The Ravens of Blackwater (Domesday Series Book 2) Read online

  They turned into an alleyway that was no more than a strip of mud between a series of thatched huts, which clung to each other for mutual support like drunken revellers. Ralph rifted a hand to bring them to a halt, then he drew his sword and went on alone at a rising trot, slashing at the doors of the stews with cheerful brutality and yelling at the top of his voice.

  “Come on out, you lechers! Out, out, out!”

  Response was immediate. Protests and abuse were thrown in equal measure and the contents of a chamber pot missed the intruder by a matter of inches. As Ralph hacked at the last door with his sword, it swung open to reveal an ancient priest who was pulling on his cassock over a naked and scrawny body. In the blindness of his panic, he ran straight into the flank of Ralph's horse and bounced off it before looking up with contrition and crossing himself three times.

  “There was sickness in the house!” he gabbled.

  “Then you'll have caught a dose of it!” said Ralph.

  He and his men roared with amusement as the old priest scurried off in the hopes of outrunning eternal damnation. Faces had now emerged from other houses and three of them belonged to the remaining members of the armed escort. As they pulled on their helmets and buckled their sword-belts, Ralph upbraided his men with mock annoyance. They soon mounted their horses and took their places behind him. All ten of them now cantered out of the alley and woke up anyone who had so far managed to sleep through the barrage of noise. Gervase rode beside his colleague.

  “How did you know where to find them?” he asked.

  “They are soldiers,” said Ralph easily. “They take their pleasures where they can find them.”

  “But there must be dozens of such places here.”

  “These were the ones I recommended.”

  Gervase was shocked. “You sent them here?”

  “This is London. I could not stop them. If they seek enjoyment in the stews, they might as well get the best.” He laughed as his friend coloured again. “The King is my lord and master in all things, Gervase, and I learn from him. He has raised castles to secure the kingdom and monasteries to sing the praises of the Almighty, but he has not neglected the baser needs of mankind. William the Conqueror owns three brothels in Rouen alone. I'll show you around them one day.”

  “No, thank you!”

  “It will broaden your education, Gervase.”

  “I'll take your word for it.”

  Ralph enjoyed teasing him. Gervase was no stranger to lustful urges but he would never satisfy them in the houses of resort, which existed in all the major cities and towns. Alys was waiting for him back in Winchester and the thought of her was enough to keep him pure in body if not in mind. Ralph had many sterling qualities but there was a sensual side to him, which could tip too easily into coarseness. Gervase was grateful when the bulk of St. Paul's Cathedral loomed in front of them to distract his friend. Two figures stepped out of a shadowed doorway.

  “You are late,” scolded Canon Hubert.

  “A few of my men were delayed,” said Ralph.

  “Keep a firmer grip on them.”

  “Someone else was doing that.”

  Ribald laughter came from the knights. Canon Hubert shot them a look of disgust, then let Brother Simon help him to mount the spindly donkey he always rode. Hubert and Simon completed the party. While the others had spent the night at Castle Baynard—or in the arms of the city whores—they had sought shelter with the regular canons at St. Paul's. Despite an outward show of piety, Edward the Confessor had not turned London into the centre of Christianity he had envisaged. Apart from St. Paul's, the only religious house in the city was St. Martin's-le-Grand and even that had worldly associations. There was a decidedly secular tenor to London and it had not pleased Canon Hubert and Brother Simon.

  “Let us ride out of this sinful city,” said Hubert.

  Ralph shook his head. “If you had a horse instead of that ass, we could quit the place a lot faster.”

  “A donkey was good enough for Jesus Christ.”

  “I did not realise you intended to travel exactly as Our Lord travelled,” said Ralph. “We will wait for you here while you walk on water across the Thames.”

  Hubert snorted. “This is no time for blasphemy!”

  “When is?”

