walking stiffly after his confinement and blinking in the glare of the sun. Both prisoners were now brought down into the courtyard by the guards and another voice joined in the bargaining.

“Miles! You’re safe! Thank God!”

Matilda was watching from her window. As her beloved moved away from the building, she caught sight of him for the first time and screamed her anguish and her relief. He lifted his bound hands in a gallant wave.

“I’ll come back for you, Matilda!” “No, you won’t!” shouted Gilbert.

“Help me, Miles! They’ve locked me in!” “Silence that noise!” roared Hamo.

The guard entered the chamber above them and a protesting Matilda was dragged away from the window. When Miles added his own protests and tried to lurch towards the house, his father restrained him and gave him a stark choice.

“Me or her,” he said crisply. “Which is it to be, Miles? Come with me and be free. Or stay here with Matilda and rot in the dungeon. Which is it going to be?”

Miles looked despairingly at the empty window. Then he lowered his head in submission. Only if he were released would he have any hope of saving Matilda. He had to bow to the force of circumstances. “Now it is my turn,” said Hamo gruffly. “You have your son and you

have my servant, Gilbert. Give me my documents.”

With a show of reluctance, Gilbert handed them to him. Jocelyn stepped forward again but his father waved turn aside and instead passed the satchel to Fulk. The steward was swift in his appraisal. Taking everything out, he read the list of charges, then checked to see that he had the documents that related to each of those accusations. Jocelyn, meanwhile, was livid at this public rebuff. His exper-tise was being discarded in favour of the steward’s opinion. Hamo’s blackmail had struck a fatal blow at the commissioners and it had also undermined his son.

“They are all there,” said Gilbert shamefacedly. “What took you so long?” asked Hamo. “Guilt?” “Those people are my guests-my friends!”

“Not any more.”

“You forced me to steal from them.”

“And you did just that,” agreed Hamo. “Bear that in mind, Gilbert. You are a thief. If I showed this satchel to the commissioners and told them who gave it to me, they would call the sheriff and have you arrested.”

Gilbert lowered his head in disgust and Hamo was happy. He had made his enemy do something that caused him the greatest pain of all. A generous host had been forced to rob and betray his distinguished guests. Gilbert had been humiliated and his son had been taught a painful lesson. The Champeneys would not cause any more trouble at Blackwater Hall. Pulling a dagger from its scabbard, Hamo cut the rope that bound the prisoner’s hands.

“Get off my land!” he said to Miles. “If you come within a mile of my daughter again, nothing will save you.” He glared at the servant. “Take this offal with you! I want no traitors under my roof!”

Gilbert mounted his horse while Miles and the servant pulled themselves up into the saddles of the two horses which had been brought from Champeney Hall during the night. Joined by the two soldiers, they rode abjectly away. Gilbert had rescued his son and the servant but Hamo FitzCorbucion still felt that he had the best of the bargain. His mocking laughter pursued them. Fulk joined in his scornful mirth but Jocelyn remained morose and silent. Everybody seemed to have gained something from the transaction except him.

Oslac the Priest celebrated Mass at the priory with the silver chalice and the paten. Prioress Mindred and her seven holy sisters received Communion in the tiny chapel and were greatly sustained. The prioress herself knelt in an attitude of total self-abnegation. Sister Gunnhild felt a quiet exultation as she took the wafer of unleavened bread upon her tongue. Sister Lewinna expunged all thought of Aesop and brought her utmost concentration to the ceremony. Sister Tecla listened to the Latin words and translated them into a more familiar and comforting language.

“The Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee,

preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.” Oslac gave her the chalice and she peered at her reflection in the dark red wine before sipping it. When he tried to take the chalice from her so that he could wipe its rim with a cloth and hand it to the next person, she kept her fingers locked tightly around its base. The priest put a hand on the top of her head in blessing, then detached the cup very gently from her grip. Sister Tecla did not try to resist his pull. She simply folded her hands in prayer but kept her eyes on the

chalice as it made its way along the line of communicants. “What else has happened, Father Oslac?”

“Peter de Valognes is in the town, my lady prioress.” “Has he joined the hunt for the boy?”

“He is conducting his own investigations into the murder. My lord, Hamo, is not pleased to have him here but a sheriff has duties that cannot be shirked.”

“What else?”

Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with Oslac. Like the two other priests who came to celebrate Mass, he was her window on the town of Maldon and she enjoyed the chance to gaze through it and keep abreast of affairs in the wider community. Although her vocation encouraged her to look inwards, she had particular reason to look outwards as well. When Oslac hesitated, she searched his face with shrewd eyes.

“What else?” she repeated. “I can see that you have something important to tell me and I would like to know what it is. Do not try to soften the tidings because we are friends. Speak bluntly. You have come to warn me, I think.”

“Yes, my lady prioress.”

“The royal commissioners?” “They are astute men.”

“What have they found out?”

“Enough to make them extremely curious.” “Will they come here?”

“In time, they may. You must be ready for them.”

“I am under no obligation to receive them,” she said with a lift of her chin. “They have no right to intrude here. I will invoke the privileges of my station. They will be turned away.”

“That would only increase their suspicion.” “How, then, may we allay it?”

“I do not know, my lady prioress,” he admitted. “I seek only to alert you. These men are like terriers. They will not give up their search. They will find their way here.”

Prioress Mindred felt a mild sensation of fear but she mastered it at once and drew herself up into a posture of dignity. “I am not ashamed of anything I have done,” she said proudly. “If I were in that position again, I would act in precisely the same way. I made a stand for Christian love and righteousness. God himself guided me.”

Oslac gave a nod of acquiescence but remained anxious. “We may need His guidance even more now,” he said.

