Ravens Of Blackwater d-2 Page 11

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

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

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

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

  “We must keep the Church happy.”

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

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

  “He has a rare talent for hawking.”

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

  “And the consolation of old age.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Guests from the King are always welcome.”

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

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

  “Why?” asked Miles.

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

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

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

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

  “He?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “You must ask of others, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

  “Anxiety?”

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

  “The sheriff and his officers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Because of a certain incident.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What was it that Guy said?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where is he?” Hamo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Dear God in heaven!” he exclaimed.

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

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

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

  “I wish to see my son.”

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

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

  “Where is he?”

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

  “I want him!” growled Hamo.

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

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

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

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

  Hamo FitzCorbucion galloped off to Blackwater Hall.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Tortoise and hare.”

  “Who sought your opinion?”

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

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

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

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

  “My presence here is crucial.”

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

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Not again!” groaned Ralph.

  “We are about to move into a spirit
ual sphere.”

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

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

  “In a single sentence,” pleaded Ralph.

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

  “What was it?”

  “The Battle of Maldon.”

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

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

  “The town of Maldon against Hamo FitzCorbucion.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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