  The soldiers laughed irreverently and the prelate swung the head of his donkey around so that he could face them all. Canon Hubert was a short, fat, fussy, middle-aged man who had acquired extra layers of pomposity with each year that passed. Brother Simon, by contrast, was a walking skeleton in a black cowl, a nervous, reticent, and inoffensive soul who echoed all that Hubert said and who challenged nothing. The prelate rid himself of a burst of self-importance.

  “Please bear in mind, sirs,” he said pointedly, “that I was chosen for this assignment by the King himself, plucked from my sacred work in Winchester to perform this temporal office. I deserve and demand total respect. In short, sirs, I lead where the rest of you but follow.”

  “One moment,” said Ralph, bridling. “You take too much upon yourself, Canon Hubert.”

  “Someone has to show a sense of responsibility.”

  “I am appointed to lead this commission.”

  “You but take the chair,” said Hubert with flabby condescension. “It is I who lend spiritual weight and substance to our dealings.” His voice rose to quell the general snigger from the escort. “I insist on obedience.”

  “Then you must earn it,” said Ralph, determined to win the tussle for power. “My men answer to me, Hubert.”

  “And you answer to the Church.”

  Brother Simon actually spoke for once without being prompted. “Canon Hubert represents the Church.”

  “There is a faint resemblance, I grant you,” said Ralph.

  “Cease this mockery!” hissed Hubert.

  “Then do not try my patience. You may stand for the Church, but I have the State at my elbow and that puts me in complete control. If you question my authority again, we will ride on without you and discharge our business accordingly.”

  But the prelate made no reply. It was neither the time nor the place to pursue the argument. Seated on a small donkey amid a cluster of knights on their huge destriers, he was at a severe disadvantage. His attempted rebuke had failed so he would have to assert his authority in other ways at a later date. Ralph Delchard celebrated his small victory with a broad grin.

  “We see eye to eye at last,” he said. “Let us have no more battles between Church and State, if you please, because I will always win. Look at the Tower of London over there,” he advised with a flick of his hand. “It is the emblem of power of the State. King William and his army subdued this land. Swords and arrows won the prize, not prayers and hymns. See that Tower and you see true Norman might. What part does the Church have in that?”

  Gervase Bret did not wish to undermine Ralph's argument or he would have pointed out that the Tower of London had, in fact, been designed by Gundulph, a monk from Canon Hubert's old monastery in Bec. Church and State were more closely intertwined than Ralph Delchard cared to admit and the uneasy relationship between them was reflected in the constant jousting between him and Canon Hubert. Gervase did not want to throw fuel on the flames of another debate. Therefore, as the party set off, he held his tongue and contented himself with one last glimpse of the Tower. It was as grim and intimidating as ever, standing at a spot on the river that had been chosen for strategic importance, and maintaining close surveillance both of the city itself and the main approaches to it. Gervase noticed that it now contained a feature, which had not been there before, that caused a slight shudder to run through him.

  Perched on the turrets with a proprietary air were a dozen or so large, black ravens, and many more were circling the building, which had become their natural home. It seemed to him an omen.

  Essex was curiously isolated from London. The River Lea with its variegated courses and its undrained wetlands near the Thames served as a most effective barrier.
Most of inland Essex was characterised by heavy clay and extensive woodland. As soon as they left Stratford, the travellers encountered the lower reaches of a royal forest, which stretched in a wide swathe almost as far north as Cambridge. Royal forests were subject to forest law whose harsh statutes were savagely enforced, as Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret had learned in Wiltshire, when their work took them to the town of Bedwyn and the Savernake Forest. Their new assignment was carrying them to a coastal region but they would have to negotiate a great deal of woodland on the way. It was a fine day and birds celebrated the sunshine with playful sorties among the trees and sporadic bursts of song. The mighty oaks and beeches, the cool glades, and the sudden patches of open land reminded Gervase very much of Savernake, but Ralph was thinking only of their destination.

  “I hate the sea,” he confided.

  “Why?” said Gervase.