Gervase Bret sat at the table where the documents still lay scattered. Brother Simon had used up nearly all the fresh parchment, but his colleague found one small scroll on which he could write and draw. He cudgelled his brain for an hour or more with only moderate success. When Ralph came sweeping into the hall, Gervase was still crouched over his conundrum.

“They have arrived back!” announced Ralph.

“Miles is safely returned?”

“He is returned, I know that, but his safety is very much in question. Gilbert is lashing him even now. Our kindly host has a most blistering tongue.”

“But the exchange was effected?”

“It worked like a charm,” said Ralph. “Hamo took the documents and released both Miles and that servant. Gilbert took me aside to tell me how delighted he was. He has not told his son that we were involved in the deception and that the documents are forgeries. Miles still believes that his reckless behaviour turned his father into a thief.” He walked to the table and began to sift idly through the documents. “It will not hurt to maintain that illusion for a short while. Gilbert wants to make him suffer the pangs of remorse before he tells him the truth.”

“What of Matilda FitzCorbucion?”

“She is still under lock and key.”

“Will not Miles try to rescue her once again?”

“He will not get the chance. Gilbert will hover over him like a falcon and swoop at the first sign of movement.” Ralph heaved a sigh. “In some ways, it is a pity.”

“Why?”

“Because he would have a much better chance now.”

“Of reaching Matilda?”

“Yes,” explained Ralph. “They would never expect a second attempt.

Last time they were waiting for Miles and he was a sitting target. They are off guard now and the girl will be watched with less vigilance. In addition to that, Miles has a valuable accomplice.”

“Accomplice?”

“The servant who was released with him. That man would have died in Hamo’s dungeon if Gilbert’s kind heart had not pried him loose. He will be more than happy to strike back at his old master.”

“And he knows the inner workings of the household.”

“Exactly, Gervase. If I were the lover and she were my lady, I’d have Matilda out of Blackwater Hall within a day.”

“How?”

“There is always a way. Every problem has a solution.”

“This one does not!” said Gervase, looking down at the parchment in front of him. “I have been at it since you left me here and I am none the wiser.”

“Are you still struggling with Tovild’s riddle?”

“Yes. I have remembered all I can and set it down.”

“Show me.” Ralph looked over his shoulder at the paper. “What are these weird creatures?”

“They are drawings of the things Tovild mentioned.” He pointed a finger. “Is this a swallow?”

“It is supposed to be an eagle.” “This one looks like a bullock.”

“It is a goat, Ralph.”

“Now, this one I do recognise,” said Ralph, jabbing his finger at another sketch. “It is a mouse.”

“A dog.”

“I can see why you are in difficulty, Gervase.”

“This is all that I can recall of the riddle,” admitted Gervase, indicating each drawing as he spoke. “Dog, goat, and grey eagle. Then goose, hawk, and gull. He also mentioned a warbird but I am not sure what he meant.”

“What are these letters?’ asked Ralph, pointing to them.

“Another clue. He said they formed the name.” “G,A,R,I. An Anglo-Saxon name? Gari?”

“No, there were other letters but these are the only ones of which I am certain. I was playing around with others when you came in just now.”

“G,A,R,I …”

“Gar is a Saxon word,” said Gervase. “It means spear.”

“That would point to Tovild himself as the killer.”

“How would a spear sing like a bird?”

“When it whistles through the air.”

“How would it produce the noise of a goose?”

“When it is thrust through the body of an enemy,” said Ralph. “He will squawk just like a goose, I can assure you.”

“There were two or three other letters. Was H one of them?”

“Could it give us another word?” “Garholt, perhaps. If we lost the I.”

“What does it mean?”

“Spear-shaft.”

“That weapon again. It must be Tovild himself.”

“He certainly sings the song of gull.”

“And he is an old goat who can bark like a dog.”

“No, Ralph,” said Gervase, writing the letters in a different order with gaps between them. “Raig? Argi? Grai? They are meaningless.”

“Try that H once more. Change the letters round.”

“Harig … gahir … rihag …?”

“What else did Tovild the Haunted say? Apart from the riddle? The clue we are missing may lie elsewhere.”

“I do not think so. I have been over it time and again. Tovild said that the raven was killed in the marshes. The name I want is locked in the riddle.”

“Who would kill a raven?”

“Anyone who farms the land.”

“Someone on the Blackwater demesne?”

Gervase stared hard at the letters on the paper, then back at the drawings. He thought of Tovild the Haunted and of the glee with which he had told his riddles. A grey eagle. A goose, a hawk, a gull. A warbird. And was there not also a mention of a kite? He dipped his quill into the inkwell and scribbled some new letters before sitting back with a shout of triumph.

“I have solved the riddle!”

“How?”

“Who would kill a raven?”

“That was my question.”

“I have the answer, Ralph. Another bird.”

“A bird?”

“If I put an O with these letters, what do I get?”

“God knows!”

“Higora!”

“Who?”

“Higora!” Gervase thrust the paper at him. “Take a look. The letters all fit. That must be right. Higora! He has given us the name of our killer, Ralph.”

“And where do we find this Higora?”

“With the rest of its kind.”

“Stop it!” yelled Ralph. “You’ve solved one riddle. Do not couch the answer in yet another one.”

“Higora is the Saxon word for a magpie or a jay.”

“Guy FitzCorbucion was killed by a bird?”

“Tovild was a witness. He told me exactly what he saw in the marshes. A raven killed by a magpie.”

“Stop talking in riddles. Give me a name!”

“We must find that for ourselves,” said Gervase, “but at least we know where to search now. Among the magpies.”