Ravens Of Blackwater d-2 Read online

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

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

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

  “None of them?”

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

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

  help them regain their land.”

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

  “Then who is it?”

  “Hamo FitzCorbucion. He is back in Maldon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You should have cared!”

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

  Jocelyn was anxious to prove his mettle to the full.

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

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

  “Ignore them!”

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

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

  “Good,” said Hamo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Out of my way, Matilda.”

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

  “This is not the time,” he whispered.

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

  “Among other things.”

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

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

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

  “But I have already found one for myself.”

  “That’s enough!” he said.

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

  “Miles Champeney is my-”

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

  “All I wish to ask is-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “God watched over us on our journey.”

  “God and St. Oswald.”

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

  “You are the one to receive confession.”

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

  “Ambition?”

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

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

  “Is that your only confession, Reverend Mother?”

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

  “Northumbria?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you happy with us?” she said.

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

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

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

  “That is as it should be.”

  “I am at peace with the world.”

  “It gladdens my heart to hear that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I will.” “Good.”

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

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

  “I heard her giggle in the chapte
r house today.”

  “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It needs constant attention.”

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

  “It has profited from that love.”

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

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

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