  “Because you can never control those damnable waves. In the last resort, you're always at their mercy. That was the only part of the invasion that frightened me—crossing the channel. I'll fight any man on dry land without a qualm but do not ask me to sail into battle again.”

  “Is that why you stayed in England?”

  “It is part of the reason.”

  “You inherited estates back in Normandy.”

  “Yes, Gervase, beautiful pastureland near Lisieux but there were richer pickings over here. And no voyage to endure across choppy waters.”

  “You will never make a sailor, Ralph.”

  “The very sight of the sea makes my stomach heave.”

  “Then you'll have a queasy time of it in Maldon.”

  “That is why I am so keen to get there, discharge our business as swiftly as possible, and leave.”

  “It may not be as simple as that.”

  “We must make it simple.”

  “There may be problems and delays.”

  Ralph slapped a thigh. “Sweep them aside.”

  They were riding slowly in pairs past a copse of silver birch. Ralph and Gervase led the column. Behind them were four soldiers followed by Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. Four more soldiers brought up the rear with baggage-horses trailing from lead reins. Ralph and his knights were all mounted on destriers, sturdy war-horses that had been trained for battle and had already proven themselves in combat. The animals could run straight at a mark without guidance from their riders and they could be trusted not to bolt during a charge. Like his men, Ralph sat in a padded war-saddle with high guardboards at the front and the back to protect his waist and loins. When business had drawn them to Savernake, they had only ventured into the neighboring county and four knights had been deemed a sufficient escort. This time they were striking out much further from their base in Winchester and Ralph had selected eight of his best men to accompany them into a county known for its hostility towards the Normans.

  Gervase Bret rode a hackney, a brown beast that was sound in wind and limb but lacking any of the breeding so evident in the destriers. Canon Hubert's donkey was picking its way beside Brother Simon's pony, a gaunt, flea-bitten creature from Devonshire that matched its rider perfectly in its shuffling angularity. Simon was trying to minimise the discomfort of travel by meditating on the psalms but Hubert had more earthly concerns.

  “We should reach Barking Abbey soon,” he said. “I hope they will have suitable refreshment for us.”

  “I am not hungry, Canon Hubert.”

  “Food keeps body and soul together.”

  “Will we stay there long?” asked Simon anxiously.

  “As long as I deem necessary. Why?”

  “I do not like the company of women.”

  “They are holy nuns.”

  “Females unsettle me.”

  “Fight hard, Brother Simon,” urged Hubert with a stern countenance. “Subdue your fleshly desires. Be true to your vow of chastity and control your lewd inclinations.”

  The monk was thrown into disarray. “But I have no lewd inclinations!” he exclaimed. “I have never known what lust is nor ever wished to learn. All I am saying is that I seek and prefer the company of men. I feel safe among them. I have an appointed place. With women, I have no idea what to say and how to say it. They unnerve me.”

  “Even when they are brides of Christ?”

  “Especially then.”

  Brother Simon took refuge once more in the psalms and buried himself so deep in contemplation that he did not even notice the buildings that began to conjure themselves out of the trees in the middle distance. Painful experience had brought him around to the view that the best way to deal with members of the opposite sex was to pretend that they were not actually there. His own mother—now long dead—had herself been consigned to the realms of nonexistence. Simon preferred to believe that he had been brought into the world by a more spiritual agency than the female womb.

  The thriving village was one of the earliest Saxon settlements in Essex. Situated at the head of Barking Creek, it was largely a fishing community but religion had invested its name with a greater significance. Barking Abbey was the most famous nunnery in England and its distinguished history went back over four centuries. Erkenwald, Bishop of London, had built abbeys at Chertsey and Barking. While he himself ruled at the former, his sister, Ethelburga, became abbess of the later, partly to serve God more dutifully and partly to avoid marriage to the pagan King of Northumbria. Both brother and sister were later canonized and their relics produced a steady crop of miracles over succeeding years. Ethelburga was not the only nun whose path to sainthood at Barking Abbey involved a detour around an unwanted husband.

  Ralph Delchard was the first to spot the place.

  “Here we are at last!” he said. “A house of virgins! I wonder if there will be enough to go around.”

  Gervase suppressed a smile. “Show them some respect.”

  “I will so. I'll thank them afterwards most respectfully.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “It is one experience I have never tried, Gervase. To lie with a nun for the good of my soul.”

  “Do not jest about it.”

  “Celibacy is a denial of nature.”

  “That is its appeal.”

  Ralph gave a ripe chuckle then made his horse quicken its pace and drag the column along more speedily. They were soon entering the main gate of the abbey and looking up at the great, stone-built, cruciform church, which towered over the whole house. When they had dismounted, the soldiers were taken off by the hospitaller to be fed in the guest quarters. Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, Canon Hubert, and the now terrified Brother Simon were conducted to the parlour of Abbess Aelfgiva. She was a stately figure of uncertain age but her virtue was so self-evident that even Ralph's jocular lasciviousness was quelled. Abbess Aelfgiva accorded them a warm welcome and a light meal of wine, chicken, and bread was served. Simon was too busy reciting the twenty-third psalm in Latin to put anything else into his mouth but the other travellers were grateful for the repast.

  “Where is your destination?” asked the Abbess.

  “Maldon,” said Hubert, assuming immediate authority now that they were on consecrated ground. “We are dispatched on the King's business.”

  “It is a pity you did not arrive an hour earlier.”

  “Why, my lady abbess?”

  “Because you could have accompanied my other visitors,” she said with mild concern. “They had but four men by way of an escort. A detachment of Norman knights would have made their journey a lot safer, I think.”

  “Where are they headed?” said Ralph.

  “Maldon Priory.”

  Hubert was surprised. “The town has a priory?”

  “A recent foundation. This abbey is the motherhouse.”

  “How many nuns does it hold?”

  “Only a token number at the moment,” she explained, “but it will grow in size. Mindred will ensure that.”

  “Mindred?”

  “The prioress. She spent the night here with one of her nuns. They set out within the h
our.”

  “Then we may overtake them,” said Ralph. “Ladies travel slower. If we coax a trot out of Hubert's donkey, we might run them down before the end of the afternoon. We will be pleased to offer them our protection.”

  “That reassures me greatly.”

  “Then let us not tarry,” suggested Gervase. “We must press on as far as we can today.”

  “Yes, yes,” muttered Brother Simon, still puce with embarrassment at the thought of being inside a nunnery. “We must go at once.”

  “All in good time,” said Hubert, devouring the last of the chicken and washing it down with a mouthful of wine. “I must have further conference with Abbess Aelfgiva.”

  “Then I will leave you to it while I round up my men in readiness,” decided Ralph, getting to his feet. “Eight lusty knights set loose in a nunnery—I must call them to heel before they are converted to Christianity.”

  Hubert shot him a look of reproof but the abbess gave him a discreet smile from inside the folds of her wimple. When Ralph expressed his thanks for her hospitality and withdrew, Simon saw his opportunity to follow suit. Gervase remained in the parlour with the others. Highly aware of Hubert's many shortcomings, he was not blind to the man's abilities and these were now put on display in the most convincing manner.

  Barking Abbey was not just another Benedictine house dedicated to the greater glory of God. It was the spiritual centre for the whole region and the repository of an immense amount of news and information. When anything of importance happened in the county of Essex, the abbess soon heard about it and time spent in her company was highly rewarding if a way could be found to draw her out. Canon Hubert did it with consummate skill, first whining her confidence with a soft but persuasive flattery and then extracting all that he needed to know. It was done in such a swift and painless manner that Abbess Aelfgiva hardly knew that it was happening. When the two men finally bade her farewell, they were armed with a deal of valuable intelligence about the shire through which they were travelling.